#she’d just be like *gestures vaguely at that mess he made*

[kissingwookiees]

solas in trespasser: *starts calling rava inquisitor but not in a respect for her position kind of way more like trying to distance himself from the inquisition and her kind of way*

rava: my gods do i want to palm strike your giant ass forehead right now

[longbottomlove]

first time || n.l.

warnings: smut!

neville and y/n had been dating for about a year at that point, nothing crazy. they’d shared little kisses and hugs, maybe a tiny make out sesh a couple times. the little bit of tongue, heavy breathing kind that every guy dreamed about having with his crush.

but she wasn’t his crush. she was his girlfriend. he loved her. and she loved him. it was simple like that. they’d never tried anything further than kissing because they didn’t need to.

neville tried to be the respectful gentleman y/n deserved, but a nagging problem was starting to arise.

every time they kissed for longer than three seconds, shared a close hug(the kind that had her boobs pressed against his chest), or even if y/n cracked a dirty joke to pull a laugh out from their friends, he had a boner. it was hard to hide and hard to make it go away. neville was a virgin and had no clue what to do.

and then there were the dreams. dreams about his girlfriend. dreams where she was kissing him, touching him, speaking to him in a hushed whisper, neville we have to be quiet. neville we’re gonna be caught. neville do you want me? neville wake up.

and wake up he would. every morning. sometimes he’d wake up to a tent in his pants. other times it would be a sticky mess he had to clean before starting the day.

worst of all was the guilt. godric, the guilt. thinking all of these foul things about someone who had no part in causing it felt criminal. it made him feel gross and pervy. he knew he had to tell you.

———————-

“uh.. y/n?” he forced out. “i..uh. i have to tell you something,”

this was it. the moment she would dump him. poor little neville who had finally gotten a girlfriend was going to be dumped. his heart was racing, palms clammy and shiny with sweat.

y/n followed him into his dorm, taking a seat on the bed like he gestured her to do. she was confused. so confused. was he gonna dump her, did he cheat?

“so what was it you wanted to tell me?” y/n asked, eyes glued to her feet.

“well,” neville started. “i’ve, i’ve been having these thoughts. and they’re gross and about you. and i dunno, i just had to tell you because ikeephavingdirtydreamsaboutyouandimsorry,”

“what?”

neville looked at the girl in confusion. like she couldn’t have possibly not heard him and he didn’t wanna say it again.

“i keep having dirty dreams about you. and im sorry,” he repeated.

a sharp silence overtook the room. she hated him now. she had to. he had confessed his disgusting thoughts to her. he was done for. would she tell a Professor? Snape or McGonagall maybe? would he be expelled for repulsive behavior? or would he just be laughed at by all her friends?

a painful minute of silence rushed through the room, ended only by a sharp cry of laughter. she was laughing! neville didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing but he soon joined in and began chuckling himself.

“oh my god,” y/n started. “i can’t breathe! i cant, i cant,”

after a good four or five minutes y/n finally looked up from her laughing position and looked at her boyfriend. “that’s normal, nev,” she said.

“what?” neville squeezed out.

“to have dreams like that, it’s normal. i’d be concerned if you didn’t have those dreams,”

neville was very confused to say the least. his thoughts were gross… and here she was saying it’s okay.

“and like,” neville started, “every time we like, kiss and stuff, i get a- erm..”

“a what, love?”

neville vaguely gestured to his crotch, hoping she’d get what he meant.

“ohhhhhh. yeah… that’s normal too i think,”she said. neville was relieved to say the least.

it was nearing dinner time, and y/n had promised to sit with hermione and ginny during the meal. she pecked neville on the cheek and started towards the door. she was almost out when she heard a soft voice call out to her.

“y/n?”

“yeah, baby?”

“could you… maybe stay?”

[theonottsbxtch]

MADE IT OUT ALIVE | FC43

an: okay so this is so late but this is the thing i asked if you guys wanted to read which is a blow by blow of my situationship but make it franco colapinto lol. had it actually been him ong it would hve lasted longer i swear.

wc: 2.4k

SHE FIRST MET HIM in the humid chaos of Singapore. The paddock buzzed under the relentless sun, and the air was thick with the sounds of engines screaming and the staccato click of cameras. It was just another race, just another weekend. She was there with her usual kit—a clipboard tucked under one arm, a microphone in hand, and that practiced, effortless smile plastered on her face.

But then he walked up.

Franco was late, sauntering into the media pen like he owned the world. A half-zipped race suit hung loose around his waist, his hair a mess of sweat and confidence. The kind of man who seemed to know exactly how magnetic he was.

When she spoke to him, it wasn’t just her voice that carried the questions. It was the way she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the way she leaned forward just a little too far. She hated herself for it, but it was instinctive—like gravity. And when he answered, smirking at her with eyes that lingered a second too long, she knew she was already in trouble.

For a month after, she said nothing. She told herself it was better that way. Just another fleeting crush; it would fade. But the silence was deafening, and one night, sitting alone in her hotel room with the glow of her laptop casting shadows on the walls, she finally sent the text.

Nothing complicated, nothing vulnerable. Just a joke about his race start and a winking emoji.

It took him eight minutes to reply. Eight minutes that stretched into eternity, her phone burning a hole in her hand. When the screen lit up, her heart raced. And so, it began.

The first texts were harmless. Banter about his pit stops, teasing remarks about his qualifying performance. It didn’t mean anything. Not then. But soon, her phone became a lifeline, each ping a jolt of adrenaline. He wasn’t always quick to respond, but when he did, his charm oozed through every word. And when he called her “trouble” for a particularly sharp comment, she swore she felt her stomach flip.

But Franco didn’t text first. Not once.

It was her who built the bridge. Her who asked how he was doing after a rough weekend, her who sent a meme about the top three at 1 a.m., her who tried to hold on when he drifted too far. And when he answered, when his words carried the flirtatious edge she’d started to crave, it felt like winning. A small victory in a war only she knew she was fighting.

It took weeks of careful persistence before he started calling her a friend. He even said it once, casually, in passing: “You’re fun. I like hanging out with you. You’re a good friend.” She had smiled so hard her cheeks hurt, ignoring the way her chest ached at the word “friend.”

The next time Franco offered to drive her back to her hotel, she tried not to read into it. The streets of Monaco were deserted, the night wrapped in a blanket of stars. He turned the music low, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming a beat on his thigh. She stole glances at him when she thought he wouldn’t notice.

At the hotel, she reached for the door handle, but his voice stopped her.

“You ever wonder how you ended up here? Like, in all of this?” He gestured vaguely toward the brightly lit paddock in the distance, his expression softer than usual.

“All the time,” she replied, her words quiet, like a confession. “And you?”

He just shrugged. “Sometimes.”

The silence stretched thin between them, his gaze fixed on the steering wheel. She thought he might say more, but he didn’t. He never did.

The nights like that came sporadically, each one a thread that bound her closer to him, though he didn’t seem to notice. She would stay awake until 3 a.m., talking to him about everything and nothing, feeling like she’d finally cracked through his armour. But then morning came, and he would pull back, as if they were strangers again.

It broke her in ways she couldn’t describe, the whiplash of his attention. One day, he’d invite her to meet his parents—his parents, for God’s sake—and charm them so completely she’d feel like she belonged in his world. The next day, he’d brush past her in the paddock without a glance, as if she were invisible.

She called him out once, in the heat of an argument after a particularly long day. “Why do you do this?” she demanded, her voice sharper than she intended. “Why do you act like you care, and then…then act like I don’t exist?”

Franco looked at her, genuinely confused, like she was speaking a language he didn’t understand. “I don’t know what I did wrong,” he said, his tone maddeningly casual.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? He didn’t know.

Now, sitting in her apartment far from the glamour of the paddock, she looked at her phone. His name still sat at the top of her blocked contacts list. She had stopped unblocking him just to read old messages. She had stopped pretending his words still had the power to hurt her.

She scrolled through her gallery, past blurry selfies with drivers and candid shots of pit lane chaos. Then she saw it—a photo of him. Taken on some idle afternoon in Abu Dhabi, sunlight catching the curve of his smirk. Once, she would have stared at it for hours, dissecting every detail.

Now, it was just a picture.

The flirty texts that used to make her heart race were nothing more than hollow echoes. She had given him everything—her time, her patience, her heart—and he had taken it all without a second thought. But she wasn’t angry anymore. She wasn’t sad. She was free.

For the first time in years, she closed her eyes and didn’t see him.

Freedom wasn’t the grand epiphany she thought it would be though. It didn’t come with fireworks or triumphant music. It crept in slowly, like the way morning light slips through the cracks of blackout curtains—soft and almost unnoticed at first. But once it was there, she couldn’t unsee it.

The texts stopped hurting long before she blocked him. She realised, one day, as she was reading through an old conversation for the hundredth time, that his words didn’t have the same weight anymore. The “miss you” he had sent after a particularly bad fight felt hollow, like an echo of a voice she used to love. The nicknames that once made her cheeks flush now sounded mechanical, calculated. She read them as if they were addressed to someone else entirely.

And maybe they always were.

She thought of the girl she’d been two years ago, standing in the Singapore paddock, heart racing just from the sound of his voice. That girl wouldn’t recognise her now. The woman she had become was sharper, tougher, less willing to bend herself into unrecognisable shapes just to fit into someone else’s life. She wasn’t bitter—bitterness was too much like holding on. She was just…done.

The next time she saw him, it was on her television, a post-race interview in Austin. He was standing next to another interviewer, flashing that same practiced smile he’d once aimed at her. She noticed the way his hand brushed against the microphone, the way he leaned in just slightly, like he was sharing a secret only they were worthy of hearing.

She laughed, quietly to herself. She had memorised every one of his tricks, his arsenal of charm, his arsenal of lies. The thought used to hurt. Now, it just felt like watching an actor on a stage, performing a role he’d rehearsed a thousand times.

The interviewer asked him a question about the race—a tough one, about a strategic error that had cost him a podium. His smile faltered for a second, and she caught the flicker of irritation in his eyes. He recovered quickly, answering with a mix of deflection and humour. But she saw it. She knew him well enough to spot the cracks in his armour.

Once, she would have texted him after something like this. She would have reached out, offered some ridiculous joke to make him laugh. Once, she would have stayed up until dawn listening to him vent about how the team screwed him over.

Now, she just changed the channel.

Months passed, and Formula One kept moving. New races, new faces. She kept moving, too. She started saying yes to invitations she used to decline, let her friends pull her into adventures that didn’t end with her glued to her phone, waiting for a reply that might never come.

At a café in Paris, during a rare off-weekend, she caught herself laughing—really laughing, the kind that left her cheeks sore and her chest light. Her friend across the table raised an eyebrow.

“What?” she asked, still grinning.

“You just seem…different,” they said, stirring their coffee. “Like you’re finally letting yourself breathe.”

She thought about that for a moment, about the weight she hadn’t realised she’d been carrying until it was gone. “Yeah,” she said, her smile softening. “I think I am.”

The season wrapped in Abu Dhabi, as it always did, the desert sun blazing down on the circuit. She stood in the paddock, microphone in hand, interviewing a rookie who had just secured his first career points. The excitement in his voice was infectious, his grin wide enough to split the sky.

She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned to find Franco standing there. The flirt. He looked the same—effortlessly handsome, his hair slightly tousled, his race suit tied around his waist. But something was different.

Or maybe it was just her.

“Hey,” he said, his voice as smooth as ever. “Long time, no see.”

“Yeah,” she said, her tone polite but detached. “It’s been a while.”

