#perhaps ill be back sooner than expected

[chunk0k0]

The Siblings Ever

I don't know why the quality is THAT bad, I hate technology sometimes.

[soapoet]

what's next in love...? [ singles ]

detailed af.

like & rb if it resonates ♡

01.

it seems like you've been living life half awake, daydreaming of many scenarios you'd wish come true. even in established relationships you may find yourself wishing for more of something. you may have been told your ideals are naive, to lay off the romcoms and fics and be a little more realistic. you may have found yourself excited at every prospect of new love, giddy and involved, endlessly curious and a true lover of the rose coloured glasses. and perhaps you've found plenty of reasons to rejoice, but somehow things eventually trickle down and get into the mundane and the routines. and it frustrates you. so much. is there really no one out there whose loving gestures and kind words don't become clockwork, expected chores and scripted events?

there is. and this one feels a little 'too good to be true'. you yourself may sooner rather than later find yourself pinching your arm to check if you're actually awake. i suggest you try to hold back on the told-you-so's to the naysayers, as some of them have your best interest at heart. and not only that, but will provide a lot of guidance and support in terms of navigating this next chapter in love. it'll be a bit of a whirlwind and a maze, but with much promise at the end as a reward.

if you've been sitting on some sort of project, waiting to launch yourself into a new endeavour, you should get back on track. especially if you've been procrastinating. somewhere down that path, there's a person you ought to meet. they relate to your goals somehow, perhaps having done the same themselves before. they have a lot to teach you and will become a priceless source of support, but don't expect things to be handed to you. your work is your own and your rewards will be bigger and better if you can in the future look back and say, damn, look at what i did, i achieved all that! that's of course not to say you can't find help from those around you. definitely ask for assistance and support when you need it. but to come out on the other side and say you made it, ideally you paved your own way for plenty of it because you deserve the final applause and praise so much. believe in yourself and don't let the little voice in the back of your head make you doubt yourself and your ideas.

this person seems like a bit of a flirt. not in a way that should raise any concerns, as they are a very loyal person. they actually make it known loud and clear if they're already spoken for, and enjoy flaunting their partner in many ways. this is a person who will bring up your achievements and strengths at a social gathering, not to flex having you at their arm, but to genuinely shine a spotlight on you. especially if it'll get you flustered. they have a very playful energy to them that's endearing and youthful regardless of their actual age. a little bit of a peter pan vibe where they'll retain their young spirit well into their retirement. they're very easy-going and likeable, and have a lot of friends, and may connect you to a ton of new people. expect your social life to explode as a result of this connection, but at the same time be sure to make time for the friends and supporters that you have right now.

this person is used to being the centre of attention, not just socially, but professionally too. they may have a very visible job or hobbies that connect them to an audience of some kind within their chosen field. their energy is very contagious and fun, though that doesn't mean they're entirely air-headed and incapable of taking things seriously. i'm strongly getting that either they or someone close to them has struggled with a physical or mental illness for a good part of their life, so they have developed almost like an antenna to pick up on things going on that aren't being said out loud. especially if you're someone who frequently avoids bringing up your problems as to not burden others, or have a difficult time reaching out for support and being honest about how things affect you, you can rest assured that this person will quickly try to learn how to read you, or even outright ask how they can best assist you when you're struggling or even request some sort of secret code that you can use to communicate your unease so that they can quickly come to your aid.

they have a little bit of a problem taking their own concerns seriously. they seem to cope through distractions mostly. a positive in this is that they don't let things that are out of their control bother them and they do the best they can with what they got at any given time. a true optimist, but a negative aspect is that they may avoid facing their demons and try to outrun their problems. this can manifest itself with workaholic tendencies and a packed schedule in general. there might be some sort of saviour complex involved, too, in which they feel compelled to help everyone else and neglect their own needs. towards you in particular i'm getting a lot of pda and quality time. you slow them down a bit and help them stop to smell the roses. they'll be surprised by how much they've longed for peace and simplicity, and they find that solace and ease with you and it really heals them on a deep level, which in turn amps up the energy and effort they show you. goodbye routine lovers, honestly. this one walks the talk and really keeps up the pace long after the honeymoon phase.

some additional details: i'm not getting a lot in terms of appearance, which may suggest that you already know them, or at least know of them, even if they don't know of you yet. it's possible that you share mutual friends or interests or work within the same field. there is a big emphasis on their voice, and things may start off as long-distance with hours upon hours on the phone. astrological things that appear significant: leo, pisces, the sun, mercury, 11th house, 2nd house.

02.

you've been flying solo for a while now. perhaps you grew tired of, or dare i say even gave up on love? it may have seemed like there just aren't as many fish in the sea as promised. at least none that you could take seriously. and serious is what you want. and serious is what you're getting.

first and foremost i must say your standards aren't too high. do not feel ashamed of what you want, and don't let anyone tell you that you need to set realistic expectations. they're exactly where they need to be and you're attracting the quality you seek. you've ventured further out to sea to find yourself a bigger catch. the journey hasn't been easy, but it has helped you grow tremendously. i'm strongly getting that your past experiences have really helped you fine tune your build-a-bae, so to speak, and there's no more reconfiguring to do. you know what you want and what you don't want, how much of this and how much of that. the next lessons for you to learn in love are ones you will not tackle on your own, but alongside a long-term partner who is at your level. long gone are the days of disappointments and putting up with feeling like you're outgrowing your partner, because this next person is mature and ready to grow with you.

this person is what fairytales would call your true love. in as many ways as you are one and the same, you differ, sometimes wildly so. if you're an introvert, they're an extrovert. if you seek comfort, they seek adventure. it's your goals and dreams and values that hold hands in agreement, and that builds up a strong foundation for your connection. if you have a lot of feminine energy, they have a lot of masculine energy. you two may even look like opposites in some ways, or come from different cultures. and do not fret, because your differences will be a blessing, not a curse. this isn't a re-run of a love where you felt like you weren't seen or heard and were made to bend. there is a distinct element of give and take here. a beautiful balance wherein they enjoy your world and your ways, and don't force you to change any of it, and you feel compelled out of genuine desire to take their hand and let them show and share their world with you. and you're able to coexist perfectly fine in a way that makes you both feel fulfilled and at ease.

things may stall a little at first, because this person will have a bit of whiplash when the two of you meet. they may feel as if you stepped right out of their dreams in a way. like a ghost from their childhood when they were around their parents or grandparents and thought of the person they'd grow old with some day. and suddenly you're there, a distant memory made flesh, a memory forgotten long ago making a big splash as it resurfaces. but once they gather themselves i see that they'll be very direct in their pursuit of you. and it's quite the old school courting, too. they make their intentions clear and have the follow-through to walk their talk. this is a very open and honest person, although they appear a bit emotionally disconnected at times. it's not due to a lack of emotional sensitivity, but processing things before acting or speaking is a part of their character. they're very serious in love, and don't seem to fit into the modern age of tinder and hookups.

they may have a strong connection to the sea, live by the ocean, look mediterranean, or enjoy activities related to water. their features in general leans darker. be it their eyes, hair, skin, or the way they dress. there is something specifically drawing me to their hands. perhaps they work with their hands, are a very crafty person, or have a physically demanding job. or simply have very attractive hands that you would take note of. physical touch is important to them, and they are very protective of their loved ones.

speaking of loved ones, they have strong familial ties and may come from a big family. i'm also strongly getting that they come from money, though without the nepotism often associated with it. their father in particular may have made it a point to raise them with a lot of discipline and drive to make something of themselves and not just rely on a trustfund. this person is ambitious and a hard worker, and prefers to be involved and hands-on with what they do. i'm also seeing siblings playing a big role in your connection. one in particular could connect with you in a meaningful way. this family is one that will welcome you with open arms and you will feel as though you have gained another family to call your own. if you have any childhood wounds related to family, this one takes found family quite literally.

some additional details: travelling and holidays figure strongly. things get taken to the next level rather quickly because there is a lack of doubt involved. they're very generous with their time and money. this has massive signs of marriage. astrological things that appear significant: aries, taurus, saturn, the moon, the 4th house, the 9th house.

03.

it seems like you're stuck on something, or someone. and that situation didn't treat you fairly. this feels less like betrayal and more like you spent some time hauling dead weight around. in vain, i might add. either you already have or will soon drop it and move on. it might be difficult, though, and i apologise if i'm overstepping here, but in part it's due to an inability to truly let go on your part. if you want to get even, or show someone what they lost, do it by moving on with grace and making decisions for yourself and your own growth and success. beware of people around you who would gladly take advantage of your vulnerability right now. even if it feels like a rebound would benefit you, it'll only hurt you if you find yourself looking over the shoulder of another person to see if the one who hurt you sees and is affected by it. what will truly help you heal is to dust yourself off and focus on feeling whole within yourself. and don't worry, you didn't stumble into yet another love reading that will tell you, well, tough luck, no love for you, work on yourself! whilst i certainly will call you to take care of yourself and pursue things that serve you and your growth, i will also go over what's coming next.

and that's something a little eerie. you may have someone in your past, who you consciously or subconsciously measure everyone else up to. perhaps this was the one that got away, or someone you met at the wrong time. in one way or another, there is a situation you wish had happened differently. in your pursuit of finding yourself again and some solid ground to stand on after enduring stormy seas, you may run into someone who is eerily similar to someone you once knew. but at the right time, now. for some of you this may very well be the exact person you already have history with, or could've had history with, though with major improvements from the previous season. but for many this is just an oddly familiar stranger who gives you a bit of deja vu. they share many similarities with someone you've been attracted to, just less red flags and complications.

this person seems rather cerebral. their job, studies, or hobbies may revolve around psychology, literature, or science. they're very good with their words, both written and spoken. they can also be quite blunt, but not with malicious intent. they aren't afraid of speaking their mind, and may be quite passionate about their opinions. they're a great teacher, and a good student, too. they enjoy delving deeply into things and soak up new information like a sponge. they'll greatly value your opinion and perspective, and the two of you may engage in debates or discussions about a variety of topics. intellectually speaking you're on the same wavelength and seem to understand each other intuitively.

it's very possible that this starts off platonic. whilst you may be ready to jump into a relationship with them from the start, they prefer to take things slowly and really get to know you first. you may worry that the spark between you will fade over time, but this one is a lesson of patience and building a strong connection as a foundation first. especially if in the past you've been quick to hurt or get hurt, you're about to learn how differently a lover will treat you when you're first and foremost a dear friend. this connection has the potential of some serious power couple themes in the long run. the two of you feel almost dangerous as duo, but i think that just goes to show that the initial spark won't fade and actually benefit from a bit of a slow burn before the fire starts raging at full force.

there is a lot of chemistry between the two of you. a very push-and-pull, engaging, and intoxicating energy. you'll keep each other on your toes in a way that keeps things feeling fresh and exciting. you're partners in crime and the world appears to be your playground. any past heartbreaks and feelings of lack, even lackluster, is gone and replaced with adventure and passion. you're very attracted to them, and they to you, in a way that could be classified as an addiction if it weren't for the fact that the side effects are predominantly positive. the two of you may collaborate on some kind of project, and your joint efforts are sure to be a success. though you do many things together, you also support each other in your separate endeavours. there may be a bit of mutual artist and muse dynamic here, wherein you inspire them and they inspire you. you both value your individuality, and hype each other up.

this person feels devilish in some way. a maverick of sorts. they're taller, perhaps lanky, and there is an unconventional attractiveness to them. they have a unique look that really pulls you in and makes them stand out anywhere they go. they might dress in a way that makes them different from the crowd. they really march to the beat of their own drum. i'm not getting much in terms of family, so they may be very independent and live a life separate from family, or they may have some wounds in regards to their home life that they keep their walls up over. they take their friendships very seriously, many of them are ones they'd take a bullet for. this is a very ride or die type of person. they're very resilient and if they've known terrible hardships in their past, you'll be in awe of their personal strength and ability to get back up when they're knocked down.

some additional details: music is very relevant to the point where you should expect to receive a personalised playlist as a way for them to communicate their feelings for you. they might be musically inclined and play an instrument. astrological things that appear significant: scorpio, aquarius, aries, pluto, uranus, 3rd house, 10th house, 12th house.

[ninzied]

where ground meets light

alex and henry go on a double date. modern au. based on the prompt: a kiss to distract, for @caressthosecheekbones. ~1.2k.

They’ve only been dating a few weeks when he suggests it.

“Sorry.” Henry has to take this all in for a moment. Surely he must have misheard. “You want to go on a double date? With Alex?”

“Is that weird?” Gregory asks, in the manner of one who’s merely being rhetorical. “He’s your best friend. I want to get to know him better.”

“Well. Sure,” Henry says, because he cannot think of a single reasonable objection that a normal person would make. A normal person who’s not been harboring an ill-advised torch for his best friend for years. “Though,” he hedges, as if the thought’s just occurring to him, “I’m not sure he’s dating anyone at the moment.”

Henry would know if he is. In fact, according to Pez, the whole world would be hard-pressed not to notice because of the moods Henry gets in when it happens.

But it’s been well over a month now since his latest “little London fog,” as Pez calls it, so Henry mentions the idea to Alex as an afterthought, thinking there’s no real danger of him saying yes.

“Great!” says Alex brightly. “I’ll bring Yvette.”

He’ll bring fucking whom?

.

Yvette is a bloody knockout, of course.

Henry expects nothing less. Alex is only the most beautiful man who’s ever walked the planet, so it stands to reason that his date should look as she does.

The more unfortunate thing is that Yvette is also supremely likable. She’s warm, and funny, and seems to share Alex’s knack for livening up the conversation as though they’ve all been friends for years.

By all counts, the date should be a success. Henry laughs more than he thought he would and drinks far less than he thought he would need to. Alex is impressed by the food, which makes Henry feel absurdly pleased to have chosen this particular restaurant.

And, perhaps most importantly: because they’re seated at a round table with Alex angled off to his left, Henry hasn’t caught himself staring at him even once.

Perhaps he’s not so at risk of giving himself away as he’d thought.

.

The trouble, turns out, starts elsewhere.

The trouble is that Henry doesn’t have to be looking at Alex to be attuned to his every feeling and movement.

The way Alex’s knee keeps jittering under the table. The tic in his finger as he taps, then stills. Taps, then stills. The fact that he’s hardly stopped for a breath since they sat down.

He’s antsy, and miserable, but he’s trying so hard and his smile’s so vibrant that not a single person can tell. Not a one but Henry, and he needs to do something, needs Alex to know that he’s seen.

“Darling,” says Henry, without even thinking, and puts his hand on Alex’s wrist. Christ. Fuck. What did he say? What is he doing? But none of that seems to matter right now. “Are you all right?”

He feels Alex relax as though instantly calmed by that one simple touch, and Henry knows that if Alex hadn’t been all right before, he is more so now, somehow.

“Another round of drinks?” Henry asks the table, not even waiting, not even looking, before pulling Alex to his feet. “We’ll be right back.”

.

This is the difference between them. They both have their moods, but Henry wears his on his sleeve and has to shut himself away until it’s passed.

Alex, meanwhile, hides his in plain sight from most people, but Henry likes to think he’s not most people, and as soon as they’re at the bar out of earshot he looks Alex in the eye and says, “What happened? What’s wrong?”

“Was it that obvious? Fuck.” Alex shakes his head. “It’s nothing, Hen, just—want to make a good first impression, you know?”