He hesitated, as if expecting her to fill the silence with something else. When she didn’t, he gestured to her microphone. “Still asking the tough questions?”

“Always,” she replied, flashing him the same professional smile she gave every driver.

For a moment, he just looked at her, like he was trying to read something in her expression. But whatever he was searching for, he didn’t find it.

“Well, I’ll see you around,” he said, offering her that same practiced smirk.

She watched him walk away, his swagger as unshakable as ever. But for the first time, it didn’t make her heart skip a beat. It didn’t make her feel anything at all.

That night, as she packed up her things and prepared for the long flight home, she caught herself humming a tune. The melody was bright, unburdened. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this light.

She wasn’t thinking about him anymore. And that was the best gift she could have given herself.

She swung her bag over her shoulder, the wheels of her suitcase clattering softly as she pulled it down the quiet hallway of the hotel. The race weekend was over, the desert sun outside already setting, casting long shadows through the thin gaps in the curtains. Her flight was in a few hours, and she was looking forward to the silence of the plane—a reprieve from the buzz of engines and voices that had filled her days for months.

As she turned the corner, she heard it. Muffled at first, but unmistakable: raised voices behind one of the doors.

She paused, her steps faltering despite herself. She wasn’t the type to linger, wasn’t the type to pry. But something about the tone—sharp, exasperated, and yet heartbreakingly familiar—made her stop.

It was Franco’s voice.

Even muffled, she could recognise the rhythm of his words. And then she heard hers, the other voice. The journalist from the interview, the one who had been laughing with him so effortlessly, so naturally, in the paddock earlier that day.

She didn’t mean to listen, but the words cut through the barrier of the door like they were meant for her to hear.

“I’m not ready for something serious,” he was saying, his voice tinged with frustration.

“Then why do you act like you are?” the journalist shot back, her voice trembling. “Why do you text me every night? Why do you call me at 2 a.m. and tell me things you won’t tell anyone else? Why do you—why do you make me feel like there’s something here?”

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, she was there again—standing in front of him in the parking lot of a Belgian hotel, her heart in her throat, her voice cracking as she asked the same questions.

“Why do you stay up till 3 a.m. with me?” she had said, her words sharp with frustration and hurt. “Why do you only reply to my messages after a bad race? Why do you treat me like everything I want, but never follow through?”

His answer had been maddeningly simple. “I don’t know.”

Listening now, she realised it wasn’t a unique script. He hadn’t given her anything special, anything real. It was the same dance, the same empty promises, the same threadbare excuses. The realisation hit her like a punch to the gut—not because she missed him, but because she had once thought she could fix him. She had believed she was different.

And now, another woman was standing where she had been. Another woman was asking the same questions and feeling the same ache.

She didn’t linger. She started walking again, her pace quicker now, as if trying to outrun the flood of memories. But as she stepped into the elevator and the doors slid shut, she felt a pang of something she hadn’t expected: pity.

Not for herself. For the journalist. For every person who would stand in that hallway, in that argument, hoping for answers he would never be able to give.

By the time she reached the lobby, the pity had faded into something lighter. Acceptance, maybe. Relief. She wasn’t the one standing there anymore. She wasn’t trapped in that endless loop of hope and heartbreak.

For the first time, she realised how far she had come. How much lighter her chest felt now that she wasn’t carrying the weight of him.

the end.

[angelsleepinggurl]

“𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙠 𝙖 𝙡𝙤𝙩 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙢𝙮 𝙜𝙞𝙧𝙡𝙛𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙.”

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. Your drunk boyfriend fails to realise that you’re the angel taking care of him.

wc. around 892

tags. aki hayakawa x reader. drunkaki x reader. aki hayakawa reader fluff. all characters are 18 years old.

˚₊‧꒰ა . ——— ˗ˏˋ ✮ ˎˊ˗ ——— ˖ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Stumbling through the door, the two of you barely manage through the doorway, with Aki leaning heavily on you, his weight threatening to pull you both to the floor. For a moment, it feels like you’re going to crash—your foot catches on the edge of the doormat—but you shift just in time, managing to stay upright with Aki slung against you like a ragdoll. His arm slips off your shoulder as he mumbles something incoherent, too far gone to make much sense of the world around him.

"Easy there," you mutter, more to yourself than to him. His head lolls to the side, his loose jet black hair lazily falling down his face’s sides. A content hum vibrates in his throat. He’s out of it, lost in whatever haze alcohol has wrapped him in. You crouch down, easing him against the wall, his back sliding down just slightly as you focus on pulling off his shoes. He watches you with half-lidded eyes, a slight grin on his face as if this whole thing is amusing him.

“You think this is funny yeah? Sicko.” you jokingly mutter under your breath, successfully getting his other shoes off. Makima, your boss, wanted to congratulate the team for their hard efforts. This led to suggestions for the group to out for drinks tonight, something on which you had cooled down, especially since last time’s events. But this time, the new recruit, Denji was here. Drinking and getting himself into all sorts of mischief. It all got a little too much for you when Himeno threw up in his mouth. It got a little too much for Aki when he started singing randomly and becoming really pouty and cuddly, signifying his end. So here you are, struggling to lift your boyfriend to a couch in the living room.

Aki drapes a heavy arm around you before slinking across the couch. He sprawls out like he is made of liquid. Moulding and melting to the structure of the furniture. You let out a soft sigh, standing for a moment to look at him. His hair’s a mess, his cheeks flushed pink, and he’s got this dazed look in his eyes that somehow manages to be endearing. Shaking your head, you head to the kitchen and fill a glass with water. When you return, he hasn’t moved, his arm now dangling off the side of the couch. You set the water on the table, then grab the remote and flip on the TV, settling down beside him.

The TV’s a blur of moving colors, but neither of you are really paying attention to it. Aki shifts beside you, turning his head lazily in your direction. His gaze lingers on you, as if he’s trying to place something, his brow furrowing in this adorably confused way. Your fingers sem to rub against his scalp repetitively, still holding the glass of water.

“You look a lot like my girlfriend,” he mumbles suddenly, his voice thick with sleep and alcohol.

You glance at him, trying to stifle a grin, and reply nonchalantly, “Really?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his eyes narrowing a bit as if studying you more closely. “It’s kinda freaky.”

You stifle a laugh, biting the inside of your cheek. "Do you like your girlfriend?" you ask, your voice casual, as if you’re making small talk, though there’s a slight teasing edge to it.

“I love her,” he says immediately, the words slipping from his lips with a kind of softness that makes your heart flutter. He says it like it's a fact, like it's obvious, something everyone should know. His eyes half-close again, the smallest smile tugging at his lips. “She’s so nice to me. And she’s got this… really pretty hair.” He lifts his hand clumsily, gesturing vaguely at your head. “And she has this amazing laugh. I wish she’d laugh forever.”

You can’t help it—you laugh, just a little, your breath catching in your throat at the sincerity in his voice. Aki’s eyes flicker open at the sound, and for a second, it’s like he’s awake again, aware, noticing you fully. But the moment passes as quickly as it came, and his head drops back down onto the couch cushions.

“I wish my girlfriend was here right now,” he mumbles, his voice wistful.

Something softens inside you at his words, a warmth spreading through your chest. His eyes flutter open again, bleary but warm, looking up at you as if he’s not sure what’s real.

"Silly," you whisper, smiling down at him, “I am your girlfriend.”

For a moment, there’s silence. Aki blinks up at you, his brow furrowing as if he’s processing the words. Then, slowly, a grin spreads across his face, lazy and soft, like the realization is just starting to sink in. He lets out a contented sigh, closing his eyes again as his head nestles deeper into your lap.

“I knew that,” he mutters, though there’s a playfulness in his voice that suggests otherwise.

You laugh softly, continuing to run your fingers through his hair. The room falls quiet, the sound of the TV a distant hum in the background. Aki’s breathing evens out, his body relaxing completely against you, his hand resting lightly on your leg as if even in his half-asleep state, he wants to be close to you.

“Love you too, idiot.”

[livefromthedas]

That Time Flirting Accidentally Worked

(Also up on AAO3, here)

Summary:

Rook Ingellvar, famously a dumpster fire amongst Mourn Watchers, manages to fall face-first into dating one Emmrich Volkarin.

Nice.

Notes:

I swear to God I intended to start DATV fanfic writing for my Lucanis/Rook playthrough... but this came out instead. Strike while the hyper-focus iron is hot, I guess.

I tried to write this Rook (F, Mourn Watcher) as vaguely as possible while still making sure she was reflection of the character in my head, so hopefully that works for readers.

Please note that while I'm utilizing quite a bit of canon knowledge about Navarra and Navarran culture, here, there is also a ton about the place that we just do no know, so a lot of information here is extrapolated (aka, pulled directly out of my butt.) I had fun though, at least, exploring more of the place, and creating my own little pocket of extra romance content for Emmrich and Rook as well.

And yeah, this will probably get spicy. Just a heads up.

———————————

Chapter 1: Hot Date for a Hot Mess

The needling fire of over-exertion kept a purposeful momentum in Rook’s stride the entire journey home from their latest magic-riddled battle with the Venatori in Arlathan.

That fight, deep in the autumn hewn forest - an apparent ambush - had been jarring and brutal. Had Davrin not been with them, with Assan to serve as their own surprise attack from the sky, Rook was quite certain that, for all of their combined competency, she and Emmrich Volkarin may very well have met a swift, very bloody end that day.

There had just been so many of them - Scarlet scythe’s crackling with arcane energy, and corrupted magic churning in the air like a turbulent storm. Then again, when it came to Venatori, there always seemed to be a limitless supply.

Rook breathed in deep as she strode through the Vi’revas - the eluvian unique to the Dreadwolf’s hideaway in the Fade - close on Emmrich’s heels. One moment they were in the Crossroads, wild and untethered to reality as it was. The next, they were striding into the cool, dark nethers of the Lighthouse.

“Ugh,” Davrin grumbled, reaching to pull something that looked suspiciously like viscera from his hair as he strode through the eluvian’s surface in the pair of necromancers' wakes, “I’m going to go wash up. See you two at dinner?”

Rook smirked bemusedly - of all of the blood the Gray Warden was soaked through with, Maker forbid a bit of viscera get in the handsome elf’s hair. She nearly went to nod, when Emmrich spun on his heels to face the pair of them.

“Actually,” the Professor poised, hands clasping before him as his bangles glimmered in the unnatural light of the corridor, “Would you be so kind as to let Lucanis know to be expecting two less settings at the table this evening? Rook and I will be dining in Navarra.”

Rook’s eyebrows rose curiously - this was news to her.

“Yeah, no problem,” Davrin grinned. He gestured a hand over one shoulder as he made for the door, “You kids have fun.”

Kids . The word lingered humorously in the air - Emmrich barely stifled a chuckle at it, even in the gray warden’s absence.

“A trip home is a nice surprise,” Rook mused, mischief and curiosity a glint in her eyes.

The senior necromancer, dashing as ever, offered her an arm, and she was quick to place a hand at his elbow as he guided them from the room, and up the stairs.

“Forgive me, darling, I had hoped to ask you properly once we were settled in,” Emmrich said, gloved hand resting warmly upon the slender hand she’d offered him, “Reservations at the Pnemoix are scarce at best this time of year, and I received word of an opening just prior to our departure to Arlathan.”

“Yeah, that got chaotic rather quickly,” Rook admitted, ever as tired, but relieved they were alive to tell the tale at all. For all of her raised hackles that needled up her spine over the ambush in the woods, a tickle of excitement wiggled its way into her belly, “And I’ve heard of the Pnemoix!” Her sudden excitement was palpable. Word amongst her peers back at the Necropolis had it that the Pnemoix was one of the most exclusive- and enchanting - dining experiences in all of Navarra City. It was not far from the city’s main entrance to the Grand Necropolis itself, in fact. Emmrich could scarcely stifle the humorous glimmer in his eyes as the bounce in her step hastened as they strode. He finally slipped a chuckle when her expression then screwed with uncertainty, “Aren’t they ridiculously expensive, though?”

“Hardly any concern of yours, my darling,” Emmrich laughed.

Cresting the top of the stairs that overlooked the Lighthouse’s eerie library, the Professor stopped before the long hall that led to his study. Rook watched curiously as something shifted in his demeanor - warm laughter settling into something warmer still, slender hands and their menagerie of golden rings gracing her arms with an almost reverential care.

“I had hoped, should the temptation arise,” Rook felt a wildfire blush ignite to the tips of her ears at his sudden unusually intimate word choice, before he’d so much as finished his sentence, “We may enjoy the privacy an overnight at home might afford us.”

Emmrich’s grin broadened at the blatant blush that flooded the young woman’s typically cocksure expression, a softness in his gaze despite the hint of mischief that lingered there, “You so scarcely find a moment alone in the Lighthouse, my love. You’ll forgive an old man his selfish desire for attention undivided.”

“I-I… of course,” Rook managed, despite her blush, a dizzying flutter in her chest and her tongue-tie of nerves.

“And the decision is entirely yours,” her breath caught in her throat as he pressed a kiss upon her forehead, one hand affectionately upon the back of her head, “But do consider it, darling, hmm?” He seemed absolutely tickled at Rook’s uncharacteristic shyness as she nodded, green eyes alight with racing thoughts. This was hardly a woman prone to speechlessness, after all. “I’m going to change, and request Neve look after Manfred until we return. Meet me at the Vi’Revas when you’re ready.”

Rook managed a nod before Emmrich swept off airily, stride as confident as ever.

——————-

“Okay… Oookay,” Rook finally managed to breathe again once the ancient chamber doors of her quarters sealed shut behind her. Gaze darting around the dancing light of the aquarium that dominated the far wall, she huffed a ragged sigh, palm to her forehead.

Embarrassment immediately flooded her veins.

“He finally brings it up and you… freeze? Seriously?” She groaned morosely.

At best, Rook was disappointed. It was hardly how she’d imagined reacting to such an opportunity, after all. The Rook of her imagination was unflappable in her confidence - *she* surely would have managed an air of alluring …. *Something* in response to such a proposition. A wicked flirt. A lingering kiss. A clever quip of any make or model at all.

But no. Only overwhelm. Rook had been flooded with a timidness utterly foreign to her usually fearless brogue.

Scythe-wielding Venatori, raging demons, blighted gods… Such larger than life dangers too surreal and too vast to seem anything shy of absurd? That she could handle with a finesse and fearlessness that defied logic. It was precisely why Varric had brought her into the fold in the fight against Fen’Harel to begin with.

“But actually have the fellow you’ve been pining over for the last decade make a pass at you, and your brain breaks ? Maferath’s balls.”

The sordid swear she’d picked up from Varric early in their journeys together at least managed a smile from the woman. She shoved off from the door, kicking off muddied boots and unbuckling the patina’d gloves of her Mourn Watcher gauntlets as she went.

Rook had had little choice but to be honest with the Professor once her shoot-for-the-moon flirtations had, to her own genuine surprise, actually succeeded in swaying his interest so many weeks prior.

This was all… very new to the junior Mourn Watcher. So much of her time growing up had been spent clawing desperately for a sense of self. For the sort of identity that a complete lack of kith, kin or clan denied her for the whole of recent memory. Certainly until one Varric Tethras had swaggered his way into her life and corralled her under his wing.

Something as complicated as dating just never found its foothold with her focus, amid so many years of simply trying to find herself.

She was an elf in a largely human community, a non magic user - despite her endless fascination with the craft - in a society that prized its mages above all. Both facts of which pushed many of her superiors throughout her collegiate studies to blow off and even mock her ambitions towards more magic-focused areas of study.

Rook was an academic at heart - A voracious learner and reader. But for all of her passion, she was still very much an outsider. She was the foundling discovered abandoned deep within the Necropolis - lucky to have been found alive at all - Taken in by a kind and doting pair of elderly Mortalitasi, Gunter and Eloise Ingellvar, who had even gone as far as bequeathing their inheritance to her upon the last of their dual deaths some years later.

But they had gone too soon - Rook had barely been 12 when the old woman had died - and she was once again left as a ward of the Necropolis and its Watchers, who seemed to see less value in an orphaned elf with no magical talents to speak of. Frequently outright denied access to her preferred areas of study due to their prized and limited availability (such courses should be reserved for mages who might make the most use of them after all, and the university’s donors were rife with promising young mages as heirs) she was relegated, instead, to training as a fighter. A protector. A watcher of the Watchers themselves.

Just one extra corpse between demons and the ones whose work actually matters, more like, she thought. She swung open her ornate wardrobe, eyes scanning her limited choice in clothing critically as her thoughts poured from one memory to the next.

Those days were rife with turmoil. Rook had volleyed equally between hours of grueling fight and defense training, classes in basic sciences, necromancy, anatomy, funerary preparations and the Fade, and time dedicated purely to stirring up shit in the streets of Navarra City.

Fights. Petty theft. Stirring up chaos in the market square with a prank or three - one of which had, to her own amusement and pride to that very day, saw a surprisingly large number of bees in a leading role.

Throughout her years of collegiate learning, Rook carried the rage of a clever mind stifled and of dreams dashed, and it had landed her under the threadbare patience and steely gaze of the headmaster more times than she could count. That the Mourn Watch had been tasked with her care as much as her training was likely the only reason she hadn’t been thrown out for good.

It also hadn’t hurt that Rook had proven incredibly adept at combat despite her general lack of interest in the task (outside of a good tavern fistfight, at least.) There was also the curiosity that was her study habits. Her grades in basic courses were passable at best from sheer lack of interest, yet when time and little pockets of determination allowed, she could be found holed up in the Necropolis’s expansive library for hours, even days on end, pouring over every tomb her low-level clearance would allow, creating many tombs further of dense, meticulously detailed notes.

She was at least trying, in her own way, her superiors knew. And where their interest in her full potential failed her, her own thirst for learning minded the gap. Even if she was denied the chance to pursue her major of choice… lectures in the Grand Necropolis’s halls of learning were as free and frequent as the availability and seating of its various expansive lecture halls would allow.

Those educational sermons were hardly for the faint of heart or feeble of mind. They required many dedicated hours, copious notes, and a level of existing understanding of necromancy, the occult and Navarran history as a whole that *should* have been enough to bar a student of Rook’s study tract access by sheer lack of access to advanced classes alone.

But Rook had done the work. Had soaked up every scrap and parcel of knowledge she could, entirely on her own. And in each and every lecture, perched dutifully in the shadows at the back of the room, she soared.

Which was precisely where the good Professor had graced her peripherals, time and time again.

Even nearly a decade prior, Professor Emmrich Volkarin was something of a legend on campus. Prodigiously intelligent and equally skilled in both oration and genuine fondness for the eager young minds he fostered, Rook was hardly immune from the childish swooning over the otherwise utterly unattainable genius that captivated his students with every speech and demonstration.

“Volkarin’s hangers-on.”

Johanna Hezenkoss’s recent jeer at Rook’s expense still made her cheeks run hot. Rook had never been that - certainly not as the insult Hezenkoss intended.

But Rook and Emmrich were both well aware of whom the half-Litch referred to.

Hair a little darker and warm eyes a little bit brighter then, The Professor was too clever and adept at reading people around him to have remained oblivious to the fact that not only were the large majority of doe-eyed students trailing him from office to lectern and back largely of the female variety, but they were also almost always a bit more coy than was comfortable to be sharing a room with for too long. It was always impressive, then, to Rook, just how coolly and kindly said attentions were quite unanimously blown off by Emmrich himself.

He was never once cruel or condescending, but ever the consummate professional. He paid his students’ motivations no mind outside of whatever question he was fielding, or what knowledge he wished to impart, either.

Rook later overheard whispers among a gaggle of gossiping young mages in the privy that, apparently, “half of the fun” of flirting with the man to begin with was trying to “find a crack” in their charming yet unflappably stoic Professor’s perfectly tailored facade.

Of which there was nary a one, as far as Rook knew at the time. The man simply did not budge.

Which was why, despite never having had the stones to so much as approach Professor Volkarin with a question before meeting with him in the catacombs with Bellara months prior, and with nearly ten years of confidence that only incredibly hard work and some life experience could provide, Rook was genuinely floored when her own good-humored and (mostly) unserious swings at flirting with the man *actually worked.*

Rook had only dared shoot her shot with the man with the full confidence that in all likelihood (and at absolute worst) he would simply glance past the attention with his usual jovial kindness. She took a swing at it for younger-Rook, who would have thought it the coolest thing ever, future-Rook finding the sort of confidence her younger self found so foreign.

And the man actually expressed interest. Just fully (warmly as ever but with a degree of coyness Rook had no idea actually existed prior) stated that if, in fact, her projected interest went beyond mere flattery… he was down.

“Hell of a bullseye on the first draw, there, Ingellvar,” she had mused to herself and inevitably shared with Emmrich multiple times since, much to the Professor’s amusement.

Rook pulled the only pretty, non-Mourn Watch related article of clothing she owned - a deep purple gown and its immaculately tailored overcoat - from the wardrobe, before clipping the doors shut with her heel.

Naive shock aside, it wasn’t as though Rook hadn’t been equally delighted by Emmrich’s unexpected response. She had become even more enamored with the fellow in the past many months, as he spoke with her not as a student but as a colleague. An equal.

He adored her thoughts and her intellectual curiosity, and had said as much - often. He was ever the academic, as enthusiastic about answering any question she had as she was to learn the answer. But he was also genuinely interested in all of the knowledge she had gathered in the past ten years - Her interests in Navarran archeology within the ever-ancient Necropolis halls. His in Necromancy and the Fade. It had become a frequent, deeply adored line of conversation between the two of them, in fact - just how often their individual fields of study crossed in application.

Emmrich Volkarin was every bit as charming as his passionate yet professional demeanor would imply. But what Rook came to learn very quickly upon reconnecting with the man was that, on a personal level, he was one of the most compassionate individuals Rook had ever met. He cared deeply, about everything - particularly, it seemed, about the ragtag troop of adventurers she and Neve had since managed to assemble. At 52 years of age, he also, as it turned out, had zero qualms about dating someone - regardless of gender persuasion - over 20 years his junior. He’d simply taken his work as an educator far too seriously when he was young enough to find any interest in university students, let alone misuse the power dynamic between teacher and pupil - and they had, decades later, well since lost their appeal.

So, now, here she was. Two months into the most absurdly romantic courtship she could imagine, given the sheer chaos that surrounded them otherwise.

Fancy dinners. Time spent exploring the Necropolis to feel more grounded - that little bit of home going a long way to keeping them both fixed on the battles that just kept on coming. A recent night stroll through the streets of Navarra City during the ancestral pageants, their darkly artful city glistening with lanterns and wisps.

Emmrich Volkarin was ever a man of his word, too. Early on, when a bashful Rook mentioned her lack of experience in any such relationship, he had promised they’d take things slow, and they absolutely had. Endeared and warm as they were, his kisses were chaste, and his presence around her respectful of her space and autonomy. It had only been since she had started pushing boundaries that he had reciprocated in kind.