Henry’s brow furrows. He tells that jealous little twinge in his chest that now is not the time. “Is this your first date with Yvette or something?” No wonder he’s not heard of her earlier. “Christ, Alex, why didn’t you say so sooner? You didn’t have to come if you didn’t—”

Alex laughs under his breath for some reason. “We’re not dating.”

“You’re—what?”

“She’s a friend,” says Alex. “She’s helping me out. And if the lov—I mean, if my best friend’s boyfriend wants to meet me, I’m going to need all the help I can get.”

Henry’s chest is positively aching now. “He’s not my boyfriend,” he says, firmly despite how breathless he feels. “It’s not that dire, trust me. We’ve only been on, like, three dates before this one.”

“Oh.” Alex seems to process this. His expression looks lighter for just a split second before it gets all heavy again. “Well, if you’re wanting there to be a fifth, you should probably talk to him before it’s too late. Looks like he’s about to leave.”

Henry glances over his shoulder, and sighs. “I should probably talk to him, yeah.”

.

Gregory is putting his coat on as Henry walks over. They both muster up a small smile, Henry’s more rueful, Gregory’s resigned.

“I’m really sorry,” Henry says, and means it.

“It’s okay. I’m not going to make it into a thing,” Gregory says. “Unless you’re about to tell me to stay. That would be pushing it.”

“I’m not,” Henry admits. “What I did want to say is that—well, I haven’t been entirely honest with myself about what I want. Which means I haven’t been honest with you, and that’s not fair to you at all.”

Gregory nods. “I do like you, Henry. You deserve to be happy. And I deserve to not be the guy that you use as an excuse to keep standing in your own way.” He glances at Alex back at the bar. Yvette is there now too, flirting up a storm with the bartender.

“I wanted to get to know your best friend,” Gregory continues. “And now that I have, I can say that he’s a really lucky guy.” He gives Henry a meaningful look. “Even if he doesn’t know it yet.”

.

Alex straightens as Henry approaches the bar, an untouched whiskey in one hand. “What are you doing? I thought you were going to go talk to him.”

“I did.” Henry shrugs, and helps himself to Alex’s drink.

Alex is looking as though he’ll never again know happiness in this world. “I fucked things up for you, didn’t I. Fuck.”

“What? No,” says Henry, but Alex doesn’t seem to be listening. “Alex. Alex.”

“Do you want me to go talk to him? I can explain.” Alex runs a hand through his hair, sending his curls all breathtakingly askew.

He doesn’t even know, Henry marvels. He doesn’t even know.

“I mean, it’s not your fault that I—” Alex breaks off with a frustrated sigh before starting back up again. “I’ll tell him that you don’t feel the same way, and that I’m really fucking sorry I ruined your night with my—you know—feelings, and—”

“You’ll do no such thing,” Henry says.

Then he leans in and kisses him, because Alex is an unstoppable force, and this is the one place where Henry has not been brave enough to meet him, until now.

Alex goes quiet at last, save for the sigh he lets out as their lips part and his hands find Henry’s waist and pull in.

“Whoa,” he breathes after a moment. “Yeah, we gotta do that again.”

“Shh,” Henry murmurs, “we were doing so well.” He puts his hand on Alex’s nape, drawing him back in.

Alex kisses him back like it’s the only thing that centers him, the only thing that keeps him grounded, and Henry—well.

Henry can’t help but think that it feels a bit like flying, too.

[vickyvicarious]

"For your mother's sake."

It hits so hard, on multiple levels. First, what this might mean for her. It's her final effort, the most impactful thing she says after religion, superstition, outright pleading on her knees and crying all fail. She knows that she can't stop him from going, but at the very least she will try her best to protect him as much as she can. She places the crucifix around his neck herself, doesn't just hand it to him.

Did she lose a child to Dracula in the past? Is she seeing echoes of her own son in Jonathan's face? Or perhaps there have been brave young men who tried to fight back against him, who deliberately went to the castle and never returned. Maybe Jonathan is the first person she's met who is actually trying to go there, and while she knows it can only end in his death, the idea of letting anyone go willingly to that evil place is more than she can bear. She's giving up a piece of her own protection. The Count has been sending letters to her husband; he was the one who suggested Jonathan stay here. He knows of her. If she shows any resistance it could mean greater danger for herself, and giving Jonathan her crucifix means losing a powerful totem of self-protection. If he actually listened to her warning, she can probably expect a terrible fate of her own; maybe even just giving him the crucifix alone would be enough to ensure that. But again, whether he reminds her of her own lost son or just because he doesn't know what he's getting himself into, she can't bear to do nothing. She places herself in the role of his mother here. "For my sake," she's saying, "let me do what little I can to save you. Please."

Jonathan is an orphan. We don't know the circumstances of his childhood, but it's possible that he never even knew his mother. (It's my headcanon.) Even if he did, she has been gone for a long time now. And yet these are the words he can't argue with in the end. He was already taking her seriously, and trying to treat her with respect. Her warnings were obviously distressing to him, but there's no way he can actually turn back now. His livelihood depends on this trip, he has no actual evidence to justify leaving, and he also wants so badly to live up to Mr. Hawkins' trust in him. He is already "thinking of his father" (or the closest he has) when he says he has to go to the castle. And yet, the care and fear and love this woman is showing for him hits so hard. I wonder if he is thinking of his actual mother when he accepts the crucifix. Whether the concept of her or an actual memory... Or maybe he too is placing her in the role of his mother here. Maybe, in keeping the crucifix (and not just with him, but around his neck where she placed it, even as he rides away) he is saying yes to that implicit request as well. "I'll let you care for me. I'll accept it gratefully." It's the first motherly care he has probably felt in many long years.

In this book, children are placed in terrible danger again and again, and most of the time they can't be saved. Parents and parental figures are equally doomed, leaving our heroes all orphaned in a sense, unable to rely on any greater source of wisdom or comfort. They have to take things into their own hands and deal with the problem alone, despite still being caught up in grief for what they've lost - a kind of coming of age in that sense. There's even a literal version of this happening with both Arthur and Jonathan (and Mina) specifically, when their father figures die and leave them with sudden new responsibilities. And of course, the inheritances from these father figures help in distinct and immensely useful ways, even as they remain absent from the story throughout. They haunt the margins at best until death steals them away completely, and their illnesses tend to serve to divide our heroes from one another when they needed to be united sooner. I personally don't count van Helsing as a father figure really, but if you do then he is the only one who manages to be around and be directly helpful (and even then, he's unable to save Lucy), even though all the fathers we hear from are loved and loving. But we do actually meet a few mothers, and they are usually unable to alter the story despite being more present. Their efforts to save their children are misdirected and only bring about their own death as well, in the end. Lucy's mother seems to mean well but everything she does directly makes everything harder; the mother at the castle later tries to avenge her child possibly against the wrong person, and in any case is unable to succeed. But here, the innkeeper's wife with her crucifix manages what no other mother does. Even though she assumes this to be another wasted effort (in fact, she can't bear to remain in the room with him afterwards; re: Dracula did such a good job with the hopelessness in her voice when she says the 'mother's sake' line), her assistance helps Jonathan to survive. His 'inheritance' from this momentary mother-figure isn't just the physical crucifix, though that is useful (and also the only inheritance a mother leaves for a child throughout the book, even when it would be expected and easy and make complete sense to do so, ahem). It's also the first and the most knowledgeable and the most effective aid given to a 'child' throughout the entire book.

[justsomerandomfanfic]

Playing With Fire - Cooper Adams X Female Reader

Title: Playing With Fire

Cooper Adams X Female Reader

Additional Characters: Riley (Mentioned), his son (Mentioned), Rachel, and a news reporter

WC: 2,926

Warnings: Mentions of murder/killing (none take place), slight change in canon storyline, very brief mention of affairs (none take place), single dad Cooper, arson mentioned, mentioned of mental illnesses, age gap (40's/20's), possessive Cooper (but not too much), nicknames, banter, slightly suggestive, mini angst, italics, and fluff

Cooper Adams had made it out. He had made it out alive and well, and his family - and all the people at the concert, including police and FBI - were none the wiser that he was The Butcher. He'd admit that they indeed made it difficult for him, but Cooper was smart. Intelligent in a way that allowed him to stay three steps ahead of everyone else, usually.

His ability to blend in, to become just another face in the crowd, was unmatched. The persona he had cultivated over the years, that of a loving father, a devoted husband, and a trustworthy firefighter, was nothing more than a well-crafted mask. Underneath it all, the real Cooper thrived in the chaos, satisfying the monster inside him.

He had managed to avoid arousing suspicion, maintaining his calm, collected demeanor even as the authorities closed in on others. He must've blacked out or something, he didn't remember how he and Riley had escaped - well, how he escaped. Riley still had no idea who or what her father was. And he’d like to keep it that way. 

But, a week after Lady Raven’s concert, his carefully constructed world began to fracture. His wife thought that he was having an affair; he wasn’t. 

The revelation came out of nowhere, after a quiet dinner that was too peaceful to be real. The kids had already gone to bed after devouring their dessert, and Cooper had felt a strange calm wash over him, knowing that his double life was safe. But then that all changed.

“I want a divorce.”

Rachel’s words hung in the air, colder than the untouched dessert of pie in front of him. For a brief moment, Cooper felt as if one of his lives was cracking, a sharp splintering sound reverberating in his mind. The mask he had worn for so long threatened to slip. But, he was Cooper, after all, and he had survived worse. He could gain control over most situations, and he'd gain control of this one. Just a bump in the road.

‘A divorce would be for the best,’ He reasoned with himself. He could play the part of the heartbroken husband, the loving father who still wanted to be in his children’s lives. He’d get sympathy, not suspicion. “Yes,” He said slowly, calculating his next move. “Maybe it’s for the best.”

His wife’s face softened, perhaps expecting resistance, but instead finding a man resigned to his fate. She had no idea she was giving him exactly what he needed. 

She moved out, and into an apartment that following month. The divorce was finalized a few months later.

He was supposed to stop, he had planned to end his life, but his kids… He needed to be a part of their lives. This divorce was needed, but it changed his overall plan. And then, on top of everything that was happening, the concert happened. 

He didn't know how they knew he was going to be there. His mind raced with the possibilities. But, it didn't matter in the end. He was stepping away from The Butcher’s legacy forever. 

Cooper had always been the master of his own fate, and he intended to end his reign as The Butcher on his terms before the risks eclipsed the rewards. He was acutely aware that, sooner or later, the law would close in, or he’d slip up. 

Overall, he wanted to step away from being The Butcher, to spend more time with his children. He didn’t want them to grow up with a father who wasn’t there for them.

And he escaped. He escaped, and no one knew he was The Butcher. Not the police, not the FBI, not even his family. Now, it was time. Time to step back, to retire from the darkness that had consumed him for so long. Time to slip back into the life he had built, the life of a father, an ex-husband, a firefighter - an ordinary man of everyday society. 

He thought he would just go on with his life - spending time with his kids every Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, going to work, and coming home to an empty house. Life carried on as before, just without his now ex-wife. The routine was supposed to be enough, a return to normalcy.

But, then he met you...

A year later, Cooper was at work when the sirens blared - there was a fire at a college dorm. It was just another job, another fire to extinguish. But as he arrived at the scene, hopping out of the firetruck, his attention was immediately drawn to you. You stood a safe distance from the blazing building, wearing worn-out Converse, shorts, and an oversized hoodie; with your college emblem on the back of it.

There was something unsettling about the scene before him. And then, as if sensing his intense gaze, you turned your head and your eyes locked with his. At that moment, something shifted within him. But before he could process the feeling, he snapped out of it and returned to work. Soon, the fire was manageable, and not even two hours later, it was extinguished. 

After the flames were put out and the smoke had begun to clear, Cooper found himself drawn back to where you had been standing. He approached you and you looked up at him, and he had a chance to introduce himself. It was a brief exchange, but it was enough to spark a connection. A connection that he hadn’t been expecting.

~~~

Cooper had never expected his life to take such a turn. What started as an unexpected spark at the scene of a confirmed arson fire had blossomed into something deeper. He and you had been dating for a few months, and Cooper found himself surprisingly content. Your presence in his life brought a lightness he hadn’t felt in years.

Cooper often found himself marveling at how well you fit into his world. The age difference seemed insignificant compared to the happiness and stability you brought into his life. It was clear that you weren’t just a fleeting presence. Plus, his kids loved you; Riley had already seen you as a role model.

Yet, despite the joy and contentment, Cooper’s need for control never fully dissipated. His controlling tendencies extended into every corner of his life, including his relationship with you. He needed to know what you were up to when you went out, and he often texted and called you while you were at college, checking in on you with a frequency that some might find overbearing to those outside of the relationship. But you found it endearing. It was his way of maintaining control, of ensuring everything was as it should be.

When you were together, and he wasn't working, Cooper took it upon himself to handle everything as well, often insisting that you relax and not lift a finger. Whether it was managing household chores or planning outings, he was always there, ensuring you were comfortable and well cared for. To him, this wasn’t just about showing affection; it was a means to exert control, to keep every aspect of your shared life under his watchful eye.

Again, you didn’t bat an eye. You understood his need for control and found comfort in the way he took care of you; it gave you a routine. His meticulous nature was just another part of what made him who he was - and you loved who he was - it brought a sense of security and warmth to your relationship that you valued deeply.

His ex-wife, Rachel, never truly understood him. She noticed his obsessive tendencies and his need for control, but she often saw them as quirks rather than deeply ingrained aspects of his personality. She would sometimes dismiss his need for order and control, urging him to 'relax' or 'let things go,' which only heightened his anxiety and need for control. Their relationship eventually strained under the weight of these misunderstandings, leading to a growing emotional distance between them.

With you, you don’t just tolerate Cooper’s need for control; you seem to intuitively understand it. You recognized that his constant checking in, his insistence on handling everything, wasn’t just a desire to take care of you - it was a way for him to maintain a sense of stability in his world that he originally didn't have.

To keep a long story short, there was something about you that captivated him - perhaps because he had never met anyone who seemed to understand him as deeply as you did.

~~~

Keys jingling in the lock, Cooper opened the front door. The lights in the house were dimmed, only a couple of lamps leading to the living room. Shrugging off his jacket, he carefully folded it, placing it on the small table by the stairs; so he could easily bring it upstairs to his closet when he was ready for bed.

Searching, he found you on the couch, typing away on your laptop. Even though you and Cooper had only been dating for six months, he had practically begged you to move in with him. The thought of you staying in the college dorms didn’t sit well with him, especially after the fire that had occurred there nine months ago. It wasn't just the threat of fires that concerned him though; there were dangerous people out in the world - monsters - and the idea of you being so exposed made him uneasy. In other words, he wanted you for himself, and he knew that he was strong enough to protect you, if needed.

Living together gave him peace of mind, knowing you were safe and under his protection.

Looking up from your computer, you gave him a small smile. "Hey, Coop," You began, your voice warm. "How was work?"

Your attention drifted back to your screen, but Cooper knew that there was genuine interest in your question, the way you always cared about the little details of his day. It was one of the things he loved about you - how you made him feel important, even in the mundane moments.

"Busy as usual, paperwork mostly," Cooper replied, a smile tugging at his lips as he watched you. "But, it’s better now that I’m home." He walked over to you. Leaning down, he cupped the back of your head with a hand, placing a kiss on the top of your head before sitting beside you on the couch. "What are you working on?" He asked, his gaze flicking to your laptop screen.