Longer, deeper kisses. Tousled hair. Hands wandering with far more bravery - and far more urgency - from both parties, amidst long nights full of even longer conversations.

The cracks in Emmrich Volkarin’s perfectly tailored facade were showing. And, Rook grinned to herself despite the blush reaching her ears, they were admittedly * delicious.*

Rook fastened the copper skull-shaped buttons upon her overcoat before fishing for Varric’s shaving mirror and checking her hair.

She wasn’t entirely sure how she’d expected the acceleration of their relationship to go. Perhaps more spontaneously, and likely in the Lighthouse, despite neither of them having particularly comfortable quarters - his with little more than a cot to sleep on that was otherwise hidden away, and her own space often as chilly as being overlooked by an enormous deep water aquarium would imply.

She certainly didn’t expect it to turn into a Pnemoix-worthy event.

It was, frankly, the first time Emmrich had taken the lead on the direction of relations between them. He had planned every romantic gesture their messy schedules and frequent travels would allow, sure, but every acceleration where intimacy had been concerned had been entirely on Rook.

But, it felt right, the timing.

She wondered if this was his way of saying he felt the same.

Rook slipped on a pair of gold-rimmed glasses (her vision never had been the best, but she’d only just taken to wearing them more faithfully at Emmrich’s encouragement, and insistence that he thought them, “Positively charming.”)

With a flutter of excitement in her chest Rook spared a careless hope that she might make it all the way downstairs to the Vi’Revas without any of their friends asking enough questions to rattle her nerves anymore than they already squirmed.

——————-

The journey was quick and blessedly uninterrupted. Punctual as ever, Emmrich had already arrived. He turned to greet her as she strode his way, having been surveying the towering Eluvian with an air of curiosity just moments before.

Lean and immaculately dapper as ever, golden rings and bangles over luxurious shades of black and jade, a smile swept his features so genuine that it stole a smile from her own.

“Rook,” he mused warmly, “You look exquisite.”

“Could very well say the same to you, Professor,” Rook teased, hand once again gracing the elbow he lent her.

“Shall we?”

[greetings-and-salutations]

“Slightly More Anonymous Than Usual Karate Kids Getting Wasted and Starting Fist Fights”

Robby Keene x Reader Part 4

Day 7 of the 13 Nights of Halloween Spooktacular!!!

Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

(Gif not mine)

Requested? No

Summary: (Y/n) really doesn’t want to go to the stupid Halloween Masquerade Ball. But, maybe Moon was right. Maybe she’d finally find her soulmate under the cheap streamers and disco lighting… (a cinderella retelling)

soulmate au: You find your soulmate when you touch for the first time and the date and time you met becomes engraved as a tattoo on your wrist.

Warnings: starred out swear words, violence? that’s it? 🤔😂

Pairing: Robby Keene x Fem!Reader

‘October 31st 11:58pm’

Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.

Robby. Robby Keene. Miyagi-Do’s Robby Keene. Hawk’s practical sworn enemy Robby Keene.

Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.

(Y/n) didn’t know what to do. She was sure she looked like an idiot, just standing there staring at him. But what was she supposed to do? It wasn’t like she, or anyone else for that matter, had tons upon tons of experience in this specific department.

Robby Keene…

Could this night get any worse?

“Why don’t you come over here and say that to my face, you little b*tch!”

Right…

The sharp pull, which was slowly becoming more familiar to the girl, was what brought (Y/n) out of her thoughts. She was confused again about its origins, but only for a moment before realization struck her like Hawk’s fist slamming into the side of Demetri’s face, which she could practically feel from where she stood.

Robby was gone.

And that was the pull. It was Robby. Robby, and the soulmate bond. Because Robby Keene was her soulmate. (Y/n)’s heart fluttered all on its own at the thought, and, against her better judgment, she allowed herself a moment to appreciate it. Robby was her soulmate. (Y/n) had found her soulmate. And he was… well, (Y/n) didn’t really know. But the universe did. And that was good enough for her. Her Cobra Kai friends, however, might take more convincing…

But, of course, she didn’t need to deal with that right now. No, right now, (Y/n)’s brain had apparently made the executive decision that she needed to, instead, make a break for it. Not that it wasn’t warranted. The whole evening had been an emotional roller coaster. So, fleeing the scene seemed like a fairly acceptable thing to do. And she hoped Robby would see it that way. He seemed pretty preoccupied presently anyways…

“Moon!” (Y/n) ran through the crowd, pushing past shocked partygoers who were watching the madness going down on the dance floor, and mentally cursed at herself. Why had she thought hitching a ride was a good idea instead of making her own way to this thing, knowing full well she wouldn’t have wished to stay as long as her friends did anyways, even if she hadn’t run into such a crisis as she now knew as “Robby Keene.” She honestly just hoped at this point that the other girl would be too preoccupied trying to stop her boyfriend from causing an all out karate brawl in formal attire to think too much about whether or not she should hand over the keys. Because (Y/n) really needed to get out of there…

“(Y/n)! Where’d you go!?! We were worried you got caught up in…” She trailed off, gesturing towards the mess that (Y/n) could vaguely see a familiar jacket in the middle of. Her heart jumped against her will when she caught sight of the boy she was universally destined to be with, and for a moment she contemplated staying to see if he would be alright, but then all the problems that come along with him returned to the forefront of her mind and (Y/n) was forcefully reminded how much she needed to be gone when he finally did come looking for her.

“Moon, I have to get out of here! You have to help me!” (Y/n) knew how frantic she sounded and almost felt sorry for the concern she was probably filling her friend with, but she just didn’t have time to sit around and explain. The fight was still raging, of course, but who knows how much longer it could go on for. And she needed to make her escape while they were all distracted…

“What are you talking about? We’ve gotta stop them!” Moon started dragging (Y/n) along with her, destination clear but, even if it hadn’t been, the return of the pulling sensation (of which (Y/n) had just now decided to describe simply as “Robby”) would have given it away. And that was the opposite of what she wanted…

“No! Moon, please! You have to get me out of here! It’s an emergency!”

Now, Moon didn’t initially look like she believed her, which caused (Y/n)’s heart to drop into her stomach. She hadn’t had time to think of the possible outcome if Robby did catch up with her. What do I say? What do I do? It was almost impossible to imagine the interaction not going horribly wrong in some way, and that only pushed (Y/n) further towards the flight side of her “fight or flight instinct.”

But, thankfully after a moment, which felt painfully more like an hour to the attempted runaway, Moon finally sighed and pulled a set of keys out of her purse.

“They’re to Hawk’s truck.” She explained, holding them out to (Y/n), but quickly pulled them back to finish her thought before the other girl could grab them. “But, you better bring it back to the dojo tomorrow, got it?” (Y/n) nodded eagerly, not caring that that meant making a pit stop at the Cobra infested place the next morning. She’d worry about that later…

“Thanks Moon, you’re a life saver! I’ll see you tomorrow!”

And off (Y/n) ran with the keys, away from the quickly escalating situation behind her, and, of course, the potential boy of her dreams…

+ + +

Robby threw another punch into the fray, but his heart just wasn’t in it. He didn’t even get her name… God, why didn’t I get her name?

The mark on his wrist felt like it was burning but Robby knew that was all just in his head. But, then again, his head was swimming with so many thoughts that he couldn’t quite pinpoint which one precisely to mentally yell at to quiet down in order to stop the phantom pains.

Someone sending a sharp kick to his side brought Robby back to the situation at hand and he glared at the Cobra who he didn’t even recognize. He figured he must be one of Hawk’s though because he knew everyone in Miyagi-Do. Robby sent a kick back, using more force than necessary, though he wasn’t about to admit the reason behind it, figuring it would be childish to say he was mad that this whole endeavor had interrupted his conversation with the girl. His soulmate…

This was so stupid. He shouldn’t be here dealing with this sh*t. He should be with her, getting to know her, falling in love, all that mushy stuff. But no. Robby was more worried about this dumb karate war. What was wrong with him?

“Robby!? Where are you going!?”

But he ignored whoever it was, not even caring enough to look back as he shoved random Cobras out of his way, charging back towards where he’d last seen her. Because he needed to see her… His soulmate…

But the table was empty, and the girl? Nowhere to be found…

Robby’s heart clenched. Where did she go? He looked around frantically, the longer he came up empty handed the more worried he became, as his thoughts ran wild with what he was going to do now. He’d never met her without a mask on. He didn’t know her name, or literally anything about her. How was he going to find her?

And then, Robby caught sight of an all too familiar green dress, and almost sighed in relief. That is, until he realized it was running, so fast you’d think she was being chased, and so far in the opposite direction…

“No! Wait!”

In any other circumstance, Robby definitely would have caught her. While she was running incredibly fast for someone in a floor length poofy dress and heels, Robby’s own dress clothes were much more equipped for the exercise. But the crowd was so big and everyone was pushing him back towards the mess he was trying to get away from, and she just kept getting further and further away.

“Stop! Please!”

But by the time Robby had finally made it through, she was gone again, though this time leaving something behind…

He kneeled down with a frown, picking up the little keychain that seemed to have fallen away from the others in her haste to leave, hope growing in his chest at the thought that maybe this could be a clue to help him find her. But then his blood ran cold as Robby read the words printed across the leather…

COBRA KAI KARATE

Ah, sh*t…

TO BE CONTINUED

Tag lists are open!!!

Tags: @electriclcvewp @kaqua @lolawassad @imaslutforsstuff @nani-2305 @hawkinsavclub1983

[erinnya]

( continued from here )

The brunette sat up slowly, brushing off her hands with a shaky breath, her heart still racing from the chaos she’d just caused. She hadn’t expected any of this, but least of all Dipper’s reaction. Not the concern in his eyes, or the way he reached out a hand like she wasn’t the person who had just almost ruined his birthday party. What were the odds she appeared today of all days anyway?

As she took his hand and got to her feet, she glanced around the room. The tension was thick, the whispers from the others behind him still sharp in her ears. She knew they wanted her gone. Hell, she wanted to be gone, too. But then she caught Dipper’s eye and saw something unexpected: he wasn’t mad at all. He seemed more concerned than anything, which somehow made her feel even worse.

Realizing how completely fucked up this was, she chuckled softly, more out of disbelief than anything. She swiped at her tear-streaked face, pushing her dark hair back with a shaky hand. "Well, that was a bit of a disaster, mh?" Her voice had a dry edge, though the guilt was still there, lingering under the surface. She couldn't ignore it, but wallowing in it wouldn’t fix anything either.

Dipper’s offer ( tea or a cigarette ) was so absurd that she almost smiled. "I don’t smoke, but thanks." She glanced at the knife he'd kicked away and shook her head, the irony not lost on her. “And tea isn’t gonna magically erase the fact I almost went full psycho in the middle of your party.” Another chuckle escaped her, though it was laced with an edge of bitterness. “But, hey... at least it was memorable, right?" It really was, and Harriet still was horrified by what she'd almost done. This could have ended in a disaster, and she woud never have recovered from her own actions.

She paused, her gaze drifting over the now-empty room. The guests had left, and the atmosphere felt tense, almost fragile. But Dipper ... he still stood there, waiting. Not judging her, not shoving her out the door. She couldn’t figure out why he was being so patient with her. She was nothing more than a stranger.

Harriet sighed, then met his eyes, more serious now. "I don’t know what came over me. I’m not ..." She shook her head, frustration bubbling up. “That’s not me. I don’t go around picking up knives like a freak. Something just ... snapped. I guess.” She gestured vaguely at her head, trying to explain the inexplicable. “It’s like there’s a part of me I can’t control sometimes. But that’s not your problem.” She straightened her shoulders, trying to regain a little of her dignity, even though she still felt like a wreck.

"I should leave, I know that. You’ve got a party to get back to, and I don’t wanna mess up your birthday more than I already have." But then, something shifted in her, and she tilted her head slightly, a determined glint in her eye. “But maybe I can make it up to you first. I mean, you saved my ass, kept me from really screwing things up. Least I can do is try to fix this.”

Harriet glanced at the doorway, where Mabel and Wendy had disappeared, then back to Dipper with a smirk. “Let me help. You know, turn this mess into something worth remembering, even if it wasn’t what you had in mind.”

She wasn’t sure how, not yet, but there had to be something she could do. Something to show him she wasn’t just some loose cannon.

"What's a wish that can be fulfilled by stranger? Anything comes to mind?"

[celandeline]

Summer of Like // Farleigh Start x OC (15)

The sun beats down on me, the hot weight of its rays pinning me to my lounge chair, making it impossible to even think about getting up. It seems like all I do these days is sunbathe, but I’m not complaining. To be content is to be basking in the sun, my mind devoid of all thoughts except for the sound of Venetia turning the pages of Harry Potter next to me. 

With a sigh, she drops the book to the ground. 

“So?” I ask, tipping my head to look at her. 

She settles back in her chair, tipping her face back towards the sun. “It was fine, I guess. I didn’t love the ending - I mean, there’s this whole big battle and everything and then it just jumps to when they’re all like forty and have kids. Nothing in between.”

“At least you win.” I say. Not that I was ever really doubting that she was going to beat Farleigh and Felix to finishing the book by a mile - but even if the ending was kind of shit, there’s some consolation. 

“Yeah.” She says. 

I bring my arms up over my head, resting them on the back of the chair, and close my eyes. With how comfortable I am, and how warm it is, it’s all too tempting to fall asleep - but I resist. I don’t want my front to be noticeably darker than my back. 

Next to me, Venetia sighs. “So.”

“Mm?” I open my eyes, turning my head to look at her. Her bottom lip is pinched between her teeth, and her eyes are alight in the way that they always do when she has something exciting to tell me. I’ll have to do my best to act surprised when she spills. 

“I went on a walk last night.” She starts. “Just to have a cigarette, you know.”

“Of course.” I say. 

“And I was just sitting on the little stone ledge over there,” She vaguely gestures behind us, to the house. “When Ollie walks up and starts talking to me about how pretty I am and how I really should eat.” She giggles like she’s making fun of him. “It was like he was a totally different person. He was trying to dom me into eating.”

I lower my sunglasses to look at her. “Well? Is that what I should have been doing all along?”

She giggles again, this time less condescending. “Maybe.” She teases. “It might have worked better if you’d have done it. Either way,” She says, “Next thing I know, he’s going to eat me out and I tell him that I’m on my period, and he does it anyway.” She’s thoroughly excited by the novelty of it - she talks about him like she talks about limited edition designer collaborations.

I scrunch up my nose. “That must have made a mess.”

“Of course.” She flaps a hand, dismissive. “I had to take a bath, after, to get it all off of me, but - have you ever had someone do that to you before?”

“Have I had period sex?” I repeat. “That’s basically what dental dams are for, V, nobody really uses them when they’re not eating someone out on their period.”

“I mean with a guy.”  She says. 

“Of course not.” I say. 

“See?” She says. “God, he’s so…” She trails off with a smile. “I don’t know if there’s even a word for it.”

I can’t help but laugh. “What, really?” I sit up, swinging my legs over the side of the chaise into the little aisle between us. “He eats you out one time and you’re trying to come up with new additions to the English language? I’ll eat you out anytime you want-”

“I know, Evie.” She teases. “You’ve said, about a million times.” Her face shifts, and she pauses. “I hope Felix isn’t mad.”

“Right.” I say. I’d forgotten what she’d told me - about the summer before this one, about the boy before Oliver. About how she was worried Felix would try and do the same thing to her with me, just to get revenge. Farleigh probably hadn’t even thought about Venetia before telling Felix.

“He seemed mad, at breakfast, but there’s no way he’s found out already.” She says. “I mean, it was just last night. No one was out but us.”

I could tell her. I should tell her - we’re best friends for a reason. We tell each other everything. But telling her is admitting that Farleigh and I watched her get eaten out. I turn it over in my head again. 

“I have something to say.” I start. “And you have to promise that you won’t get mad.” 

Venetia scoffs. “I could never get mad at you, Evie.”

“Farleigh and I saw you and Oliver last night. And I’m 100% sure that Farleigh told Felix.”

She just stares at me for a moment, and then she’s lunging forward, reaching over the spaces between our chairs to aim a flurry of slaps right at my head. I throw my arms up for protection, but it only does so much good - most of her blows land on my forearms, but my shoulder still take a beating too. 

“What the hell?” She says. 

“I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to see, we were just out on the roof and-”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were hanging out with Farleigh last night?” She cuts me off. 

“I tried, he didn’t want me to.” I say. 

Her eyebrows shoot up at that, peeking over the top of her sunglasses. “What did he say, exactly?” Her tone switches on the dime, going from accusatory to interested in an instant. 

“No,” I say. “It’s not like that.”

“Oh, shut up.” She says, scooting to the edge of her chair so that our knees are touching. “It is so totally like that. I told you all about mine, tell me about yours. You owe me, for being a voyeuristic creep anyway.”

I roll my eyes, but give in anyway. She’s right - I do owe her, and it so totally is like that. “He didn’t really say anything. He just sort of looked at me.”

“Like how?” Venetia asks. 

“I don’t know, like…” Like he wanted to kiss me. The words dance on the tip of my tongue. I almost wish that Venetia hadn’t had a life changing head-related experience last night, just so that Farleigh and I wouldn’t have been interrupted. Then I’d know if he really was trying to kiss me, and not just a little too high. “I don’t know.”

“Mhmm.” She presses her lips together like she’s trying to hide her smile. “And what else did you guys talk about?”

“Nothing really.” I say. 

“C’mon, please?” Venetia begs, leaning closer to me. 

“He just said that we could be friends.” I say. “That was really it.”

“That’s it?” She asks, sounding disappointed. “I got ate out on my period last night and all you could get was ‘we can be friends’?” She sighs, and flops back into her chaise. “You’re so lame when it comes to guys, Evie. If Farleigh was a girl you’d have fucked by now.”

I splutter out a laugh. “I don’t-”

“You do, you so totally do, don’t even deny it, I see how you two look at each other.” She cuts me off. “I am explicitly giving you full permission to do whatever you’d like to that boy, and you’d better well use it before the end of the summer.”

I settle back in my chaise. “Okay then.”

“I mean it, Evie.”

“I’m sure you do.”

< previous part | next part >

[densi-mber]

In Your Darkest Hours

A/N: After the fluff of the first two days, I decided to go a bit more angsty with this one. Takes place in season 5.

***

Deeks had been off all day. It wasn’t anything major, and probably not something most people would pick up on. Kensi did though. It was in the lack of talking, followed by nervous chatter when directly engaged. The slight flinching at electrical noises. The heavy, dark look to his eyes that spoke of long, restless nights worried her the most.

He made it through the day though, and she convinced herself that he would be ok. Deeks didn’t like her coddling him, not when it came to the serious things anyway. So, she said nothing when he left as soon as possible with vague excuses about needing to pick up Monty from a neighbor.

She went home and tried to focus on the usual mindless distractions, but her mind kept wandering from Bianca and Nina, or whichever model was posing on the beach. Mid-way through the second episode, she gave up, and grabbed her shoes.

Another half hour later she was on Deeks’ front stoop with a bag of take out and drinks, having dashed across the sidewalk to avoid getting caught in the heavy rain that had started. Deeks didn’t answer when she knocked on the door, and a peek through the small crack between curtains and window confirmed a light was on. She wavered, not sure if she should continue knocking, or just leave.

It occurred to her that Deeks might not want to see her, like the last time, when he was first recovering from Sidorov’s damage. She’d wormed her way in that time too, and Deeks seemed grateful in the end, but maybe he wouldn’t feel the same now.

“Kensi?”

She jerked and turned at the sound of Deeks voice, just barely audible over the drumming rain. He stood a few yards away, illuminated by the glow of the porch light. His clothes and hair were plastered to his skin, like he hadn’t even made an attempt to stay dry.

“Kensi, what are you doing here?” he asked, quickly averting his face.

“I was waiting for you,” Kensi said, eyes roving over him and not liking what she found. His shoulders hunched as he edged past her, and unlocked the door, wordlessly gesturing inside.

When they got inside, he kicked off his shoes, leaving a trail of water behind him on the way to the kitchen. Kensi added that to her growing list of warning signs; at least his apartment looked recently cleaned and neat.

When she joined him in the kitchen, she found Deeks standing over the sink, a half-full glass of water in one hand.

“Why were you out in rain?” she asked.

“Yeah, I uh, just went for a run,” he replied, swiping a handful of soaked hair off his face. “Didn’t feel like coming back yet.”

“Deeks, it’s been pouring for over an hour.”

He lifted one shoulder, setting the empty glass in the sink.

“Deeks—”

“Do you want anything? Water, beer? I could make coffee.”

Kensi watched Deeks ramble, hands moving aimlessly as he spoke, and her concern spiked several notches. Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed the coffee pot, the glass clinking on the counter jarring in the quiet.

“I don’t need anything to drink,” Kensi said, a little desperately. Anything to get him to stop. He ignored her, measuring out a few spoonfuls of coffee and grabbing a jug of water. “Deeks.” Without thinking, she crossed the room, placing a stilling hand on his wrist.

He froze, body going rigid, even as she felt the finest of tremors running through his arm.

Hypervigilance, her mind supplied. She snatched her hand back, horrified by the thought that Deeks would react to her as a potential threat.

Messing with his hair again, Deeks settled against the counter. He pursed his lips, the saddest and most broken look in his eyes as finally let her see his face.

“Sorry,” he whispered, his voice unusually soft and small.

“No, it’s ok,” Kensi insisted quickly. “It’s my fault for surprising you.”

He huffed a bitter laugh. “I’m probably not going to be very good company tonight.”

“I didn’t come so you could entertain me. I wanted to make sure you were ok.” Deeks looked surprised by her admission, his mouth opening slightly as though he was about to speak, then closing again.

“Why don’t you go take a shower, and then we can talk,” Kensi suggested. “Or we can just watch TV. Whatever you want.”

Deeks nodded after a moment, slowly making his way out of the room. Kensi watched him shuffle out, so at odds with the vibrant man she knew, and hoped she was doing the right thing.

[curioushappenstance]

fic title: do you like my dress? it's got pockets [chapter 3]

[previous chapter]

[next chapter]

[ao3 link]

Summary: 9:19 Dragon – Varric Tethras loses his virginity to a pretty dwarf girl at the bar. 9:41 Dragon - The consequence walks through the gates of Skyhold. - In my childish fantasies, I used to dream of being the Champion; going places, meeting people, loving them and being loved in return, never discarded nor kicked nor beaten; love, in perpetuity, the likes of which a girl under the heavy and forceful hand of a mother could not begin to dream of, because she could not dream at all. - aka, the fic where varric has a daughter that he didn't know about until five minutes ago.

It was early morning when the gates of Skyhold opened and soldiers poured into the courtyard.

I watched them from my window, my arm on the windowsill and bleary from waking, only barely able to make out the vague silhouettes of their glinting metal uniforms through the dense, grainy fog that had descended upon Skyhold overnight. Groggily, I dressed, gathered my pack, and descended the tower to watch them alongside everyone else.