"History," You answer with a sigh, saving your work and shutting the laptop, "But, you're home now, so I guess I should take a break." You joked lightly, placing the laptop on the coffee table. 

"Hmm," Cooper hummed thoughtfully, his hand sliding up to the back of your neck as he began to massage it. "You’ve been working hard, sweetheart. A break would be a good idea." His touch was firm yet soothing, a mix of care and control that you’d come to recognize as uniquely his. 

You sighed, shutting your eyes, relishing in the feeling of Cooper's fingers working all the knots before running through your hair. "Want to watch something?" You muttered, fluttering your eyes open as he finished his little massage; settling more comfortably against him, tossing your legs over his lap, his hand instinctively resting just above your knee.

"Yeah, sure," Cooper agreed as his free arm traveled down to wrap around your waist. "What do you want to watch?"

"I don’t know…" You trailed off, "We could just scan until we find something mildly interesting."

Cooper nodded, before scanning through the channels. You were half paying attention to the TV screen, more interested in fidgeting with Cooper's hand on your leg. Cooper’s hand was large and strong, the kind of hand that seemed made for the work he did. Solid, capable, with slightly calloused fingers that spoke of years of hard labor. His skin was warm against yours, a comforting presence as his thumb occasionally brushed against you. The veins on the back of his hand were prominent, a subtle reminder of his strength - power - yet the way he held you was tender.

Your drowsiness vanished as the words "Breaking News: Ninth Arson Attack Strikes City, Possibly Linked to Serial Arsonist," filled the room. You straightened up, your attention fully captured by the screen. The images of a blazing warehouse played out in stark contrast to the comfort of the couch, the flickering flames reflected in your wide eyes. The newscaster continued the urgency in her voice. "In a shocking development, authorities are investigating a devastating fire that broke out late last night at a local warehouse, marking the ninth suspected arson attack in the city in recent months. The fire, which quickly engulfed the building, required multiple firefighting units to bring under control. Fortunately, no injuries have been reported, but the damage is extensive, and the warehouse is considered a total loss."

"I was there for that. Took hours to get the fire out." You heard Cooper say, his own eyes watching the scene before him on the screen. “Do you think they'll catch him?”

You hummed softly, "They might, but it’s not going to be easy for them."

The newscaster continued, "-Investigators are working tirelessly to piece together evidence from the crime scenes and are appealing to the public for any information that might lead to a breakthrough in the case. In the meantime, the city remains on high alert as the search for the arsonist intensifies."

As the newscaster continued to report, you leaned back into the couch, your hand stopping its ministrations to cover Cooper’s on your leg. "Well," You said casually, your tone carrying an eerie undertone, "He’s definitely made a name for himself. You know, it’s almost poetic, makes you wonder what drives someone to turn their pain into something so... Powerful."

Cooper glanced over, an eyebrow raised in curiosity. "Poetic? That’s an interesting way to put it."

You met his gaze, a flicker of something unreadable in your eyes. "Yeah, well, it’s like he’s creating a masterpiece with every fire. Some people just have a way of making their mark, you know? Even if it’s through destruction." As the newscaster’s report droned on, you shifted slightly, your eyes never leaving the screen. You spoke with a casual air, but your words held an unsettling edge. "For example,.. Serial killers and serial arsonists..," You trailed off, your tone almost contemplative, "They're not so different, really. Both are driven by something deep, something they can’t quite control."

There was a pause, and Cooper’s eyes narrowed, staring at the side of your face. Did you know? Did you know about him? And with the way you spoke, so intimately about the mindset of someone who causes chaos and leaves destruction in their wake, felt eerily familiar. It was as if you were speaking from a place of experience, not just observation.

Suddenly, the memory of that night - the night he first saw you at the dorm fire, standing so calm in the face of destruction - came rushing back. The pieces fell into place in his mind.

You weren’t just intrigued by the arsonist’s actions; you were speaking from the perspective of someone who knew all too well what it was like to manipulate fear and destruction. The recognition was there, behind the facade of your own calm demeanor, and Cooper couldn’t shake the feeling that you were hiding a darker truth about yourself.

Cooper leaned in closer, his honeyed gaze intense but measured. He kept his voice low, “You seem to have a pretty deep understanding of what drives someone to create chaos.” His words were carefully chosen, probing but vague, designed to test the waters without directly accusing you. He maintained a steady, almost casual demeanor, hoping to gauge your reaction without revealing his own suspicions; he turned in his seat, facing you, his arm slipping from your waist to rest on the back of the couch.

You met his gaze with a knowing smirk, your eyes reflecting a mixture of amusement and something darker. “Well, not only do I take a Criminal Justice class, but…” You paused smoothly, your voice carrying a hint of playful menace, “I’ve always found that understanding the darker side of human nature can be quite enlightening. After all, everyone has their dark sides and secrets. Some are just better at hiding them than others. Don't you agree, Cooper?" You tilted your head.

‘Yeah… You knew. But how?’ He stared at you, his expression neutral but his eyes betraying a flicker of recognition. “Yes,” He murmured slowly, his dark brown eyes narrowing ever so slightly, “I do agree.”

The room seemed to hold its breath as his hand on your leg moved up, his fingers gripping your inner thigh with a possessive yet tender pressure.

"Well," You began, voice back to its usual lighthearted tone, "I don't know about you, but I am exhausted," You stood from the couch, only to bend down, your hand cupping his stubbly cheek, tilting his head up to meet yours, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips, "And I would love nothing more than to snuggle with you."

Yeah… You understood. Cooper looked up at you, his dark eyes softening as he felt the warmth of your kiss.

He smirked, a hint of amusement in his voice as he stood. "Come on, sweetheart, let's get some rest."

---

Main Masterlist | TRAP Masterlist

[bandaged-writer]

𝗔𝗞𝗥𝗔𝗦𝗜𝗔 [𝟬𝟭] — 𝗗𝗔𝗭𝗔𝗜 𝗢𝗦𝗔𝗠𝗨

akrasia. lack of self-control

pairing. mafia! dazai x executive! reader

genre. romance, mystery + smut

warnings. mori, dazai's musings of dying

words. 663

summary. among the graves, you reminded him of the faceless angel statues.

note. this story came to be, because i'm horribly obsessed with makima

masterlist || ao3 || next

Above the graveyard, scarlet bled into the lilac sky and blackened branches of naked trees spread across the heaven’s canvas like capillaries. A gentle breeze passed by, rousing leaves and a group of birds that flew away to seek shelter from an incoming storm.

“As you know, I want to see you in the executive ranks, Dazai,” Mori spoke in calm tones, yet something cunning was woven underneath the surface. Something that Dazai couldn’t quite place; or maybe this was merely Mori’s usual persona. “You will need a letter of recommendation from either myself or an executive,” he explained. “As much as I would love to write such a letter, I can’t. Or else, I’d be accused of favoritism. That’s why I’ll have you join a special someone’s side.”

Dazai followed Mori through the empty graveyard. Faceless statues of angels acted as protectors of the dead, as guide to the afterlife. A path which the brunette desired to go down rather sooner than later, in hopes of finding something that exceeded his abyssal expectations. If life couldn’t manage to leave him thunderstruck, then death certainly could, right?

“A special someone?,” Dazai echoed, brows raised in mild interest. Rarely did the boss of the Port Mafia ever call anyone special. Only a handful of times did this certain word fall from his lips and usually, it wasn’t a positive association.

Mori pushed his dark hair out of his face, let his hand disappear into the depths of his coat’s pocket and suppressed something like a worried sigh. “She is one of my top 5 executives, however..” His gaze wandered over to Dazai, standing a mere handful of meters behind him. “You will also act as a safety measure.”

Caught in a brief moment of stasis, a raven landed on a groaning branch. Curiously, the animal regarded Dazai with its ruby eyes, scanning him from head to toe as if it was assessing his worth as a human being. Tough luck, Dazai thought.

He had failed to be a proper, functioning human being from the moment he was born. Never did he find his match, his equal, someone or at least something that genuinely fascinated him. Perhaps, an ill-fated star had cursed the bloody threads of his fate.

“I get the feeling you’re scared of her,” Dazai commented then cupped his chin in thought.

Was it possible for the head of a crime organization to be scared of his own underlings rather than a likely assassination? The gears within Dazai’s head were turning, going round and round, trying to find a plausible reason for Mori to feel something akin to fear towards his own kin.

Loyalty was a fickle thing, it could be swayed like a chime in the wind. Money, family, the opposite sex and so many more factors could be the root of potential betrayal. It was as easy as turning your back towards the mirror; out of sight, out of mind, or so they said.

“There she is,” Mori announced. “The embodiment of control and domination. [Name].”

Dazai raised his gaze and was greeted by a calm smile upon your lips and a voice that was oh-so-lovely. The kind of voice that could sing him the lullaby of eternity and safely guide him into the afterlife. But your eyes were so pitiless.

Among the graves, you reminded him of the faceless angel statues.

They looked like his own, Dazai concluded.

“I suppose you’re the one they call the Demon Prodigy,” you greeted him kindly.

“And you’re the one they call the Control Devil.” He smirked. “Sounds like we’re on even ground.”

Was it reasonable for a monster to strip another off their humanity? Oh, the irony.

A smile graced Mori’s face, a wave of his hand promptly followed. “It’s good to see you again, [Name]. As you already know, someone is hunting down our executives. Take Dazai with you and solve the conflict as you see fit. You know what to do.”

[brf-rumortrackinganon]

Hello rumor tracking anon! I doubt Mary pushed for Queen Margrethe's abdication or she'll leave. Becoming queen ties her down even more -- she'll be "married" to the Danish people, not just Fred. Easier to divorce while Fred is not king yet.

I think QM pulling the princely titles from Joaquin's children was part of paving the way for Fred to take over. The abdication would have been discussed with the government a long time ago and a plan would have been put in place. I think everyone, including Fred, would agree that Mary is more hardworking than him. I think the Danish government and QM would prefer not to lose Mary because the future of the DRF depends on her.

QM is most likely sick -- or frankly, just sick of Fred. LOL

"I think the Danish government and QM would prefer not to lose Mary because the future of the DRF depends on her." --> That's what I meant, not that Mary demanded Margrethe abdicate. I'm so sorry if that's how it's coming across! I have a tendency to be long-winded and am trying to be more concise, but it doesn't always work out.

What I meant by "Mary threatening to leave Frederik unless she got something in return and that could have been part of the abdication decision to do it now vs waiting" is something like this: We know Mary was angry with Frederik about something - maybe it was the affair, maybe it was something else - because her body language was very cold for a couple of days. Perhaps, she and Fred were arguing, she threatened to leave or maybe she demanded space from him, so then Frederik went to Margrethe for advice about Mary wanting space and maybe Margrethe considered that abdicating sooner would keep Mary "in" (because as you've said, everyone knows the Danes needs Mary more than they need Fred) so that's a tick in the "abdicate soon" column.

In no way did I mean for that to insinuate Mary made a "make me queen or I'm gone" ultimatum - that's some real Harkle shit. Mary is much better than that. Honestly, I did expect Mary to get a new tiara for dealing with Frederik's mess and I suppose that's true...she gets the whole collection now!

But I do agree with you, it's an illness, or some other kind of health matters, that is prompting the abdication.

(And to connect it back to the BRF, I wonder if Margrethe saw the BRF as a lesson. It's been rumored for a while that the BRF was under an unofficial regency for some time, long before Queen Elizabeth became ill and passed. Perhaps Margrethe saw that and decided staying on to the end would only hasten her time as it may have done for Elizabeth, so better to hand over the reigns now while being of sound mind. We'll never know, but it's certainly some food for thought, since it's speculated that the BRF's issues with the spares prompted Sweden and Denmark to deal with their spares.)

[scalefeathers]

Lucky Break

Wolgraha Week 2024 - Day 3 - Alternate Universe

(set in @scrollsfromarebornrealm's Weird West AU)

Honestly, G’raha should have realized a lot sooner than something was up. But he’d been running late, as he so often was (one might expect a reporter to be used to working with deadlines, but it was just so easy to get distracted) so he’d been in a hurry as he rushed to the station, well aware that train timetables were one of the few things in the world harder to negotiate with than his editor. He’d been in such a hurry, in fact, that he hadn’t even seen the girl step out into his path between the ticket counter and the platform. While he’d been frantically apologizing and helping her to her feet, he hadn’t even felt the hand of her accomplice slip into his pocket, nor noticed until the train had fully pulled away from the station that said pocket was considerably lighter than it should have been. 

Still, being robbed need not have in itself been disastrous. After all, he still had his ticket, which throughout the whole altercation had been tightly clutched in his hand. And once he reached Stonewood he could wire back to Tulliyollal for more funds.  Unfortunately, when he examined said ticket more closely, he saw that the name printed on it was not ‘Stonewood Town’, but ‘Stonewood Mine’. Upon inquiring, he learned that the Stonewood Mine station was some twenty-five malms from Stonewood Town, that the station did not have a ticket counter (not that he could have bought a ticket even if it had), and that at present the mine was not even in use, as it had recently been sold and the new owners had not yet spun up their operation. 

For all of these reasons, G’raha elected not to disembark at the mine. Instead, he moved to another part of the train and sank low in his seat as the train pulled away from the desolate-looking station. Maybe the conductor wouldn’t notice he was still here before the train got to Stonewood, and he could slip away unnoticed. Maybe, this time, he’d be lucky.

He really should have known better by now.

~~~~~~~~

G’raha let out an undignified noise as he hit the ground hard, then immediately rolled to the side to avoid being flattened by his luggage as it was tossed out after him. He sat back up, opening his mouth to plead once more for clemency, but the smirking porter was already sliding the door shut and the train was already beginning to move again. G’raha could only watch helplessly as it slid out of sight, the rhythmic chuffing of the engine sounding in the moment like laughter at his expense. 

He sat there, stunned, for a few moments; then he remembered his luggage, and scrambled to open it up and check on the contents. Thank the gods; his typewriter was still intact. 

“Some good fortune, at least,” he murmured to himself. He allowed himself just a few moments of self-pity; then he stood up, dusted himself off, picked up his suitcase, and started to walk.

He was able to set a decent pace at first, but between the heat of the sun and the weight of his bag, his speed soon slowed. His shoes, well-suited though they were to trekking up and down Tulliyoallal’s hills and traversing its many streets, were ill-prepared for the uneven, rocky terrain of Shaaloani. His hat did little to protect the back of his neck, his throat was dry, his shoulders ached, and the sun had not yet reached its zenith. Still, he told himself, as long as he kept putting one foot in front of the other, took one step and then another, he would reach the town eventually. He could hardly get lost, after all, as long as he had tracks to follow.

~~~~~~~~

...Of course.

G'raha looked forlornly at the split track: one fork toward the north, and one to the south. He wracked his brain, trying desperately to recall the map he’d seen at the station. Obviously Stonewood was northwest of Tuliyollal, but the train had needed to cut north quite a ways to get around the mountains; perhaps the town was now to the southwest?

A map, he thought ruefully, one more thing he’d have been wise to bring; along with extra money, water, food, a better hat–

He pulled his mind, effortfully, back to the task at hand. Nothing to be done about it now, and nothing to be gained by standing here. He chewed his lip awhile, then set off on the northern track, as decisively as he could manage. 

~~~~~~~~

The sun was halfway to the horizon now, and G’raha wasn’t certain he could take another step. He had thought he understood how hot it could get in Tural; he’d been wrong. His throat was parched, his head was throbbing, and he’d started to lose all feeling in his arms. Still, he clutched the handle of the suitcase like a lifeline. He’d a few times considered leaving it behind, but when he’d been attacked by the biggest snake he’d ever seen in his life, he’d been very glad to have it. He’d swung the heavy case with all his might at the beast’s head, and managed to stun it long enough to flee, though he’d lost his hat in the process. Perhaps some traveler someday would find it, rolling across the dusty ground or caught in a bush, and wonder what had become of its tenant.

Perhaps they’d find his bones, too.

He shook his head to clear it, although that just made the throbbing worse. None of that now. He had to think positive; he had to keep going. One step, then another… then...

He collided with something; something solid. Not solid like a rock or a wooden wall, but something a bit softer. Something like–a body.

G’raha’s head snapped up, and he jerked backwards in alarm as he stared up at a viera who had appeared seemingly from nowhere. She (he thought they were a she, at least, though it could be difficult to tell with viera) was tall–taller than him, anyway, though that admittedly wasn’t saying much. She wore weathered brown leather over a rust-red tunic; a long, slender rifle slung over one shoulder; a leather pouch bulging with assorted flora on her hip; and an unimpressed expression on her face. 

“Oh! Uh… hello!” He smiled in what he hoped was a friendly and non-threatening manner, though in truth it came off as more manic than anything. “G’ra–” he coughed suddenly, his dry throat protesting at so much sudden usage, “...G’raha Tia, Xak Tural Star… uh, I mean, that is, I’m G’raha, and I–” he blinked, the viera’s impassive face swimming before his eyes, “I’m, uh…is this the way to…Stonewood?” It came out more of a question by the end. He wasn’t used to speaking to someone so… unreactive.

 The silence stretched just long enough that he started to wonder if maybe the viera didn’t understand him at all; then she uncrossed her arms, placed her hands on her hips instead, and said in a flat voice, “No.”

G’raha’s heart sank, along with his ears and tail. Though he did manage, to his credit, not to start crying, which was a relief. In addition to being utterly humiliating, it would also have been a dreadful waste of water. “Ah.” Distantly he heard a thump as his suitcase finally slipped from his hand. “Well then.” He looked around blearily, starting to feel dizzy again. “I suppose I’ll just . . . I’ll . . .”  He stumbled over to a rocky outcropping beside the tracks, intending at first to just lean against it, but before he knew it he was folding down instead to sit against it, closing his eyes and tipping his head back into the meager shade it provided. “I’ll just . . . sit here for a bit.”

There was a few seconds’ silence; then he heard a faint rustle of clothing, the crunch of gravel underfoot. Distantly, G’raha assumed that the viera was leaving him to his well-deserved fate. But then he heard the rustling again, closer this time–and accompanied, crucially, by the faint slosh of water. 

His eyes flew open and he beheld the open waterskin being offered to him. Any thought of manners or etiquette evaporated in a moment; he just grabbed the pouch and drank from it with long, desperate swallows. The water was stale and lukewarm and also the most wonderful thing he’d ever tasted. It was only when he felt the waterskin being drawn away from him that he came back to himself. 

G’raha sucked in a deep breath, and exhaled a ragged but earnest, “Thank you,” as the stranger screwed the cap back onto the canteen and slung it behind her once again. “Thank you, so much, I–I’m truly grateful.” 

He looked up at her, his head feeling a bit clearer, though it still ached. The woman was looking at him like he was a puzzle she was trying to figure out. It made him feel small and exposed to be so regarded. It also made him acutely aware what a mess he must look right now, sweaty and sunburnt and dusty and disheveled. Still, he was truly glad to see her. He’d been starting to wonder if he’d die out here without seeing another face, friendly or otherwise. 

“Thank you,” he said again, a smile breaking across his face. “I didn’t expect to find any kindness out here.”

The strange woman seemed a little taken aback by this. He wasn’t sure why; perhaps because of how ghastly he must look. Maybe she thought he was going to be sick. With the way his head was swimming, she might not be wrong. He closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath; when he opened them again, there was a hand in front of his face. An offering. 

G’raha looked up at her, his mouth opening, but for once in his life, there was nothing he could think of to say. Instead, he put his hand in hers and let her pull him to his feet. His head swam but he managed to stay upright.

“Come,” she said, turning away from him and starting to walk: not along the tracks, but away from them. When she realized he wasn’t following, she turned back and gave him an exasperated look. “Unless you’d rather stay here?”

That spurred him to action. “No, I don’t,” he began, stepping forward, “I mean, I wouldn’t, It’s just, uh…” he glanced to the southwest, where he was now pretty sure the town of Stonewood lay, (though even he wasn’t sure he could really be trusted on that score just now) then back to the woman, who seemed to be heading northeast.  “...Come where?”

She sighed and put her hand on her hip. “To the caves, so you don’t die of heatstroke. To rest at my camp, so you don’t die of cold, or of getting eaten by an aspis. And, in the morning, to Stonewood, so you don’t die of something else and leave me with your death on my conscience.” 

“Oh.” G’raha couldn’t fault her logic; all of those things seemed very likely to happen if she left him to his own devices. It embarrassed him to admit it, but there was no point in denying the truth. “Well . . . thank you.” He turned away and picked up his suitcase again, dusting it off. “You truly are very kind. Oh! I can pay you,” he added, a thought suddenly occurring to him. “Not–not right away, I mean, but once we reach Stonewood and I can send a wire back home, I’d be happy to . . .”

The woman shrugged. “If you like. For now I’ll settle for hearing how you ended up out here in the first place. Come on.” She turned away and started walking again.

As he stood by the edge of the tracks, watching her go, G’raha wondered if the woman was just a mirage, a conjuration of a mind descending into heat-addled delirium. He’d heard that heat could drive men mad before it killed them. Surely this was a mere fantasy; surely he, of all people, couldn’t possibly be this lucky. 

But her hand had felt solid enough, warm and strong as it had gripped his. He fancied he could still feel a faint tingle where her calluses had pressed into his skin. 

Following an attractive stranger into the desert was probably a bad idea . . . but it would hardly be the worst decision he’d made that day.

 “Right, then.” He smiled again and headed after her. Though he knew the typewriter was still inside it, his suitcase didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

She hadn’t slowed her pace while he’d stood there waffling, but he soon managed to catch up with her anyway. “I’m–” he began to offer her his hand to shake, but she waved him off.

“G’raha Tia, Xak Tural Star. I heard you.” 

He blushed, sunburned cheeks turning even pinker. “Oh, right. Of course. And you are, Miss…?”

She glanced at him. It was hard to tell, but he thought he saw her mouth quirk with the faintest of smiles. “Bylt,” she said. “Just Bylti.”

~~FIN~~

[ghostwise]

Matacuervos, ch. 3 El milagro In which the brothel receives an unexpected visitor. Read update on AO3 - Read from the beginning on AO3

A miracle was taking place in Rialto. And what better place for a miracle than the longest-standing brothel on the city’s promenade? 

El milagro.

For decades it had promised patrons a unique experience; something transformative and life-affirming. Something they wouldn’t find anywhere else. Today it was aptly named.

“Ahtziri’s son is downstairs!”

The news spread quickly through the prostitute’s quarters, high up on the third floor. Past the first floor and all its revelries, past the second floor with its private and comfortable rooms, the flurry of heeled footsteps sounded through the hallways of the old building. “Come quick! Have a look for yourselves!”

Those who were recent hires at El milagro met the news with little more than a bemused smile. But those who had been there longer remembered the scandal like it was yesterday.

“Ahtziri’s son!”

“The laundress! The knocked-up Dalish girl.”

“I remember her. Miss too-good-to-wash-our-linens. Miss wouldn’t-be-caught-dead-whoring.”

Amid the chatter, a sharp intake of air. “Don’t speak ill of the dead. It was a tragedy! She left a child behind.”

“Her son! What was his name?”

“Looks just like her. Blond hair, big brown eyes…”

“Got taken away one day, I remember. Adopted, they said. What was the name? Started with a Z…”

“Ziran? No!”

“Zarah?”

“No, no! Zevran?”

“Yes, that was it! And he’s downstairs right now!”

Of course the old prostitutes remembered. Who could forget? The dead husband, the widowed Dalish girl, the piles of debt, all the rumors of money and passion—and caught amidst all that ugliness, the orphaned baby. But the memories had softened with the passage of time, and the men and women of El milagro chatted amongst themselves, pleased with the reminiscing. Wasn’t it nice to be remembered, bad blood aside?

An Antivan never forgets his roots, they all agreed.

An Antivan always remembers, they said, and nodded wisely at the thought.

-

Meanwhile, unaware of the commotion he had caused, Zevran was downstairs and speaking with the brothel manager in her office.

Gloria Amilcar was a wisp of a middle-aged woman, fragile and thin, save for her soft and lined face. With her hair tied back in an austere bun and her fingernails delicately lacquered, she had a flighty air about her that seemed ill-fitted to her role.

She was also trying very hard to get Zevran to leave.

“I understand, completely. But, as I said earlier, we have a strict no loitering policy,” she said.

“Of course,” Zevran returned smoothly. “With such a fine establishment, your employees must be very busy, I’m sure. Allow me to pay for an hour! I will even pay double! I do not mind, if only to see old friends—”

“It is a generous offer.” She gave a pause, and a forced smile. “But we simply cannot accept.”

“After work, then?” Zevran asked.

“There is no ‘after work’ here at El milagro. I cannot close the brothel to our other clients. This is a business, young man.”

“Then perhaps on a day you are closed? I can return then-”

“We are never closed!”

Zevran plucked at a thread on his trousers, a placid smile fixed onto his face; a tactic to hide his growing irritation. “I am asking to simply pay for an hour or two with your esteemed workers,” he tried again, “As any client would. Am I being denied that right?”

“Precisely. You are denied.” Sra. Amilcar left her desk abruptly. Refusing the opportunity for any further discussion, she opened the door and with a sharp gesture motioned for Zevran to leave.

“You have your answer. Please, go.”

The sounds of the brothel floated in through the open door, and Zevran sat in his chair, impassive.

Truth be told, he hadn’t expected to be met with so much resistance. When he’d first arrived to the brothel he’d been greeted as a guest, but no sooner had one of the older women recognized him that Sra. Amilcar’s demeanor changed entirely. Now his intuition was telling him there was a reason why Amilcar was desperate to get him gone.

This was not a prison. Surely the workers were free to chat with a guest? So why did she seem worried—even afraid?

The thought was interrupted as a familiar voice floated through the door.

“Vhenan? Oh, there you are.”

Hamal had evidently grown tired of waiting out on the street.

If she hadn’t been scandalized already, Sra. Amilcar was doubly so now. She scanned Hamal from top to bottom, eyes wide. “Ven-an?”

“Ah! Hello.” Hamal simply smiled at her as he sidled in past her. “Very little Antivan, sorry! My husband is done? Everything good?”

“Everything is fine, amor,” Zevran said, looking at Sra. Amilcar pointedly. “Just negotiating.”

“I was just,” Sra. Amilcar interrupted, her voice terse and jumping from syllable to syllable, “telling your husband that we cannot accommodate his request. Please, gather your things and leave. You know? Get out. Go away. Goodbye, no more! Perhaps your husband can translate more properly! Shoo!”

She elaborated further by pointing rather aggressively towards the exit.

Zevran and Hamal exchanged a look.

It wouldn’t be the first time they had been kicked out from an establishment. It would, however, be the first time they were kicked out as a married couple, and that made it special.

Zevran smiled, with a soft tilt of the head, as if to say, see what I’m dealing with?

“Oh,” Hamal intoned, a hint of mischief in his eyes. He looked from his husband to Sra. Amilcar and then repeated, “Sorry, very little Antivan, very bad. I can explain: We are married! On our honeymoon.”  He made sure to speak loudly enough that his strongly accented Antivan rang clear out across the brothel. “Where can I pay? I will pay everything. A gift for my husband!”

By now, the discussion had drawn the attention of others, who erupted into cheers at the declaration. Zevran grinned, simply beaming under Hamal’s confidence, and the way the prostitutes shouted encouragement and praise: What a doting husband! What a thoughtful gesture! Were they open to adding a third?

Meanwhile Sra. Amilcar had grown quite pale. Swaying a bit on her feet, she seemed to steel herself before taking a deep breath and stating loudly, “Enough! I will call the city guard if you do not leave, NOW!”

-

All things considered, this was much farther than Zevran had ever expected to get.

Nevermind the fact that they now found themselves on the street, having been swiftly expelled by the brothel’s security. The visit had been enlightening, and not entirely a waste. For instance, he knew now that the brothel was still running, and under the same management, too. But the reaction he’d met within had been troubling.

“I am sorry.” Hamal grimaced. “I may have made things worse. I should have waited-”

“She had already decided to kick me out when you showed up,” Zevran assured him. “But it was very fun to watch, amor.”

“I am glad you had fun. I cannot recall ever seeing you so unhappy in a brothel, ma vhenan.”

Zevran laughed softly. He did not respond.

“You seem distracted,” Hamal observed after a moment. “What happened?”

Zevran looked up, and found Hamal’s eyes on him. “That woman in charge,” he said with a frown. “She was afraid of me.”

“Afraid? Why?”

“I cannot rightly say. I suppose I was drawing too much attention. Everything was fine when she thought I was just another customer to charm. But as soon as some of the older prostitutes recognized me, she suddenly became quite concerned. She forced them upstairs and pulled me into her office, where you found me.”

“They recognized you?” Hamal asked.

Zevran let out a sigh, mulling over the unexpected influx of memory and feeling. It was more than he’d expected. More than he’d been prepared for.

“They did,” he said, voice softening. “They were pleased to see me. They greeted me like an old friend.”

“Did you recognize them?”

“Yes, in fact. Sofia and Nadia. They and another young woman named Adelmar used to take turns watching me and the other children.”

“All these years and they did not forget you! You must have left quite an impression,” Hamal suggested, with a smile.

Zevran considered it; then he grinned, and an exuberant little laugh escaped him.

He had never expected to be remembered.

He remembered El milagro, of course, because he had suffered so much there. But here were people who had lived beside him, and watched his childhood years from their own perspective. In a sense they were witnesses to a crime, though they did not even realize it.

“I must speak with them at once,” Zevran said earnestly. “They could tell me things about my past. About my childhood. About the Crows.”

Hamal nodded. “We must find a way to get past this Amilcar woman. But for now,” he added, glancing at the first-floor shutters of Gloria Amilcar’s office, “I suggest we leave, before she calls the city guard.”

-

Gloria Amilcar peered through the shutters of her office window, watching the retreating figures of the two unwelcome visitors until they vanished into the distance. Being a woman of little imagination, she felt her heart rate settle almost instantly.

Thank the Maker, it had been taken care of quickly.

She shut the blinds and tucked a loose strand of hair back into her updo.

The situation with the Dalish boy—now a young man—had certainly been unexpected, but she had handled it, in her own opinion, with grace and intelligence. Now this Zevran and his strange foreign companion were gone, and they would not return again.

And why would they?

After all, what good would it do for them to dig any deeper? To linger nearby, esculcando where they shouldn’t and stirring up trouble? Even if they tried it, she would make sure they were swiftly taken away and locked up. Pull a few strings, pay a few guards. Send a strong message.

But it hadn’t come to that.

Feeling pleased with that conclusion, Sra. Amilcar went back to her desk.