The normally still and peaceful courtyard was overcome by shouts, cries, and the clanking of metal. Horses, hounds, the grinding of chains as the elevators ascended to the bridge, all coalesced together into one cacophony that drowned out my thoughts.

A widow collapsed to her knees in the mud. A father swung his child into the air. Outside the infirmary, the bald elf, with blood on his hands and a rag over his shoulder, shook his head and turned away. A sihadow fell over me, and I looked and saw Harding, her lips pressed thin line as, through the fog, she gazed upon the soldiers with one sweeping movement.

I shuffled up next to her. She acknowledged me with a tired smile. Twigs and bits of snow stuck to frazzled, unkempt hair, and the bags under her eyes made them look somehow wider.

“Who are you looking for?” I asked.

“Oh. No one. I was just––” She rubbed at some dirt on her chin. “Just thinking, you know.”

A tall blond human with a fur mantle and a booming voice issued commands to his soldiers, his lieutenants, and the few healers who rushed in for aid on the field.

“What happened?”

Harding patted down her hair. “A lot of us just got back from the Western Approach. The soldiers have been trickling in for weeks, but I think this is the last of them.”

It wasn’t an answer. “How do you know?”

“There, see?” She gestured into the crowd. I followed her hand until I found who she was pointing at. “The Inquisitor. She’s always the last one to get back.”

Gossip travelled quickly among the dwarven families of Kirkwall. When word got out that the eldest daughter of the Cadash family fell through a hole in the Fade, I shook my head and rolled my eyes. But by the Ancestors, to truly see her now, her dark skin plastered with mud and dried blood, innocuous and unremarkable if not for the bright green glowing mark that branded her left hand…

“And in the Approach,” I tried again, “what happened there?”

“...I guess word didn’t reach far, huh?” She visibly hesitated. “Maybe you should ask Varric.”

“What are we asking me?”

I yelped. Varric smiled an apology as Harding faced him, her back to the sunrise, the light shining through wisps of her hair.

“Oh, nothing! We were just––”

“The soldiers in the Approach,” I interrupted.

Harding’s hard look told me what she’d really meant; ask Varric away from me, because I don’t want to be anywhere near him when you do. But whatever she was fearing didn’t happen, and he dismissed me.

“You don’t wanna hear about it, kid. Trust me.”

Harding cut me off. “How you feeling, Varric?”

“Hm?” The question was redundant. His hair, falling out of a haphazard bun, was just as much a mess as hers. A fresh dressing had replaced the old one. “Oh, you know. Just barely escaped Chuckles in the infirmary. It’s a miracle he still has the time to sigh at me between all the limbs he’s amputating.”

Two soldiers raced past us, each carrying one end of an unconscious friend. “It’s that bad?” I asked.

“...Eh. Probably not, but I––I tried not to look too hard.” He poked at the dressing. “Anyway. Got time, kid?”

“For what?”

He shrugged, a little half-heartedly. “A walk. I gotta talk to you.”

Harding looked between us and said nothing.

“No more stairs,” I told him. He chuckled, and said he wouldn’t make any promises he couldn’t keep.

-

“...Sleep okay?”

Varric’s legs dangled pathetically off the edge of the battlements that overlooked the gardens. They’d been done up for some kind of event, and were mostly empty, save for some Chantry Sisters who gathered large quantities of elfroot into baskets. Varric kicked his heels against the wall.

I didn’t have the energy for this.

“I slept fine,” I said, and it was true. In fact, I’d never slept better. “What did you want to talk about?”

He raised his chin and breathed deep through his nose. The outward sigh made a small cloud that dissipated on the wind. His brow and the corner of his mouth twitched downward before he spoke. “I sent a letter to one of my Carta contacts. Should get a reply in about a week, maybe.”

A week. That wasn’t too long, but how much could I afford to wait? I needed to be home in time for mother to be returned to the Stone. “They must be close by.”

“Eh.”

“You can’t tell me?”

“Yeah. Listen, kid…” He pivoted and faced me full-on, one leg propped on the wall, the other still off the edge. For a dwarf, he wasn’t very afraid of falling. “Shit like this doesn’t get solved over a few letters. He’s gonna wanna meet up.”

I wrung my hands. The back of my neck itched now he was facing me properly. I wished I’d brought my blanket. “Is he dangerous?”

“He won’t hurt you.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Varric looked into my eyes. “He won’t hurt you.”

I tore myself from his gaze and peered over the edge of the wall. “Fine.”

Satisfied, he leaned away. “Also, I’ve got a thing going on tonight. So, if you need anything, uh, find Harding.”

“A ‘thing’.”

He cleared his throat. It sounded dry and painful. “A thing.”

“Alright. Is that it, then?”

“Mm?”

“Is that all you wanted to talk about?”

He was quiet. In that moment, his tapping stopped. 

“Yep.”

It was a lie. It was always a lie.

-

I asked Varric where I could find work. In a grumbly, quiet voice, he told me he could just give me the coin, then backed off when I scowled at him. To that end, he directed me to the tavern.

(“Cabot’s gonna have his hands full with the soldiers. Shit’ll be overrun tonight. But, uh, kid, you don’t have to…”)

I was still scowling when I shoved open that door again, and struggled to smooth it over in time to meet Cabot at the counter. Also a dwarf, I realised, now that he wasn’t standing on a crate behind the bar, and I was actually paying attention. A few quiet, contemplative soldiers already occupied the space, and I imagined they would leave before their rowdy, drunken brethren arrived.

“I’m looking for work,” I said.

Cabot raised an eyebrow. “Good for you.”

“...I was told you’re hiring.”

“Could be. Could not be.”

For a bartender, he wasn’t very talkative. For a dwarf… just the right amount. I could work with that.

“I’ll clean the tables,” I declared. “The glasses. The floors. The walls.”

He squinted. “Didn’t you clock Tethras with a mug?”

My cheeks warmed. The scrutiny of his stare reminded me more of a librarian than a bartender; he was only lacking in little round spectacles, by which he would pass his judgement over. A funny thing, to imagine for a bald, rough-and-tumble dwarf.

“...Yes?” I squeaked.

“Hm.”

“He startled me, I––I would never attack ––”

“Three silvers an hour.”

“Huh?”

I stared. He stared back, and shrugged. “Keep the soldiers in line and I’ll pay double.”

I fumbled a half-formed sentence which fell pathetically into gibberish. I could only just comprehend three silvers all on their own, let alone in multiples, and the prospect of double that wage had my knees weak.

Three silvers an hour, twenty-one a day––by the end of the month, six sovereigns with a bit on a side. I could buy warm clothes, a chemise, new boots!

Cabot squinted again. “You look like someone shat in your meal.”

“Oh, I––” had never worked a day in my life. Mind, not for lack of trying, but when you couldn’t reach the high shelves, most employers turned a blind eye to you. It didn’t matter how smart or talented you were. “I’m fine. I’m fine. When do I start?”

Cabot ran most of the tavern all on his own after the previous owner died. I had heard of what happened in Haven, and I wanted to ask more, but he didn’t seem interested in talking about it, so I didn’t.

He introduced me to the other barmaid, a skittish young elf––Iowen––with a wide face and wider ears. Needed someone with more backbone, Cabot said, and Iowen blushed, but said nothing. He assigned me alongside her; delivering drinks, hauling small crates, and cleaning messes. Everything else, he said, he would handle.

It was something to do. More than that, it was a schedule, something worthwhile, something with a purpose.

Harding found me again when the tavern started to fill.

“Arms aching yet?” she teased, leaning against the table I’d just wiped down.

“More my legs,” I admitted. “I’m not used to standing around like this.”

“Aha, you get used to it. I’ve had to spend hours in the same spot when I’m out scouting, and Maker, my legs…”

I moved on to the next table, not because it was dirty, but because I needed something to do. A soldier told a raunchy joke that had a nearby table burst into raucous laughter. “Is that what you were doing this morning?” I asked over the noise.

“Huh? Oh!” She laughed. “Yeah. I was out really late clearing the path on the road. I think I got less sleep than Cullen did!”

“Cullen?”

“Our Commander.”

I remembered the blond human yelling at the gate, and resolved to avoid him. I adjusted a chair and moved on again; Harding followed like a lost puppy, narrowly avoiding tripping over the outstretched leg of an oblivious human.

“So… how do you know Varric?”

“Oh. Um…”

“I guess I thought you didn’t know him. It’s a small world, huh?”

A woman waved me over and ordered a beer, which I fetched from a low shelf in the back. Harding was still waiting for me when I emerged.

“I only met him yesterday,” I said. The woman took the bottle from me with a cheers.

“But…” Harding sat against the bar. “You talk like you’ve known each other forever. ”

I shrugged. 

“He knew your name,” she said. “Was he the one you were delivering that message to?” When I turned away, she chased me around a table. Iowen looked at us strangely from across the room. “He was! He was, wasn’t he?”

I pulled out a chair, stared at it, and pushed it back in again. My head felt light. “It’s not very interesting.”

“Now I want to know even more. ”

Her expectant gaze bore into my skull. So happy, so excited, so full of energy, light, and warmth. She waited, and I hesitated again, and again, and again. 

“He’s––”

A soldier banged his mug against a table, and silence fell upon the tavern. He clambered upon the table, and stood on it with a wooden prosthetic carved with dozens upon dozens of names and dates.

I'd never been to an Andrastian funeral, but I had seen Kirkwall. There were mourners on the streets, in bars, or hidden away in the darkest dark of Darktown. There were more bodies in alleys than in the graveyards, and more funerals in the streets than in the Chantry.

I knew mourners, the way their eyes shimmered whether they cried or not. The eyes of the soldiers glinted in the torchlight as they watched their brother raise his mug to the ceiling, his legs shaking but his arms steady, as he spoke.

To those we have lost, and those we will lose.

Cross the Veil and the Fade and all the stars in the sky. Rest at the Maker’s right hand, and be forgiven.

-

I left in the late evening with a heavier purse. Before the market closed, I bought a chemise, a woollen kirtle, and a pair of snow boots. The relief of coin and clothes didn’t lift the heaviness in my legs or from my eyes––nor the memory of the soldier’s bloodshot eyes in the torchlight.

It was bad luck that I ran headlong into Varric. It was funny that he fell ass-first into the mud, and the mockery of nearby recruits echoed off the stone walls.

“Andraste’s––fucking––” He cradled his head with his eyes scrunched tight. You have a real fucking knack––!”

“I’m not sorry.”

He glared. “Kid, you wound me, literally and metaphorically.”

“Apparently I can’t help it.”

“You’re in a good mood.” He stumbled to his feet, and groaned at the mud splattered all over his coat and trousers. A deep black shirt replaced his vibrant red one. “I just washed these damn things.”

“I’m in a mood. Not sure if it’s good or not.”

“You have a sense of humour after all, maybe you really are my––” He hissed and pressed a palm to his forehead. “Shit. That hurt more than the mug.”

“I have a thick skull.”

“Take after me, I guess.” Swaying, he blinked away watery eyes. “Uh, went fine at the tavern?”

I didn’t tell him about the impromptu funeral. “None of the soldiers groped me.”

He blinked, squinted, then frowned. “Huh?”

“I said none of the––”

“That’s a really low bar. You were worried about that?”

I stared.

He was still, at the core of it all, a sheltered silverspoon rich boy.

“I’m very small,” I said.

“You’re taller than me.”

“I hate to be the one to break this to you, but you’re also very small.”

He shook off his coat and draped it over one arm. “No need to rub it in, kid. Damnit, I have to go change…”

“Where were you going?”