It was her duty to keep such things from the workers. Threats to El milagro could imperil their all their livelihood in ways few could understand. Not only the wayward sons of politicians, or a dozen noble-born bastards to keep track of; running a brothel involved a lot of customer service—but she had hosts who took care of that. Mostly she handled the administrative side of things.

She tallied up totals and calculated expenses. She filed things that were necessary, or made it so that they were not necessary after all, ensuring the owner’s accounts were always in good standing. Obscuring a few lapses here and there. Falsifying birth certificates. The financial records needed to be completed by a deft hand, so the tax collectors wouldn’t dig too deeply into things. She was good at all this. El milagro kept her busy. She had no time for disruptions. No time for mess.

As she pulled out a list of supplies for the next month, she heard the door swing open.

“Is he gone?”

“Who?” Sra. Amilcar asked, without looking.

“That man,” Nadia said, and settled into the now vacant chair. “Zevran.”

“Ah,” Sra. Amilcar said. “Yes, he’s gone.”

Nadia regarded her closely.

She was a gem, and a gossip, a favorite of the customers for many years. Sharp-tongued and honey-eyed, Nadia had no surname, but she held half the city's secrets in her pockets—she'd even birthed a few herself—and she enjoyed a certain rapport with the brothel manager. Simply put she was irresistible, with her aged and deep-set features, which now focused into a critical and exacting look.

“Did you kick him out?”

Sra. Amilcar set an inkwell and fresh pen upon the table. She laid out her lists of supplies, her tally of accounts, and her roster of the brothel’s most productive workers, and only the faintest tremor of her right hand betrayed her.

“Money has been a bit tight, Nadia,” Sra. Amilcar said carefully. “I may have to let a few of the girls go if things keep up.”

“Sure,” Nadia hummed. “What is it he wanted anyway? I never get to see you make such a fuss, even when the clientèle gets rowdy, so…?” Under the sharp warning glare of the brothel manager, Nadia grinned. “Did he want to know about his mother? Is that it?”

Sra. Amilcar cleared her throat sharply. Unable to hold Nadia’s gaze, she  looked away, subdued.

“Yes,” she lied quietly. “And I told him the truth: We know nothing about it. It was all too long ago. He was understandably disappointed.”

“I see.”

Nadia watched her for a moment, allowing the silence that followed. When Sra. Amilcar said nothing more, she got up from the chair, and gathered up her skirts.

“Well,” she sighed, “I was just curious. No reason to dwell on the past. Not in this line of work, right?”

“Exactly!” Sra. Amilcar let out a little sigh, pleased to be understood.

A soft moment for Nadia to prod into. She stood beside the door, casting a glance over her shoulder.

“And Gloria?” she asked sweetly before leaving.

“Mm?”

“You will find a way to stretch the budget, won’t you? You’re so good at that. I’ve always said numbers were just one of your many talents.”

“Yes… well.” Sra. Amilcar paused. “You’re right, of course, Nadia. I’m sure I will figure something out.”

[elisedonut]

TRICK OR TREAT!!! 👀🥺🎃

Thank you for playing! you get about 2k of a fic that i honestly don't think I'll ever finish

this is a little amnesia memories inspired au that i started a long time ago i keep messing with it and changing things but i just really doubt ill ever actually fully finish it

it was back when i was like oh maybe i could write something long and have like a chapter per character

and then quickly realized no no I can not

so it just kept getting shorter and then when i participated in that one event where i was assigned characters alot changed to before i decided to write something else kldfjsdkl

originally it was going to be like

Mc: Percy

Orion(spirit that causes mc to lose her memories): Cedric

Heart/Shin: Marcus

Diamond/Toma: Oliver

Spade/Ikki: Tom

Clover/Kent: Stan

and Joker/Ikyo: Fred or maybe also Cedric i was undecided

but I ended up replacing Tom with Lavender because the aforementioned fest that had assigned characters and was considering moving heart to Dennis before i gave up and just made a perciverus soulmate au dkfjsldkf

He was falling. Or perhaps it was more like floating?

The last thing he could even remember was… 

What was it again? He just had the thought in the back of his mind a moment ago he’s sure of it.

Percy watches the colours of the space around him swirl and mix, as if all the stars around him would hold the answer. Reaching out towards them as if he could grab them. 

What was he doing? 

He was at home before, wasn’t he?

A letter. 

Running out the door into the night to apparate.

Oliver was dead. Right? 

He was there when they had to lower him into the ground.

But– If that were true, then why– 

“Ollie?” Percy asks, cautiously. 

“Hm? Is that who I look like to you?” Not-Oliver asks back, tilting his head in a way that reminds Percy of when they– well when Percy and the real Oliver were still in school.

When Percy just continues to stare though Not-Oliver continues. “Guess so– Well I'm glad you’re awake. Do you feel any pain? Pressure in your head? Limbs feel numb?” 

He’s speaking so fast.

Percy tries to think about it for a moment. 

Tries to focus on different parts of his body. 

Tries reaching his fingers out towards the mysterious figure in front of him. When he finds that his fingers go right through him, Percy frowns. 

It was almost like he was more asleep than awake. 

Everything, just slightly off. Blurry in a way that made it difficult to even think.

Opening and closing his fists a few times Percy responds, “I- I don’t think I feel much of anything to be honest.” 

Likely that look on Not-Oliver’s face means that’s not a good thing. Even if it feels a bit freeing in Percy’s opinion. 

Almost peaceful.

“Ok so–” Not-Oliver starts again, “Look, I'm a spirit and I may have accidentally ran into you and I may accidentally be stuck,” The spirit?–apparently, continues. He doesn't look like any ghost Percy had ever seen. When Percy doesn’t respond, Not-Oliver continues again, “So I may or may not have accidently knocked your soul off course, out of your body. But, don’t panic. I do have a plan.”

Don’t panic, he says. Percy’s soul is apparently out of his body all together and he’s telling him not to panic. Taking in a deep breath and watching as Not-Oliver flinches Percy tries to calm himself down enough to listen. Motioning at Not-Oliver to continue again.

The sooner this was over with the better.

“You’re taking this a lot better than I was expecting you to, to be honest.” Not-Oliver says confused before shaking his head quickly and continuing, “Alright. So, here's the plan. I found a few worlds where you have a tether. so you just have to find the one that’s actually yours.”

“Pardon?” Percy asks, trying to wrap his head around what that could mean. 

“Exactly as I said, You just have to pick the one that feels right and I’ll plop you back into that body and then everything will be fine.” Not-Oliver says quickly before adding softly, “Hopefully.”

Before Percy can ask for clarification on what he meant by hopefully the stars around them change in the air, twisting around themselves.

For the first time since he woke up in this odd place, Percy feels like his feet are actually on the ground again. It continued like that for a few more seconds until four doors materialised in front of him. Each adjourned with a different symbol in the middle. 

A weathered and cracked red door with a heart symbol, messily painted on.

A polished and metallic looking blue door with the metal spade symbol neatly welded on.

A clear slightly green tinted door with a paper clover stuck between the plastic.

And Lastly, a bright yellow door with a diamond cut meticulously out of the wood.

All of the doors had a red string connecting to him. Percy’s not sure if that’s what Not-Oliver meant by a tether but if so that was quite more literal then he’d assumed. As he pulls on one of the strings he expects it to feel some tension but they each stay slack, regardless of how much he pulls.

As Percy inspects the doors he thinks about which he should choose. Percy’s still not a hundred percent sure this isn’t a dream. Maybe a potion fueled hallucination. Maybe George decided to put something in his wine for old times sake. 

Looking back at the Oliver doppelganger for a moment he seems to just be waiting patiently for him to come to a decision. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected. Or what he’s even supposed to be looking for. 

Is there even a right answer here? They all feel the same in a way. 

Do they even lead anywhere, or do they just open to an empty frame?

Should he even play along?

Walking behind the doors he sees that they look the same on the back as they do on the front. 

“Does it really matter which one I pick?” Percy asks.

“Well- they all lead to different worlds, so–” Not-Oliver says from over his shoulder. 

“So then there's definitely a wrong answer here…” Percy mutters as he walks up to the Red Door. “If I open the door, does that count as a choice or do I have to walk through it?”

Not-Oliver hums to himself for a moment before nodding,“You should be able to open them. As long as you don’t touch the actual portal then it shouldn’t do any harm.” 

Percy reached for the Red Door again. Not-Oliver didn’t sound very certain, but nothing was going to happen if he just sat there. Even if it isn’t real, he always had been too curious for his own good. So he may as well try. The door comes open with a loud creak from the hinges. 

Left with the sight of swirling foggy lights and stars,h e’s disappointed. It only takes a moment for it to clear though.

The angle is awkward so he can’t see much of the room. But he can see himself laid out on the bed. From the look of him he must have been here for a while. Bandages up and down his arms and legs. A side table with dying flowers and miscellaneous get well cards. 

Is this all he’s going to see in these? An unconscious body?

He’s here, wherever here actually is, so maybe the real him is just passed out somewhere, like that. If so though this isn’t going to be very helpful to him. 

Still, he doesn’t close the door. He still waits. Maybe someone will come in that could give him a clue. Or maybe something will happen to show it’s not the world he expects. 

It doesn’t take too long of a wait for the door to open. Percy can’t see who came in from the angle but he could hear the way the heavy door dragged as it opened and shut. The sound of footsteps and a chair being slid across the floor.

Then he gets his first glimpse of them when they pull Percy’s limp hand into their own. The red string on their hand was connected to his own.Their hands were large and rough, completely enveloping Percy’s own. The difference in their skin makes Percy even more confused. When the door opened he’d assumed it was some family member but that’s certainly not a Weasley's hand.

“They all think I did it, you know?” The man whispered to him. That voice was familiar… “Wake up soon, Percy. I don’t know what I’ll do without you. Even if I don’t deserve it.”

When the mystery man leaned down to kiss Percy gently on the lips he knew exactly who it was. Dark eye’s, back hair, broad shoulders, all too familiar.

“Oh? That your boyfriend?” Not-Oliver says with a grin. 

“I don’t have a boyfriend.” Percy says quietly. 

Haven’t since you decided to play hero.

He watches Flint talk to him a little while longer before deciding to move on. He’s careful to only touch the doorknob as he moves to shut the door again. 

It’s not like he would mind dating Flint really. He’s intense, sure, and his family would hate him. Still that wasn’t his world in the first place. The Flint from his world would never like him in general. They weren't even friends, much less lovers.  So it doesn’t even matter if his heart’s racing a little bit at the thought of it.

Shaking off the weird feeling he didn’t want to think about, he moves to the next door. The Blue Door was cold to the touch as he opened it. He was half way expecting to see this other him passed out again, but instead it seems to be some sort of restaurant? Not one he recognizes at all though.

The other Percy was seated at a table, all alone. The room looked familiar though at least. Maybe this was a good sign. Even if he can’t remember his flat’s dining room being so cluttered. Strange though, Percy had expected to see another version of him passed out in some way again. 

What would happen to this other him if he does choose this world? Does this other consciousness just vanish?

Percy glances at the closed Red Door. Is there still a consciousness there too? He hadn’t considered it but now though, he’s not so sure. By the time he glances back at the blue door someone had joined him at the table.

“How’s the new textbook going, Professor.” She said, as she leaned over the table a bit to look at something that Percy couldn’t quite see.

He could see his reaction though, watching himself move and speak felt strangely surreal.

He rolled his eyes lightheartedly as he responded,“Don’t call me that. I-”

“-Don’t even plan on taking the position, Yeah yeah i know.” The girl said before putting her arms around his shoulders, “Still think you should, though, you’d be far better than Binns.”

“Anyone would be better than Binns, Lavender.” The other him said.

(Add talking moment here about how Lavender seems nice but he's surprised to see her here.

Green Door - ???? Stan Knight bus moment???

Yellow Door - Oliver and Percy talking and walking somewhere fake out where Percy thinks this might be right but then Oliver says something sketchy or maybe there's clearly no magic or something idk

Open ended, the choice being made left ambiguous.

Looking over the doors again, Percy knows he’s made his decision. He knows none of them are actually his world. None of them match any of the things he remembered. Too many inconsistencies to match. But after the conversation with Not-Oliver he knows these are his only options. Opening his door of choice he’s stopped by Not-Oliver’s voice once more.

“Are you sure?” Not-Oliver asks, “I don’t think I’ll be able to pull you back out if you change your mind.”

“I won’t,” Percy says. Feeling more sure of it the closer he gets to its frame. When he sets his hand on the portal's surface all the other doors vanish, locking his choice in, and everything goes dark.

When he wakes again he’s exactly where he feels he needs to be. Or at least, as close as he can get to it. He’s still truly hoping all that had been a dream…

[keicordelle]

Chapter 9 of A First for Everything, Perchance to Dream, is up! Thancred is still feeling a bit out of sorts after that near-kiss, and Urianger convinces him he should rest early -- in Urianger's bed. With Urianger. A plan that surely has absolutely no flaws and will definitely not make Thancred's palpating heart speed even faster.

Read it on Ao3 at the link above, or check out the first chapter on Tumblr here.

-

Thancred dragged himself away from Urianger, scrubbing a hand down his face. "Maybe some sleep really will help," he muttered to himself, drawing up beside the sofa he'd taken as his bed. Maybe if I go back to sleep, he'll try again.

He threw back the blanket with perhaps more force than was necessary, trying to banish the unhelpful thought. Just lay down, close your eyes, and turn off your brain. And when you wake up, maybe you can convince yourself this was all a dream. Not bloody likely.

A hand caught around his wrist before he could drop down onto the dingy cushions. The scent of Urianger filled his nose -- hells, it always filled his nose these days, permeating the air in his little house until it had become the new norm. But this close, Thancred could feel the heat from Urianger’s body at his back, his grip surprisingly firm on his arm.

Thancred’s body wanted to turn into him and melt into that warmth, maybe even pull Urianger tight against him and do something he couldn't take back, like kiss him senseless. Instead, he tensed beneath his grip, forcing himself still so he wouldn't do something he'd regret.

Urianger drew back instantly, his hand falling away to his side. Thancred’s eyes followed it, watching as it clutched at his skirt, before he dragged them back up to Urianger’s face, kicking himself internally. Was that hurt he spied in the depths of Urianger’s eyes, or just worry? Was he going to drive himself insane overanalyzing Urianger’s every move? Only one of these questions did Thancred have an answer to.

"Pray forgive mine impertinence," Urianger hastened to say. "But thy bedding is hardly fit for a man in good health, let alone one who suffers a malaise. 'Twould be unthinkable that I permit you remain here when there exists a perfectly comfortable alternative not ten paces away."

Thancred frowned at him. "Urianger, we've already had this argument. I'm not going to let you give up your bed for me. I'm already asking too much by asking you to let us stay here." Urianger opened his mouth to protest, but Thancred waved off his concern. "Believe me, I've slept in far worse places than this in far worse condition."

If Thancred had expected him to drop the issue, he was in for a surprise. Urianger’s lips thinned into a flat line as he considered his rebuttal. But they’d already settled this weeks ago, when Urianger had apologized for being "ill equipped to receive guests." Nothing had changed between then and now; if he hadn't had an argument to convince Thancred then, he wouldn't be able to now. He ought to know that.

He tried anyway. "If thy concern rest in my wellbeing, perchance there is a suitable compromise. My bed is surely of a size that we might both lay comfortably upon it."

Thancred choked. Okay, maybe he could come up with a new argument. Thal's balls. "Urianger, I'm not going to share your bed!"

"Whyever not? Full well do I know that thou art accustomed to sleeping alongside others. 'Tis hardly different from the close quarters a scouting party must share. Mine only regret is that the thought did not occur to me sooner." He hesitated, fingers fiddling with the chains on his skirt. "But if the notion discomfits thee so, then thou hast mine sincerest apologies. We needs not speak of it again."

"No, it's not that at all," Thacred rushed to say before Urianger could turn away. "You know that I'm perfectly comfortable with you. It's just... It's different."

"Why?"

Because you're my friend. Because you're Urianger. Because I want nothing more than to wrap you up in my arms and hold you close, and I can't for the life of me figure out if you want the same or if I'm just imagining things. Because I think I care for you in a way that I'm not sure I've ever cared for anyone else. Seven hells, he was overthinking this, wasn't he? Yesterday he wouldn’t have thought twice about sharing a bed with Urianger. Why should that have changed just because Thancred wanted to kiss him a little bit? He was an adult. He was perfectly capable of controlling himself and sharing a bed with his friend without it being weird.

What would be weird was if he continued to refuse Urianger’s offer. Because he was right, unless Thancred wanted to admit to his newfound urges to do things other than sleep chastely next to him in that bed, there was no good reason for him to deny him.

"You win," Thancred said, holding up his hands in surrender. "You're right. If we can both fit in the bed, there's no reason we can’t share it. For now, at least. Though you may find I'm not as pleasant a bed companion at you think. I've been told I thrash something fierce."

Urianger chuckled, his eyes creasing at the corners. They were bright as he smiled at him, a soft golden warmth in them that Thancred could feel over his skin. "A fact I have long since discovered for myself. Thy limbs have a notable tendency to upset any and all books within arm's reach of thy resting place."

Thancred ducked my head with a chagrined snort. "Ah, sorry about that."

Urianger waved off the concern, turning to lead the way into his chambers and the bed that awaited them there. The singular bed. With one blanket. Maybe this was a bad idea after all. Thancred squashed the thought, trailing closely after him. Watching the slip of ankle that showed beneath the swish of his skirt as he walked, eyes carefully lowered lest his hindbrain get any silly ideas about how that robe clung to Urianger’s backside.

He did have to admit that the bed looked significantly more comfortable than the dingy sofa he'd been sleeping on, with its lumpy cushions and springs desperate to make the acquaintance of his kidneys. A good night's sleep would be a welcome turn of events -- assuming, of course, he could turn off the ceaseless scamper of his thoughts long enough to actually enjoy it.

The chains around Urianger's waist chimed as he unhooked them, setting them carefully aside atop the nearby chest of drawers. Thancred froze, hesitating at the foot of the bed. Hells. Was he going to strip down before climbing into bed? Was Thancred supposed to strip down before getting in? He couldn't just sleep in his clothes, could he? Well, he supposed he could, but that would be even odder than just stripping down to his underwear, wouldn't it?

Twelve preserve him, what did Urianger even wear to bed? Surely Thancred had seen him around the Rising Stones before bed before. Why couldn't he remember for the life of him what he'd been wearing? Did he have a nightgown? Sleep pants? His smalls? Sweet heavens have mercy, Thancred couldn't picture that. Didn’t want to picture that, not while he was staring at the delicious curve of Urianger’s back, elegant and exposed to his hungry eyes. Or the pale arch of his neck revealed as he pulled away his collar, long and slender and graceful.

The collar tinkled lightly as he set it aside with the rest of his chains. He cast a glance over his shoulder at Thancred, pink dusting his cheeks. "I know 'tis foolish, but I prithee, avert thy gaze."

"What? Oh! Of course! Sorry, I didn't mean to--" Thancred shut his damned mouth, spinning on his heels. Okay. Alright then. Stripping. Thancred could strip. This was fine. He'd stripped in front of Urianger before. This was no different than when Urianger tended to his wounds. Expect with a much higher likelihood that Thancred would find his bare flesh pressed up against Urianger’s.

He gave his head a sharp shake, cramming his misgivings into a little box in the back of his mind. In one quick motion, he tugged his shirt over his head and let it drop to the floor. It was easier, then, to talk himself out of my boots, like he'd broken some sort of seal. Besides, who wanted boots in their bed? His hands hesitated over his belt. No. No, tonight the pants would stay on. Surely Urianger wouldn't fault him for that.

"Ah, my thanks for thy discretion," came Urianger's voice at his back.

"No problem." Was Thancred imagining the flush that still graced Urianger’s cheeks when he turned? Or was it possible that he was drinking Thancred in like Thancred was drinking in him?

Not that there was a great deal to drink. If anything, the nightgown Urianger wore covered more skin than his usual robe. But there was nothing wrong with that -- a little mystery could be just as enticing as something revealing. It reminded Thancred of the robe he used to wear, long and unflattering, but somehow Urianger still managed to look stunning in it. How had Thancred never noticed how beautiful he was before? He shifted uncomfortably, praying that Urianger wouldn't notice his more-than-casual interest.

It seemed that whatever gods existed on the First had heard his prayer, because Urianger didn't so much as glance down before he turned away to throw back the blanket. It was almost a relief to crawl into the bed, where at least Thancred could hide beneath the blanket and pretend that he wasn't so uncomfortably aroused by his friend. Of course, then Urianger climbed in right after him and fairly well shattered that illusion. Thancred could feel the heat of his body on his skin despite the distance that separated them, the sound of Urianger’s breathing a pleasant rhythm in his ears. The urge to pull him close and snuggle into his side struck Thancred like a punch to the gut, and he forced it down, holding himself carefully still in the sheets. He didn't dare roll onto his side -- the bed, while a significant improvement on the kidney-seeking sofa, had a notable slope to the mattress, like fate itself seemed determined to force them together, and he didn't trust himself not to roll into Urianger in his sleep. Or roll onto him and crush him. Urianger was bigger than Thancred was, but that didn't mean he wanted to be buried under the weight of his body in his sleep.

"Rest well, Thancred," Urianger murmured, his voice a soft caress in Thancred’s ear. The bed creaked as he snuggled into the blanket, perfectly at ease next to him.

"Sweet dreams," Thancred whispered back.

Urianger’s breathing evened out into a rhythmic lull, faster than Thancred could ever have expected for one who spent so many nights pacing restlessly beneath the stars. Thancred glanced over to him, watching the peaceful rise and fall of his chest. He looked so sweet like that, curled up on his side with his hair falling over his face, blankets tucked up under his chin. Thancred watched him like that for longer than he would ever admit, with only the steady beat of his heart in his chest and the rhythm of Urianger’s breathing to track the time.

Then Urianger shifted, the bed creaking as he moved into Thancred. His arm fell over Thancred’s waist, pulling him in against him. Urianger’s body curved around his, one leg tangling with Thancred’s and his breath tickling at his neck. Thancred froze, waiting for Urianger to stir and draw back, but he only settled more comfortably against him, sighing contentedly in his sleep as he nestled into him.

Slowly, moving carefully so as not to wake him, Thancred wrapped his arm around him, drawing him in until his head rested on his chest. Urianger snuggled in closer still, his skin a pleasant warmth on Thancred’s. His hair was soft and silken, the feathered ends of it teasing at Thancred’s chest, and though it felt a little too much like tempting fate, Thancred dared to brush his fingers through it. It slipped around them like water, and he did it again, marvelling at the way the grey locks shone silver this close. There were highlights in them he'd never noticed before, strands of blond and ashen white tangled with muted browns to give it a warmth that fairly glowed against his palm. Urianger sighed again, leaning into his touch, and Thancred couldn't help the smile that curved his lips as he looked down upon him. Urianger’s lashes fluttered gently, their silvered sweep casting subtle shadows across his cheeks. His lips parted lightly around his breath, and gods did they look soft too. A little bit thin, but no less inviting for it. Thancred could imagine how they'd feel moving on his own. Parting beneath him to let him in, the wet brush of Urianger’s tongue against his and the taste of him filling his senses.

Thancred hesitated, staring down at his lips. Maybe he could understand why Urianger had tried to kiss him while he was asleep. He could finish what Urianger had started right now. Draw his mouth up to his and brush their lips together -- gentle at first, exploratory, and then with intent, kissing him until he would never forget the feeling. Or maybe just a quick brush, just to know what it would feel like. He wouldn't ever have to know.

No. What was he thinking? He didn’t want their first kiss to happen like that, stolen while Urianger slept, without him even aware it had happened. Their first kiss (and when exactly had it become a given in Thancred’s mind that they would even have a first kiss?) should be sweet and tender. Hells, for all he knew this could be Urianger’s first kiss ever. He wasn't about to steal that from him against his wishes, no matter what he wanted to read into his actions. When they kissed -- and they would, one way or another, of that much Thancred was certain -- it would be beautiful and magical and everything Thancred wanted Urianger’s first kiss to be -- regardless of if Thancred really was that first kiss or not.

Instead, he brushed Urianger’s hair carefully back from his face, pressing his lips to his brow. This much, at least, Thancred could allow himself. The rest, he was perfectly happy to wait for.

Thancred fell asleep curled up in Urianger’s embrace, his arms as tight around Urianger as Urianger’s were around him. And when he slept, his dreams were more peaceful than they had been in years.

[Chapter 10] | [Masterlist]

[Kofi/Commissions]

[romilly-jay]

Enemies to Lovers? Thank You, Yes, Think I Will... <3

***spoilers***

Wasn't reeeeeeellli planning to write about this one here. But surprised myself by enjoying it. Surprised myself again by discovering that it's based on a book (probably the publishing house setting was a big clue but not one I feel confident relying on fully).

Gave it a go because I'd vm enjoyed Lucy Hale in the (for me) ridiculously named but surprisingly rounded / robust / landing-achieving Puppy Love (2023), opp Grant Gustin from Flash/Glee.

I thought she did a great job of being "kooky" without shading across into unfathomably irrational and managing to deliver high charm almost all the way through. Didn't say it there so I'll say it here - felt to me like there was very significant fondness and almost no heat in the depiction of the MC rels... if there was room for love stories that were largely ace/platonic, maybe this would be a good place to land that particular love story? I do get it, that this isn't An Option, in terms of the mainstream tropes or audience expectation. YET??

BTW - veering //AGAIN// - saw analysis of La La Land that suggested it works (and doesn't REALLY have a sad/unsatisfactory ending) because the nature of the love the MCs have for each other is preserved and merely shifts from romantic towards platonic. (?)

If I remember correctly, the commentator thought that the central relationship in La La Land was pretty healthy - that each of the MCs were doing more and most of their work on their own personal issues.

I'm going to guess that he probably wouldn't feel this way about the relationship in The Hating Game, though it's sweeter and kinder sooner and for more of the movie than the title or opening suggested.

Thanks to BuzzFeed article by Farrah Penn (Dec 23, 2021), I now know that the opening line for the movie is also the - deliciously hooky - opening line for the book. Put the pitch into the start of the story - why not? It absolutely got me to stay to see how it played out.

[But perhaps, watching through my fingers, because as I may have mentioned, I'm not actually a fan of storylines that involve the MCs being psychotic, either towards each other or in general. Yes, it generates tension but not in a way I find v. enjoyable to invest in.]

Things I liked -

That he genuinely took care of her (multiple times but I'm thinking of when she's ill). That she stuck up for him at the family event. That he wants a relationship not a hook-up (I read this as gender-reversed?).

Things I liked LESS -

The moments in the plot where they "have to fight" or "have to fall out" - I was genuinely mystified about how the film could take them from a declaration of love on his part to right back to sq one on her part (convinced he's the enemy) in roughly 3 mins of screen time.

UGH.

The fact that he reads to me like a man who's been written by a woman. What? We give male writers a hard time when they write women really badly. For me, this reads WELL for the story and POORLY in terms of whether this could be an actual living male. Perhaps it could - but (again, for me) the confection lasted only as long as the film's HEA and then fell over like cardboard caught in rain.

By contrast, I bought GG's character as highly neurotic but believable as a character in his own right - the bond they make gives him back to himself. I can imagine him existing independently in that world.

Back to The Hating Game -

Also, didn't love the decision to give him a mostly nude scene where the female MC was clothed. Good for LH that her contract allows her to keep her clothes on. Good - I guess - that the film shows us the female gaze where the male gaze has traditionally been. But how about we abolish Uneven Gazing altogether (??). For my own taste, clothes on or covered would have been Fine, just Fine. But main ask is for a couple mutually revealed to each other - a balance. Evenness.

Also, I accept that I may not be representing the maj view here in my general request for screen couples to kiss hotly but retain their attire.

So, yes, this isn't what I'd design For Me but sure, I can be happy to let beautiful people carry on being gorgeous on screen and for them to look longingly at each other (as proxies for how we are no doubt looking at them from our sofas). In principle I'm body positive - tho in practice, I'm still basically awkward, shy and old-style British.

Final thought - fascinates me how perceptions about levels of chemistry differ. For me, these actors had great on-screen chemistry but I've seen at least one review that felt they absolutely did not.

For me, it seems more like the problems for this couple are going to start when they stop making out / shagging and attempt to co-habit or to sustain a conversation that isn't about work or her lipstick.

[checkoutmybookshelf]

Lady Whistledown Returns: Chapter 2

Penelope's secret project is revealed; how will Colin react? Colin and Penelope recieve an intriguing invitation.

Need to get caught up? Find previous chapters and works here.

This chapter does not come with any content warnings.

No sooner had the snap of the door closed out the voices from the main soiree than Colin sagged against a wall, face in both hands. Penelope stood in the center of the room, hugging her journal to her chest, trembling. They were both silent for long moments.

“Penelope Anne Bridgerton…” Colin did not sound angry. If anything, he sounded tired.

“Colin, I’m so sorry, I would never have embarrassed you in public like that—”

“Embarrassed?” He hadn’t moved from the wall. He hadn’t taken his hands from his face. “I am not now nor will I ever be embarrassed by you, Pen. What I am is trying to decide where exactly to start. Do I start with what I’m going to tell Anthony? Do I start with the fact that I have never not found out about anything to do with Whistledown before it was public and might, perhaps, like to for once? Do I start with the fact that the queen would see you dead given sufficient excuse and I suspect you just gave it to her?” Colin pushed himself off the wall and paced in the confined space, face pensive. He never looked more like Anthony than when he was thinking.

For her part, Penelope could not disagree with his assessment that the very public acknowledgement that she was still writing Whistledown—even if she had no imminent plans to publish—would provoke the queen. In her heart of hearts, however, Penelope was almost relived. She had spent too long trying not to provoke royal ire and failed by dint of her very existence. For this shoe to drop in such a final way relieved a feeling of anticipation Penelope had not quite fully put a name to.

“Is there any chance that this won’t get back to London?” asked Colin.

The door opened, and the nondescript agent slipped inside, closing the door behind him as he bowed politely to the Bridgertons.

“Sir,” said Penelope, politely. “I apologize, I did not get your name at the Old Bailey.”

“Good God,” muttered Colin, dropping his head into his hands again.

“Dame Penelope. My name is Worth, and I am—”

“An agent of Her Majesty, Queen Charlotte,” Penelope finished for him. “How may we help you, Mr. Worth?”

“Have you been following us since we departed England?” Colin’s question was so blunt as to be rude, but Mr. Worth seemed utterly unruffled and unoffended when he confirmed that he had, and that his mission was to watch Penelope and report back if she engaged in seditious or treasonous behavior abroad.