“Oh, you know.”

I waited. And I waited. Varric kicked a stray rock and watched it splat into the mud.

“You know, my thing. The thing. There’s––in the gardens.”

“For a writer, I expected you to be better with words.”

He looked up at me with a flat, placid face, his true thoughts betrayed only by the smallest flinch in the corner of his mouth. His voice was even.

“Inquisitor’s holding a funeral.”

“Oh.” I shuffled my feet. For the soldiers? “Is everyone going?”

“Just the inner circle.”

“Ah.” That didn’t seem fair.

“Yeah. So. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Which was code for no, sorry, you’re not invited either, which didn’t surprise me after I’d just insulted him. And it was fine, of course––but watching him leave, muddy, lumbering, and shivering…

I retired to my quarters and packed away my new clothes. It was ten minutes I sat at the edge of my bed, draped in my chemise, staring out the window and watching the clouds cross the sky as the sun set behind the mountains. A further ten I spent meticulously plaiting my hair, and when I was done, I gathered my blanket into my arms.

Hawke’s blanket. Hawke’s quarters. Hawke in the air that I breathed, as warm and comforting as his smile when I was a child. 

I gazed into the mirror. The shattered reflection marred my tired face.

Where was Hawke?

I climbed under my sheets. The weight of my blanket, like the weight of the ocean, pulled me down into a restless unconscious.

Loud swearing and a heavy thud woke me again with a jolt. All was dark, except for the light of the moon, which bathed the otherwise warm room in a dull greyness. I listened, one ear to my pillow, to another series of thuds getting progressively louder, and louder, as someone stumbled up the stairs.

Unsteady footfalls approached then stopped outside my door.

I waited, wide-eyed, for the rattle of the handle that never came. Instead, there was a thump, then a slide, and, in the softest of tones, the unmistakable sound of weeping.

My blanket around my shoulders, I tiptoed from my bed and pressed my ear to the door. I held my breath, waiting for them to stop, or leave, but soon my legs started to ache again, and I sat with my back to the wall.

“You’re very loud,” I said.

There was a cold silence. Then the shuffle of fabric.

“Sorry,” Varric rasped, muffled by the door.

“It’s very late.”

“Sorry.”

I pulled my blanket closer around my shoulders, like a warm hug from behind. The shattered mirror glimmered in the moonlight.

“It was for Hawke, wasn’t it? The funeral?”

There was no answer, and I didn’t need one.

“I met him once,” I said. “I was much younger, um, twelve, I think.”

Varric sniffled. “Yeah?”

“He was very kind. He––” I didn’t know him, he was never my friend, so Maker, why was my throat so tight? “He gave me a blanket. I remember thinking he was very pretty.”

A chuckle, then a low hum. “Yeah.”

“What happened?”

I heard a heavy sigh. At least he wasn’t crying anymore. “It was him or me.”

I remembered the torn parchment on Varric’s desk, his ink-stained hands, and his bloodshot eyes as he looked at me for the first time.

“In the Western Approach?”

“Yeah. I thought… I thought he was gonna come through. I waited for him.”

“And then he didn’t?”

“Don’t even have a damn body to burn.” His voice cracked. “He’d like you.”

“I’m not very likeable.”

He grunted. “Me neither.”

[whirligig-girl]

Isabel Guz! In the 22nd-And-A-Half Century!

Image ID: Digital drawing of a Eaurp Guz and Hoshi Sato in the NX-01 starship Enterprise mess hall. Guz is a green slimegirl, Hoshi Sato is a japanese human woman. They are both wearing navy-blue united earth starfleet jumpsuits. Hoshi's uniform has blue lining and Guz's uniform has red lining. They both have ensign's pips. Guz looks a little flustered and melty, while Hoshi just looks happy. Guz is eating soup. Hoshi has a sandwich and some beans. There is a purple and blue nebula visible out the window.  End ID.

pre-ent-season-1 Introduction to Isabel Guz under the cut:

Ensign Guz was in the 602 club, enjoying a fruity beverage and talking to Ensign Reed about Titan V missiles. Guz was in uniform--her navy-blue jumpsuit with red stripes, but Reed was wearing a polo shirt and shorts. Reed spotted his crewmates from across the room and waived them over to the booth.

"Uh, Isabel, this is, ahem, Lieutenant Tucker and Commander Archer, from Project Enterprise."

"Please, call me Trip."

Guz's eyes went wide. "Wow! Howdy, I'm, uh, Ensign Isabel Guz, nice to meetchy'all."

Trip cocked his head to the side. "Ensign, where you from?"

"No clue sir, but I was raised in Greensboro."

"Ah, one of them reclaimation project towns?" Trip said.

Guz nodded. "There weren't much uh the city left after the 2nd civil war, but that meant it wasn't one of the targets during world war three."

Commander Archer chuckled to himself, then cleared his throat. "I think you and Trip have a lot in common. He was raised in Panama City."

"A real life Florida man...," Guz marvelled.

"In the flesh," Trip said.

"Have you ever made it out to Cape Canaveral? I know it's mostly a crater reclaimed by swamp at this point but I've heard the historical society opened the ruins of the VAB to visitors! I've always wanted to go, but I never found the time, and--"

"Calm down Ensign. I've done better than that. I've seen the preserved Saturn Five booster in Huntsville, Alabama."

"No... way..." Guz said.

"Forgive me for prying but, what's with the, uhh..." Archer said, gesturing vaguely at Guz's whole deal.

“The slime? The Vulcan scientists said I came to them as a cylinder of biomimetic compound salvaged from a Zaldan Empire ship. They didn't get any records, so I dunno what planet I'm from. Ain't like it matters; as far as I'm concerned, I'm from North Carolina."

"Zaldans?" Archer said

"They're at a similar level of development to Earth, but with much wider infrastructure. That's all the Vulcans told me about them.”

“So are you like, some kinda shapeshifter?” Trip said.

“If you want to learn all about me, feel free to read the Vulcan paper, Development and Maturation of a Biomimetic Mold Organism. If you can read Vulcan, that is. You’ll learn all about my shapeshifting abilities, or lackthereof; my fluidity, material structure, sentience profile… pain response.”

The table went silent. Guz looked down awkwardly, more upset that she’d made things awkward than about what the Vulcans did to her all those years ago.

“Hey, ma’am, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to--”

Guz feigned cheering up. “It’s ok. We all know how Vulcans can be!”

The waitress came up to the table. “The usuals, gentlemen?”

“Thanks, Ruby,” Archer said.

“How ‘bout Isabel?” Trip said.

“You’ve already guessed that one,” Ruby said.

“Damn,” Trip said, snapping his fingers.

“Wh-what was that about?” Guz said.

“Ruby said she’ll marry the first guy who guesses what she wants to name her kids.”

Guz muttered under her breath, “or maybe the first slimegirl…”

Archer furrowed his brow and pursed his lips, a little surprised.

Ruby came back with some drinks, and Archer continued in his small talk. “So, Ensign, where are you assigned?”

“I’m on Captain Jeffries’ engineering team.”

“Oh, damn, is he overworking you?” Trip said.

“I can handle the workload,” Guz said. “But I’m hoping to actually get… you know, out there some day. I’m hoping to get on one of those Freedoms, or maybe an Intrepid--”

[mortemoppetere]

TIMING: last night (06/12) LOCATION: a mean old lady's house PARTIES: @itzbridiebitch & @mortemoppetere SUMMARY: emilio and bridie track down the owner of the cursed necklace. it doesn't go how they might have hoped. CONTENT WARNINGS: none!

Once Teddy suggested the presence of a curse, it became painfully obvious. Of course a curse would explain the voices in his head. Emilio had been so prepared to accept his own mind failing him that he’d allowed himself to forget the way there were often other things at play… especially in a town like Wicked’s Rest.

After that, it had just been a matter of tracking down the cause. Something harder than it normally would have been, thanks to the voices in his head. He retraced his steps with a clenched jaw, trying to go back through old cases. And it was hard. It felt impossible, at moments. Did the jilted ex-husband who’d lost everything in the divorce thanks to Axis Investigations know a good spellcaster? Was the mourning mother whose son Emilio had only been able to find in pieces taking her grief out on the most convenient target she could find? Everyone was a suspect, and Emilio’s addled mind could hardly separate one from the other.

Until the news story came across his proverbial desk. Local Pawn Shop Owner Dies. He recognized the man only vaguely, but vaguely was enough. He’d made a note that the guy was squirrelly when he’d asked him about the necklace, but he’d assumed it had just been due to the shady nature of most of the items in his shop. Looking back now, he recognized it a little easier. The way his eyes darted around without settling on anything, the way his voice was an octave louder than it should have been. Of course the stupid necklace was cursed. Of course. 

So, he’d reached out to the club owner. If the shop owner was cursed, odds were that the club owner was, too. And what he’d found was hardly surprising. She was experiencing the same shit he was, and she wanted answers just as badly. 

But apparently, she wasn’t willing to trust him to find them on his own.

He glanced over at her in the seat next to him, the car ‘borrowed’ from a street corner in Worm Row. “You sure you can handle this? I’ll do the talking. You just have to stand there.” Really, she could wait in the car… but he knew what she’d say if he brought that up, and he was too tired to argue. Sleep was even harder to come by now than it usually was, and that was saying something.

—

There were six voices in her brain other than her own now. Bridie’d lost track of who was saying what after the fourth voice had joined the fray. It was a jabbering, maddening mess, and she hadn’t been able to hear herself think in so long. 

Of course it had been that stupid fucking gaudy necklace. 

A curse made sense. It certainly felt ‘curse-y’. It felt like a living hell, actually. Her nerves were shot, and shadows rimmed her usually bright eyes from a lack of sleep. 

A voice outside her head cut through the cacophony in her brain and she looked over at Emilio. As if she was going to let him square this away alone. She had scoffed at the suggestion. She’d had far too much go wrong since his little sob story about his momma’s long lost necklace. She should have smelled that bullshit a mile away. Of course, now the necklace’s curse had made both their lives waking nightmares, so he’d probably been punished enough. 

“I’m not a delicate little daisy who can’t listen to a normal conversation. I’ve had a mass murderer calling me lamb chop for I don’t even know how long now, and no one else can hear it. I think I can handle a conversation about getting a stupid curse broken.”  Bridie grumbled. “Sorry, I’m not usually this… this.” She gestured vaguely. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

_____

She didn’t look like she was faring any better than he was, which didn’t make this a very promising trip. How long could the two of them keep this up? Emilio wished he had more of a timeline on the pawn shop owner, wished he’d asked the man exactly what day the necklace had first come to him. But why would he have? He’d been wholly focused on finding the damn thing then. If he’d known it was cursed, he never would have taken the case at all.

Bridie still would be, though. So maybe she was lucky he’d taken the case, even if he wasn’t. 

“Never said you were,” he said gruffly, the response a little belated. It took a moment for him to register what she said, took a moment for him to realize that it was her speaking and not the voices in his head. You’re slipping fast, Cortez. Won’t be long now. He hoped the woman who’d hired him had some answers. If they went in and found her just as cursed as they were… Well. That’d be a bad sign. “Don’t have to apologize. Think I’ve got a good idea why you’re like this.” He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment before steeling himself and opening the car door. “Let’s go, then.”

Trusting that Bridie would follow, he made his way up the long walkway and towards the impressive house stretched out in front of them. The woman had money; that had never been in question. But money wouldn’t break a curse. Emilio just hoped she’d have some idea what would. 