“You mean if she wrote Whistledown again,” growled Colin.

“I simply carry out my mandates, Mr. Bridgerton. I bear no ill will toward Dame Penelope personally, and in fact many of the gentlemen in my position found Whistledown both enjoyable and immensely useful.”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Worth, but I do not believe ‘Dame Penelope’ is correct; I left Her Majesty’s private court. Mrs. Bridgerton is fine.” Penelope was not entirely comfortable with the idea of the queen’s agents finding her columns useful, but she less wanted to even seem to claim a title she had repudiated.

“Queen Charlotte did not revoke the title, ma’am. In private, it is most appropriate that I refer to you by that rank.” That started Penelope into silence. She had assumed she no longer held that rank, assumed that the Queen’s petty ire would have seen her stripped of it. Ignoring or missing Penelope’s surprise, Worth continued speaking.

“I am afraid I will have to report this; I should expect to be summoned back, if I were you. And if I may be so bold as to make a recommendation, I would burn that journal. Rumors will do you little good, Dame Penelope, but substantiated rumors will do you less good.”

“You will not threaten my wife in front of me, Worth,” snarled Colin.

“If he was threatening me, he would be sending the journal with his report.”

Worth bowed, turned, and made to leave the room. He paused with one hand on the doorknob, then turned back again. “Perhaps this need not be said, but forgive me for being thorough. Should you publish a book as Lady Whistledown, the queen will retaliate in excess of reason. I should strongly advise against doing so.”

“She would not dream of publishing as Whistledown.” Colin’s words were fast and confident, but Penelope did not meet Worth’s eyes as he opened the door.

Party sounds washed into the room, and both Colin and Penelope flinched. When Byron’s insistent “Lady Whistledown!” echoed through the room, Colin pulled Pen to him, shielding her from something neither could put a name on.

“We can go, if you wish,” he whispered.

Byron’s silhouette filled the doorway. “Lady Whistledown,” he boomed again. “I have a proposition for you and Lord Whistledown. Shelley and I have taken houses by Lake Geneva for the summer—You must join us. I have taken Villa Diodati, and there would be ample room for you both, even with Polidori along. What say you, glorious lady? Will you join us in our seclusion to bleed words of beauty and truth onto the page? Perhaps I can convince you to publish again, with my European publisher.”

“Your offer is very kind, Lord Byron,” Colin began, before being interrupted by Mary elbowing Byron aside and taking a step into the room.

“Oh, please do say you’ll come, Penelope,” she said. “I cannot overstate how lovely it would be to have another woman about.”

Penelope paused as Colin delicately replied that they were about to be recalled and, unfortunately, could not possibly accept the invitation. She didn’t doubt for a moment that he was correct, or that Worth’s advice to return home before being recalled was kindly meant and valuable. But for once, neither of those facts cooled the burn of anger in her chest. Impulsively, Penelope stepped between Colin and Byron, who were trading increasingly cool paper bullets over the invitation.

“We would be delighted to join you,” she said, firmly, ignoring the subtle color rising above Colin’s collar. “However, I have something of a headache, if you would excuse us, I shall leave you with our direction and we can sort out the details.” With a rapid round of polite farewells—and Lord Byron palming a card with his Rome publisher’s address into her hand—Penelope practically dragged Colin from the party.

Back at their rooms, there was an air of brewing storms and sharp edges that neither was used to. Each made attempts to engage the other in conversation, to sort out what they were going to do, how they would handle it if they were recalled, but like oil and water, they were unable to come together and communicate. After a particularly snappish exchange as they were preparing for bed, Penelope pulled a shawl over her shoulders and stormed out of the bedroom. Uncharacteristically, Colin made no attempt to follow her. After making herself a cup of tea, Penelope settled next to the fire with her travel writing desk in her lap. With unseeing eyes, she flipped through the full Whistledown journal she had been keeping since she and Colin left England.

The queen could no longer be allowed to dictate the minutiae of their lives. Penelope had had more than her fill of being dictated to as a child and young woman under the collective thumbs of her mother and sisters. She had also discovered in the year she did no writing that she was not herself if she had no writing outlet. Killing Lady Whistledown again was not an option; she would diminish into an unhappy shadow of herself if she did that. The rage and roiling thoughts did not allow Penelope’s hands to be idle. As she thought, her hands were occupied with familiar tasks.

They would very likely be recalled as soon as Worth returned to England. The man had taken no proof with him, had seemed nearly reluctant to report her. And yet, something was niggling at the back of Penelope’s mind as the sound of a sharp blade against a quill niggled in her ears. She had done nothing wrong. Had her journal not been invaded by Byron’s prying eyes, nobody would have ever seen it. She could have quietly written as Lady Whistledown as long as she wished with no one any the wiser. And yet now she was revealed. Again.

Penelope’s nose crinkled at the scent of ink—sharp and familiar. Clearly, she could no longer even dream of her writing remaining either a secret or within the bounds of what Her Majesty Queen Charlotte found acceptable. She could not stop. She could not retreat. So perhaps it was time to dig in and fight back.

The rhythmic scritch-scratch of quill on paper offered a rhythm for her thoughts, keeping them from racing in disarray. She would need to quietly write to Anthony, to warn him. He would likely want to send the children and extended family to Aubrey Hall. She would also ask him to see her mama off to either Prudence’s or Philippa’s. She had little goodwill upon which to ask, but Anthony Bridgerton understood protecting family, and she was trying to align with him as best she could where she could. The letters should reach Bridgerton House before the queen could mobilize her resources, particularly if Penelope acted fast.

She did not think of Colin, and what he might say if he knew of her plan.

The clock chimed four o’clock as Penelope closed her journal and set down her quill. Regarding the sheaf of closely written papers, she checked her nerve. If she was to do this, she had to move now. Pulling a cloak over her nightdress and shawl and dropping her letters on the salver for the post on her way out the door, Penelope turned to the front door to make for Lord Byron’s publisher’s print shop.

And nearly ran smack-dab into Colin, who was pulling on his coat over the rough shirt, waistcoat, and trousers of a laborer.

“I’m rather grateful you wrote to Anthony, I was not looking forward to penning that letter,” he said. “Will you be warm enough in that? We have a moment if you want to change.”

“What?”

“I should hate for you to catch cold out in the streets at all hours. Will you be warm enough?”

“I stormed out on you,” said Penelope, confused. “Are we not fighting?”

“Fighting or not, if you imagine I would let you traipse about at all hours without me, you are very much mistaken. Besides, this will be only the second time I’ve ever been privy to getting Lady Whistledown published, and it’s rather bracing, if in a ‘prepare for Anthony’s wrath’ sort of way.” Colin’s smile was slightly sardonic, but it could not be said to be insincere.

Penelope’s head was whirling. She must have missed Colin popping his head into the room and seeing what she was about—she had gotten entirely too comfortable with writing with him in the room. And yet he wasn’t about to stop her. That smile was absurdly distracting, too. “The second time?” she asked.

“Yes, you sent the last Whistledown to us to be printed,” he said.

“I sent that to Genevieve…” she trailed off. “You?”

“Me, Pen.” He shifted his shoulders and leaned against the doorframe. “Well, me and Benedict. Daph and Anthony insisted I not go unchaperoned. I was not terribly reasonable that night.”

“And I would be lying if I said I understood why you are so reasonable now, but we have not the time to tease that out. Shall we?”

Colin grinned tiredly at her, and gave Penelope a flourished bow as he gestured toward the door. “After you, Lady Whistledown.”

Traversing the dark streets as the sky threatened dawn, Penelope felt the thrill of the first time she had ever snuck out of her mother’s house to take the first issue of Lady Whistledown’s Society Papers to print. She had scuttled guiltily through the streets that night, still wearing her party dress under her cloak, with terror and exhilaration battling in her chest to speed her heartbeat and cut off her breath. Now, she walked as tall and with as much intention as she could. This body language was not comfortable for her, but it had prevented altercations on more than one occasion, as shadowy figures had chosen not to confront her as she swept by them.

Notably, she was not alone tonight. Colin’s height and the confident set of his shoulders and posture made him eminently visible, but drew no conflict toward them. Penelope rather enjoyed having a partner with her, even if the reason he was with her in this of all activities was a mystery she required more time to unravel. Ordinarily she would be on Colin’s arm, but under the cover of the pre-dawn light and the lack of any outward signs of their status, Penelope had threaded her fingers through Colin’s. He had gently squeezed her hand when she had done so, and then held her firmly as she led the way. The warmth of his hand enveloping hers seemed to spread up her arm and into her chest.

“Do you know that you picked up the queen’s walk?” asked Colin.

“Colin Bridgerton!” snapped Penelope, stopping dead in her tracks and turning to face him. “What a thing to say.”

“Well you certainly don’t look like a maid—they scuttle and hope more than succeed in being invisible. And you have an air of self-possession that few women of any stripe possess. You don’t do this walk often, but every once in a while…” his voice faded away as his eyes darkened and his free hand slid around her waist, asking her to slide closer to him. She obliged, enjoying feeling utterly dwarfed by his height and safely enclosed in his arms.

Untwining his fingers from hers, Colin’s hand trailed slowly up Penelope’s arm and over her shoulder to cup her cheek as he leaned down to her, pressing a gentle kiss to the tip of her nose before meeting her lips. Without conscious thought, Penelope’s hands slid up Colin’s chest and fisted in his lapels, holding tight.

When they broke the kiss, both were breathing hard. Colin’s eyes never left Penelope’s as he leaned in again, but the weight of the sheaf of paper in her bag brought Penelope back to her task.

“We’re nearly there,” she half whispered. “And this conversation is somewhat distracting.” Colin dropped his forehead to the top of her head with a sound that was half chuckle and half sigh.

“You are quite right. We shall do this, and then we shall return home, and there, Mrs. Bridgerton, we shall resume this conversation.” The low rumble of his voice made Penelope blush from head to toe, and Colin’s grin when he saw the effect he had had on her was positively piratical. Penelope giggled, grabbed his hand, and started them walking again.

The final street they had to traverse to get to the print shop was narrow, twisty, and therefore longer than Penelope anticipated. Both to assuage her burning curiosity and distract herself from her increasingly tired feet, she asked the question that she ought to have asked before they left their rooms.

“Why are you helping me publish a new Whistledown? You seemed so opposed to the idea at the party, and you know as well as I do that this will anger the queen.” She didn’t meet his eyes as she asked the question. Penelope trusted Colin with her very life, and she did not expect him to toss a broom handle into the spokes of their carriage wheels at this point, but she could not puzzle out his motivation.

“You spent an entire year wilting, Pen.” Colin’s eyes were distant as he pulled her under his arm.

“I hardly think working with the queen and Lady Danbury can be described as wilting,” she protested.

“I don’t mean like a debutante pouting. I mean like a rose lacking sunlight. You didn’t have what you needed to be you, Pen. You were willing to die for Whistledown, and then you stopped writing and…” his arm tightened around her, and he looked down at her hesitantly. It reminded her of the hit his confidence had taken after Marina had lied to him. “Do not be angry at my next words, Pen.”

“I do believe that as long as you refrain from announcing to the world that you would never court me, then I am predisposed to take your words generously.” She smiled up at him, playful rather than reproachful.

“What a comfort. Do you know what most of the other gentlemen failed to see about you when you were a debutante? You were quiet, you stayed on the periphery, and that’s all they saw. What they missed was that you never carried yourself as though you truly believed you were less than the Cressida Cowpers or even the Edwina Sharmas. Your confidence was quieter, it was meant to be missed, but it was there, Pen. And I had the great privilege of you showing it to me when it was just us. The entire ton saw it the night that utter bastard—” his voice cut off suddenly, and he unconsciously held her even closer, clasping her to him with both arms as he walked and snaking one hand across her abdomen to cup the place where she still carried scar tissue.

“Colin, do you know you have literally swept me off my feet?”

He stopped walking and looked down—although not as far as he expected to—at Penelope. He had lifted her against his side, and she was smiling crookedly at him as her feet dangled a good six inches above the cobblestones. “Do you want me to put you down?”

“Not particularly, but I suspect it might be the practical thing in this situation.”

“I suspect, Mrs. Bridgerton, that you are quite correct.” But rather than immediately lower Penelope, Colin gently lifted her higher and kissed her thoroughly. Breaking the kiss, he caught and held her eyes. “There you are. You spent a year carrying yourself as though you believed you were less, Pen. If making sure you know your own value means standing with you when you are Lady Whistledown, then I will be there. I will always stand with you.”

Penelope’s heart expanded to fill her chest as tears slid from her eyes. She did not understand what she had done to earn the gift of unconditional love and support, but it was something she never stopped being grateful for. It just still struck her as overwhelming when Colin surprised her with it. The sudden consternation in Colin’s face as he gently thumbed away her tears elicited a rather incongruous giggle from her.

“Pen?”

“I love you, Colin.”

“And I you, Pen.” Seeming to decide that she wasn’t going to dissolve into an emotional puddle, Colin let her slide gently back to the ground. “Shall we?”

“Yes,” she said. “Let’s publish Lady Whistledown’s first book.” The sun was properly breaking over the horizon as Colin held open the publisher’s print shop door open for Penelope, and she—again walking like Queen Charlotte—swept inside.

[forjustice]

[Johto Moon Festival '24] YOU CANNOT ESCAPE

"And the winner of the 2024 International Coordinating Festival is....Wallace Kassai!"

Wallace strides forward from the contestants' seats at the front of the auditorium, stepping up onto the stage and doing a flip of his hair as celebratory techno music blasts from the speakers and the crowd leaps to their feet with a standing ovation. The Festival hasn't happened yet--this is all a dream, which a highly trained Archchosen such as himself would be able to realize--but he's expecting to win this year so much that it's not as though he has the humility to become aware. He grins and waves to the sea of anonymous faces cloaked in the darkness, then reaches his hand forward to shake the award presenter's hand before receiving his trophy. But instead of taking his hand with a congratulatory smile, the announcer hesitates.

"Excuse me, sir," she says into the mic, "but I believe you're the wrong Wallace."

The crowd and the fanfare music immediately quiet as Wallace stares blankly at her.

"Pardon?" He raises an eyebrow.

"You're the wrong Wallace," she says, louder and more confidently than before.

"Excuse me, madam--" he can't keep the tension out of his voice--"but there is only one Wallace."

"I don't see why there should be." She speaks as though such a clueless and ill-informed statement were common sense.

"Well, who is this imposter of mine?" he huffs, crossing his arms. "Surely there must be some sort of a mistake by the judges, for a mere copy's mimicry of my art could only ever be inadequate. He won't have my charisma. He won't have my panache. And most importantly of all, he could never have the Wallace Touch. It's as I've said many times before. You can't outdo the doer. You can't outshine the shiner, you know--"

No sooner do the words leave his mouth than he sees a blurry dark-skinned figure emerge from the backstage entrance on the other side of the stage. He can't see the details of the imposter's face, but he can see they're his same height, they're in the same clothes, they've dyed their hair the same way--every inch a shadow of him, and he's expected to believe that this mere shadow managed to outshine his glorious light? The announcer holding the trophy turns toward the newcomer with the smile and the prize that should have been for him, beckoning them to quicken their pace. And then, as they draw closer, he sees the detail on their face--and it's at that point that the dream completes its slide down into a nightmare.

Oh no.

It's Handsome.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!"

He screams, but no one hears him. His shrieks are drowned out in the ecstatic roar of the crowd--even louder than the cheers had been for him--and the celebration techno music in the background roaring to life as well. The announcer's face transforms into a Handsome one as she shakes Handsome Ditto's hand and places the trophy in their arms; they blow Wallace's famously elegant kisses from their Handsome Squidward face as they lift the trophy in one hand and waive daintily like a royal with the other. Then the accursed Pokémon cranes their head toward him--and winks.

He screams even more loudly than before, but still he goes unheard. He looks desperately to the crowd--but their faces have all become Handsome as well, and his screams become so loud that if he were in the real world, he would have become both hoarse and deaf. The noise closes in on him from all sides, and In the almighty din, he can't tell where his terror and the crowd's jubilation begins and ends....

"Wallace. Wallace, are you okay?"

He awakes to a bright afternoon light in his eyes, his back a little sore from falling asleep at the roots of a great tree. He recognizes the voice of his husband, Steven Stone, and feels the presence of his QPP, Zinnia. He gathers that both are standing over him, perhaps having felt his distress from wherever they were at in the Moon Festival and going over to see if he was okay.

He has not, however, seen their faces.

"I am now," he says, trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes. "I just had a bad dream."

"Oh, that sounds awful," Steven says, as Zinnia offers him a hand up.

"It was," he groans, taking his partner's hand--and she gives him the nastiest little chuckle before she speaks.

"It sure would be a shame...if your dream got even worse."

He finally looks up at his partners.

THEY HAVE HANDSOME FACES TOO.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO--!"

"Wallace! Wallace! Are you okay?!"

Steven cries out as he and Zinnia run toward Wallace, the "NOOOOOOOOOOOO" from his dream erupting into a Kyogre-like screech that echoes all across the Festival as the poor Archchosen jolts awake. As Wallace's partners approach, he backs himself up against the tree trunk he had fallen asleep against, his eyes wide with panic in the afternoon light. Between the dream that caused homesickness he had the other night and this one, he sure was having a lot of nightmares here in Johto. (Well, two isn't a lot, but it's two too many.)

"Please, no," he sputters. "Please tell me you're not--"

"Not what?" Zinnia looks quite concerned as she offers him her hand.

"Oh--I'm so sorry. I had the most awful dream," he says, heaving a sigh of relief as he notices that these are his real partners, neither of whom have Handsome Squidward faces. Ever aware of others' perceptions of him though, he hasn't failed to notice the small crowd that has gathered around his unmistakable Legendary scream. Great. He knows the press is going to be so, so unbearable about this already.

"What happened, man? Did we try to kill you in it or something?" Zinnia says, helping Wallace to his feet at which point he dusts himself off from the ground.

"Something like that," he sighs, for the truth is far too embarrassing for him to admit. Steven squints--he knows his husband isn't telling the truth--but being supremely discreet due to his upbringing, he doesn't want to pry.

"Oh, please, I know that's not it," Zinnia says, shaking her head. "Do you think I don't know you well enough not to know when you're lying to me?"

"I don't want to talk about it," he grumbles.

"Aw...You know I'm always a no-judgment zone--"

"I said, I don't want to talk about it." A low Kyogre-like growl creeps into his voice; gods know Zinnia wasn't always a no-judgment zone, even though she'd gotten better about it. The irritation goes away almost immediately, though, and he feels bad for having snapped.

"My apologies--I didn't mean to be so short with you," he says. "Shall we get ourselves some refreshments?"

As the three head off to find a booth containing some sort of sweet treat--hopefully some ice cream mochi or milk tea to cool off in the warm summer weather--Asteria's Handsome Ditto, in the form of Wallace, stands behind another nearby tree and smirks.

It knows.

It knows.

(Wallace's therapist: Handsome Ditto can't hurt you. Handsome Ditto: >:3333333)

[stargazer-sims]

Fox + Delusion + Shame + Moon

Here's another one @dandylion240. This one is connected to a previous one, which was suggested by @cawthorntales

__________

Fox steps onto the balcony and gazes up at the moon. The air is warm for an October night, but still cool enough to make him glad that he thought to pull on a hoodie before coming outside.

The balcony is one of his favourite features of the house. A set of French doors leads directly onto it from his and Takahiro's bedroom, making it easy for them to slip out after all the kids are in bed. Fox likes to think of it as their private sanctuary. They've spent many evenings out here together, sometimes discussing weighty things, sometimes chatting about something inconsequential, and sometimes just sitting in companionable silence and gazing at the lazily-flowing creek under the pale silvery glow of moonlight.

Fox is acutely aware of his husband's absence tonight. Takahiro's chair is conspicuously empty, the blanket he'd brought out here a few days ago folded neatly on the seat. Fox reminds himself he’ll have to bring the blanket inside when he’s ready to go to bed. It’s Taka’s favourite. He wouldn’t want it to be ruined in the event of rain.

Fox wishes Takahiro were here. He's not sure if they'd talk, even though there's a lot he could say. Mostly, he wants the comfort Taka's presence would give him.

Takahiro is at the hospital, staying with their older set of twins, Camellia and Forest. Fox had been there with them all day while Taka took care of their other kids, and after dinner they'd switched roles. Forest in particular hadn't wanted Fox to leave, and walking out of their hospital room had been hard, but he was more sad than worried. He knew they'd be okay for the night, even if they missed him.

The person Fox is most worried about is actually Takahiro. He's already struggling to grasp the reality that Forest and Camellia both have type 1 diabetes, and they haven't even been released from the hospital yet. The diagnosis is only the beginning of their journey, and he doesn't know how Taka is going to cope with what comes next.

As for Fox himself, he can't say he's really surprised at the diagnosis. As much as he wishes none of this were real, in the back of his mind, he'd half expected it to happen to at least one of his kids sooner or later. He's taking it way more calmly than he ever imagined he would, and perhaps that concerns him more than the fact of his children's illness.

Shouldn't I be scared? he asks himself. Shouldn't I be more anxious about all the changes we'll need to make? About regular medical checkups and blood glucose tests and giving my kids shots two or three times a day?

He has scattered recollections of the early days of his own diagnosis. He'd been six years old when he and his family found out about his diabetes, not much older than Forest and Camellia are now. They'll turn six in January.

Fox's most vivid early memory of the experience of his illness is of being in the hospital and learning how injections worked, and of his father crying while sticking a needle into his thigh. He remembers Dad's face getting so red that he could barely see his freckles any more, and how tight the muscles in his jaw and neck looked. Dad had managed to give Fox the shot, but he ran out of the room immediately afterwards, and hadn't quite gotten into the hallway before totally breaking down.

Fox hadn't understood the sound of an adult sobbing, and it'd scared him. He'd wailed in fear and screamed for his father to come back, and nothing the nurse did or said could calm him. He didn't stop crying until his father returned. Dad might've been gone for two minutes, but to Fox's terrified six-year-old brain, it'd seemed like an eternity.

When Dad came back, he and Fox clung to each other for a long time. Fox kept saying he was sorry, although he didn't quite know why he felt he had to say it. All he knew is that Dad had cried because of him, and he felt really bad about it and wanted to fix things somehow.

Now that he's a parent himself, Fox understands what really happened that day. He knows it wasn't his fault and that he personally hadn't made his father cry. He comprehends why giving him a shot was so upsetting for Dad, but he also has the perspective of understanding what Dad's reaction had done to him.

For the longest time, the shame of that moment did not go away. Fox's young mind hadn't been able to process the situation nor the emotions that went along with it, and for years after that, he would feel guilty and scared every time Dad was even the slightest bit upset. As a consequence, he'd tried his hardest to do everything Dad wanted him to, afraid to disobey or to do anything at all that might cause a metaphorical ripple in the otherwise calm water of their lives.

The shame wasn't limited to his relationship with his father, either. As a young child, he developed the idea that his diabetes itself was something to be ashamed of. He'd reached the conclusion that it was a source of discomfort and distress for others, and that if he revealed to anyone that he carried this terrible disease, he'd be responsible for whatever negative feelings they might have about it. Then, they wouldn't want to be his friends or even be around him.

It makes him sad that he'd laboured under that delusion for so many years, and even more so to realize that his parents never once tried to address it. He used to be angry about that, but since having kids of his own, he’s learned to let his anger go because he sees how deeply the things that affect him also affect them.

He thinks it's possible that his parents hadn’t helped him work through his emotional and psychological challenges because they’d let themselves fall into a delusion of their own; one in which they convinced themselves their family’s problems would not exist if they ignored them. And the companion to that misguided belief seemed to have been the equally damaging notion that if they shielded Fox from absolutely everything, he'd never be hurt by anything again.

But, they'd been wrong, and he thinks they probably still don't know how catastrophically wrong they'd been.

Fox resolves that he won't repeat his parents' mistake. He wants to be honest with his children and open with his husband. Yes, the next few weeks and months are going to be difficult, and he doesn't doubt that both he and Taka will cry, possibly even in front of their kids, but Fox is determined that he won't allow the truth of any of their experiences to to be hidden.

He wants his kids to know that there's nothing shameful about their illness, and that it won't stop them from doing whatever they want to do with their lives. They can still play and have fun, go to school, make friends, have careers and fall in love. The whole world is open to them, and he needs them to know that as much as he loves them and wants to keep them safe, he'll never try to hold them back.

If a day comes when he can't keep his tears at bay, he'll make sure his children understand it's in no way their fault. He'll tell them he loves them, and that it's okay for anyone — kids or grownups — to cry if something makes them feel scared or sad. He’ll tell them they shouldn’t be worried about saying how they feel, nor to be ashamed about asking for help.

And he'll let Takahiro know that anything he's feeling is valid too. He wants Taka to be comfortable sharing whatever he needs to, so they can find solutions together. It may not always be easy for Taka to share, but the offer will always be there. Fox's heart and mind and arms will always be open to comfort and reassure him.

We can do this, he tells himself. We’ve survived all of our worst days so far, and we’re strong enough to get through this too.

[usernoneexistent]

Summer 1895: Colin is working at his grandfather's pub and he quickly realises that he might need to step up sooner rather than later.

Character featured: Mortimer Fraser @lifeofkaze.

Warnings: mentions of illness, child working at a pub.

The chatter of the customers filled the lively atmosphere of the pub at the edge of the cliff. Unfortunately, for legal reasons, Colin's grandfather Rabbie and his friend, Craig Doughlas, had to build it technically off the land. However, today it was all hands on deck, especially since his grandfather's partner was off ill with dragon pox. This summer, Rabbie decided it was time for Colin to learn how to man the bar. Previous summers had been filled with mopping the floor and carrying many crates. It was to toughen Colin up; at least, it was what his grandfather said though Colin had many doubts about it.

The door opened, and a man unabashedly wearing a bright suit entered. He carried himself with flamboyance. Mortimer Fraser was one of a kind, like everyone else at the pub.

"Alright Mortimer," the elderly man doffed his cap at the colourful younger man.

"Alright, Rabbie," Mortimer Fraser greeted back with the same respect. He nicked his head at the young lad. "Alright, Colin, hope your grandfather is not making you work too hard?"

Colin just nodded but carried on his job of cleaning the beer glasses. The boy hid his face, and he found it overwhelming, constantly being stared at while wishing for the ground to pull him down and hide forever.

His grandfather and Mortimer bantered about who was more proud of their grandson or niece. Usually, the conversation concludes with a business deal. The Frasers' whiskey has become a stapler at the Naughty Cliffs. Colin had once had a sip but found himself choking on the spiciness of the firewhiskey while the regulars laughed. Colin had never felt such humiliation in his life.

"Oi Colin!"

Colin turned around to see it was John Campbell. A regular and perhaps his grandfather's most loyal customer. He always sat at the bar to the corner to the left. His face was mauled, a scar covered the right side from a werewolf claw, and his nose stood crooked from being punched too many times. John scared Colin when he was a wee boy, but he realised quickly that he had a big soft heart. After a time, John slowly started to fill the shoes of a father figure. While neither ever expected it, it was embraced by both parties.

"Geez another round would you?"

"The usual?" Colin already knew John wanted his usual brand of scotch.

"Be kind tae the lad," his mother jokingly whacked John's arm. She was carrying the drinks and food from customer to customer. "You had enough tae drink."

"Come on, Dottie." He rolled his pale eyes playfully. "Another won't harm me or you. I'm bringing money tae, yer family."

It wasn't a lie, though. John had been more than generous to the Mosses despite barely affording anything for himself.

"How was work at the leaky cauldron?" His mother asked in a low voice. John always had difficulty maintaining jobs; his current job was as a dishwasher at the Leaky Cauldron in Diagon Alley.

John sighed, looking wearier than ever. "Had tae leave and almost got outed by a colleague."

His mother looked concerned. Colin handed over the scotch to John though he was never sure what John's relationship was with his mother. He had enquired about it once when he mustered enough courage, but his mother said they were just friends.

"Don't worry, Dottie. I managed tae find work at a broom factory." He assured her. A loud bang echoed through the pub while glass clattered.

"Colin!"

"Yes, Grandpa?"

Colin rushed over to the entrance, his grandfather hunched over spluttering. Mortimer had brought more supplies and offered to help, but knowing his grandpa, his pride wouldn't let him. In the past, his grandfather would have used his wand; however, shamefully, Colin returned it broken. His grandfather lent his wand when Copin started his education at Hogwarts. He felt so proud and terrified to use the magnificent though tired wand. Unfortunately, some older boys grabbed him and snapped the pear wood wand.

Colin almost cried, handing over the broken pieces to his grandfather. Though the unicorn hairstring barely held it together, his grandfather comforted and assured him they could quickly fix it with a bandage. They managed to gather enough money for Colin to get a brand new wand though he still felt shame over the incident.

His grandpa was hunched over with a crate of firewhiskey, letting out a series of heavy coughs.

"Are you alright, Grandpa?" Colin tried to help his hunched grandpa and spluttered out a series of coughs.

"I'm good, Colin."

"You don't sound so good."

"The lad is right," Mortimer rushed over as he witnessed the commotion. "Do you want to go to St Mungo to get it checked out."

"No, no. I'm good." He refuted the offer.

"Are you sure?" Mortimer pressed on.

"Mr Fraser is right, Grandpa. Me and Ma can man the place. You taught me so." Colin pleaded; it's not like a trip to St Mungo would cost them anything except his grandpa's pride.

"I'll be fine." He swatted away the gathering crowd. Mortimer looked at Colin with still concern, but Colin shyly shrugged back.

"At least let me carry this," his grandfather was preparing to refuse. Still, Colin decided to assert himself and lifted the crate to the backroom. Mortimer left their establishment though he did ask one last time if Rabbie was sure he was feeling well. Though he did agree to allow Colin, to do more at the bar. He did feel a little more confident about tending the bar. However, he couldn't help but worry about his grandfather's health, especially when he was away at Hogwarts the next month.