—-

“I know you didn’t,” she sighed, rubbing at her eyes. One of the voices decided to start screaming. The blood curdling sound rattled it’s way around the faun’s head, and she couldn’t keep the soft distressed whimper the whined out of her at bay. “Let’s hope you do, because this is a circle of hell I never wanted to be in.”

It was a big house. Bridie probably would have thought about it more if the voice wasn’t still shrieking and jabbering. It was almost as though the voices were acting out their own little lives up there in their brain. Perhaps they were tormenting one another just as much as they were tormenting her. 

They walked up to the front door, and it took all the faun’s will power to ensure her glamour stayed firmly in place. She tucked a rogue cotton-candy curl behind her ear as she reached out and pressed the doorbell once, twice, three times for good measure. She glanced over at her companion and shrugged. “Her hearing an annoying doorbell is nothing comparatively.”

_____

“Tell me about it.” The words were muttered under his breath, probably too quiet for her to hear over the shit going on in her head. Emilio probably wouldn’t have heard it himself if not for the fact that it was him who said it.

Bridie rung the doorbell and said… something. Emilio couldn’t quite register her words, but he nodded anyway. He figured they’d know as soon as the woman answered the door whether she was suffering the same curse they were or not. Emilio knew he looked haggard, and Bridie didn’t look much better. She’d been cursed longer than he had, but maybe she was better at hiding it. Or… maybe it affected hunters differently than other humans. (Was Bridie human? All Emilio could determine for certain was that she wasn’t undead.)

The door swung open and Emilio’s client stood in the entry, looking… fine. Normal, cheery, unbothered. Unsurprised. She took in the pair of houseguests with a quirk of her brow, a hint of amusement sparking in her eyes. “Ah,” she greeted, “the detective. I did wonder if you might come sniffing back around here.”

“You knew.” It wasn’t a question; it came out flat and unamused, with the barest hint of anger behind it, because how could he be anything but? This woman let him get cursed, and she did it knowingly. He was allowed to be pissed.

“Well, I didn’t know about her.” The woman glanced to Bridie. “Is she the thief? Did you break into my home?” There was an almost teasing lilt to her tone, infuriatingly pleased as if Emilio and Bridie weren’t half insane on her doorstep.

—

The homeowner (or at least Bridie assumed she was the owner) opened the door practically smirking. The faun didn’t get angry frequently. Most of the time she was too busy having a good time to bother getting angry. And if someone did something to wrong her or irk her, it was usually all too easy to make them spiral into euphoria, giving in to her desire, usually to their detriment. 

She didn’t quite hear what the woman said to Emilio, as the voices picked that time to launch into a monologue on the best ways to dispose of a body. But she did manage to gauge the look on Emilio’s face, the tone of his voice. Good. Bridie wasn’t the only one who was pissed. 

The voices shut up long enough so Bridie could hear herself slandered as a thief. “Excuse you?” she said, pushing past the woman so she now stood on the opposite side of the threshold. “This is the first time I’ve stepped foot in your house.  So I think you should be nice, and show us further inside so we can have a nice chat.” Her voice was far too sweet, and was in stark contrast to the rage that started to simmer in her eyes. “By the way, I don’t believe I heard it. Can I have your name?”

________

Bridie was offended, and Emilio couldn’t quite blame her. He liked her, he decided, far more than he had on that first meeting. Back then, she’d been an inconvenience. A person standing in his way, feet planted firmly between him and his payday. But now? She was on his side. And she wasn’t a bad person to have onside.

He followed her in as she shoved her way into the house, shuffling a little as the voices in his mind distracted him. The woman looked a little irritated at the invasion, but that infuriating smirk didn’t fall from her lips. Emilio thought he might like to remove it for her, but he couldn’t quite muster the energy to say so.

Bridie was speaking again, and Emilio tuned in to a familiar phrase. Can I have your name? Rhett had warned him about that, a thousand times. Another way fae stole from people, he’d said, another dirty trick. So Bridie was fae. It didn’t bother him the way he knew Rhett would think it should have, and as much as he might like to chalk that up to the curse, he knew it wasn’t accurate. He’d made plenty of friends who weren’t human, plenty of friends his brother wouldn’t approve of. What was one more?

The woman’s smile tightened. “Ooh, you’re one of those, are you? Never seen it on one of you before. You can’t have my name. I don’t think I have much of anything for you.” Savvy, then. Enough to know what not to do with a fae. A shame; if Bridie had gotten her name, they could have used that. Leverage, a bargaining chip, whatever you wanted to call it, it would have been nice to have. Instead, they were stuck with…

“Tell us how to undo it.” He blurted it out without meaning to, the words jumbled as they left his mouth. The woman turned back to him, smile softening again.

“Oh, you poor things. You both look terrible. I’d offer you some tea, but I don’t want to waste it. It’s not like it’ll make much of a difference, will it?” She laughed the empty, airy laugh that wealthy people so often used.

—

The tiny flame of hope in her chest guttered out at that sentence. One of those. “Those what, you’ll have to be more specific. One of those people that is in your house now? Yes I am.” Bridie said testily. “And you are the sort of person who gets off on not helping other people, apparently. I’m betting you won the guess who’s going to the retirement home contest with your family.” At least now her exhaustion had a target. 

She glanced at Emilio as his demand tumbled out. Bridie pointed at him as if to say ‘what he said,’ before rubbing at her eyes. She could almost smell the woman’s delight as the woman started talking again. Bridie couldn’t quite hear the words- not as the cacophony in her head swelled again like the world’s worst orchestra- but the all to pleased tone was accompanied with a faint scent that Bridie often latched onto as the promise of a good meal. Delight. Unfortunately, this woman’s smelled like a powdery lily fragrance that the faun associated with boring old women with horrible taste. Funny how people always reflected a bit of themselves in their emotions. 

She realized the woman had said something, and based on the stupid smug look on her face, it wasn’t good. “Can you like. Cut the shit? For five fucking minutes, you depressing old hag?” The faun grumbled under her breath. She looked at Emilio, at a loss. 

____

Even without a curse putting him on edge, Emilio had little patience for people like this. He’d never been much good at conversation and, as a result, he didn’t like beating around the bush. Whether Bridie felt similarly or the curse simply had her sharing in the sentiment today, he wasn’t sure. In any case, though, he was glad for it. He nodded as she spoke, glaring at the woman sullenly and trying to push the voices in his head aside long enough to maintain a presence in the conversation.

The woman sighed, shaking her head at the rudeness from her guests. “The necklace I sent you to retrieve was cursed, yes,” she said, addressing Emilio. Glancing back to Bridie, she added, “And I suppose you had some contact with it as well. It spreads through extended physical contact.”

“You’re not cursed,” Emilio pointed out in a low mumble. The woman smiled.

“You really are a detective, aren’t you?” She cooed, and he glared at her until she continued. “Yes, a keen observation. I’m not cursed. It was placed on the necklace by an ancestor some centuries ago. She used her blood in the ritual. Anyone of the same bloodline is immune to the effects. Call it an anti-theft system. An effective one, mind you. I suppose if the two of you are this bad off, the thief’s already gotten what was coming to them. Good riddance.”

“Stop,” Emilio ground out. “Just — Just stop talking. Tell us how to fix it.” She must have a failsafe, right? Some way of keeping people from succumbing to it? But as he smile tightened, he realized he knew what she was going to say well before she said it.

“I’m afraid I can’t fix it. Not without damaging the heirloom and, well, I did just go through an awful lot of trouble getting it back, didn’t I? It’d be a waste to let you damage it now.”

—

Bridie dead panned at the woman’s comment about her contact with the necklace. “No shit, Sherlock.” Based on Emilio’s reaction, he was probably just about as fed up with the woman’s bullshit as she was. 

A blood curse? Alarm bells clanged through the faun’s mind. Mortals and their goddamn need to play with magic. She knew enough to know that stumbling into a blood curse was bad. She was grateful when the woman was cut off by her cursed compatriot. The woman’s voice was just as painful to listen to as the myriad of voices fighting over each other in her brain. She wanted to yell at all of them to shut up shut up shut up, but then she’d have to listen to herself too. If she got out of this, she wouldn’t think a single thing and would simply relish in the silence. 

I can’t fix it.

“No you won’t fix it. You can fix it because you know how. You won’t fix it because you’re a terrible person with shitty taste in gaudy things that hurt people.” She snapped over the roar of voices in her head, every muscle in her body dreaming of nothing more than doing a happy little jig on the woman to trample her. Bridie looked at Emilio, silently pleading with the man to let her strangle the old bat. 

______

Looking to Bridie, the woman considered her for a moment before shrugging. “I suppose you’re at least partially right. I could fix it. But I’m not going to.” Her smile was wry and unamused and cruel, and Emilio wanted so badly to wipe it off her face any way he could. But where there was one curse, there could be more. Killing her might start more problems than it solved.

(And there was another reason, too. The way his own voice had joined in with the awful, awful people speaking in his head, the way it sounded like it belonged with them. He was just as bad as the rest of them, he knew. He wanted to be better.)

“You’re not very good houseguests, are you? Rude, quiet. I think it’d be better if you were off now.” Still smiling that terrible, fake smile, she waved a hand towards the door. “Go on, then. I’d say you’ve still got a few days left in you. Well…” Her eyes slid over to Emilio, whose jaw was tightly clenched. “Maybe a little less. I’d suggest making the most of them.”

Emilio swallowed, the lump in his throat making it seem a Herculean task. Reaching out, he gripped Bridie’s upper arm perhaps a little too tightly. Half a warning for her, half a lifeline for him. “There is nothing for us here.” He spoke slowly, trying to fit his tongue around the words. His accent was heavier than it usually was, all the effort he usually put into lessening it shifted just to make sure he’d be heard. This was getting them nowhere. They needed to leave so they could come up with a new plan. If this woman wouldn’t help them, they’d find another way. They had to.

—

Bridie wanted to cry. Wanted to scream. Wanted to make this woman dance until she exhausted herself, and then make her keep dancing as Bridie slowly slipped away from sanity as the curse demanded. Or until death claimed her. Whichever came first. 

A low keening noise was the only indication that she gave. She wouldn’t sob. Not in front of that miserable old bitch. And crying would be a waste of whatever time she had left. The faun flinched at the feeling of a hand on her arm. Had phantom hands come to join the phantom voices? But she saw a hand on her arm. Saw where the hand connected to a wrist, that connected to an arm, that connected to Emilio. And she let him tow her away. 

It was over. 

It was all over. 

But it couldn’t be over. It couldn’t- she was only twenty-eight! So young, with so much more to do, to celebrate, to taste, to experience, why- why should she have to slip into madness and then oblivion now-

Her thoughts joined the screaming masses inside her head. Some laughed. Some screamed. Some sang. Some whispered. She wasn’t sure which was hers. Her glamour wavered as her thoughts got lost and her focus slipped. 

But then she remembered the hand on her arm, and covered it with her own. She reinforced her glamour and gritted her teeth. “All of you, just shut the fuck up.” She hissed to the voices, who seemed surprised to be addressed at last, and gave momentary pause. She looked to Emilio once they were far away, her hand still holding tightly to the one on her arm. “Let’s get in the car. We need to talk.”

_______

There was a moment, a fraction of a second where her form seemed to shimmer. From a relatively normal looking woman to something else — curling horns, strange legs, fur. It was gone so quickly that Emilio could almost believe it had been a part of the curse… but he remembered her words inside. Can I have your name? Turning his head to the side, he pretended he hadn’t seen it just as he’d pretended not to see Teddy’s face shift when their glasses slipped down their face in their boathouse months ago, just like he pretended not to notice the way Perro loved Ren the way he only ever loved people who weren’t entirely human. He was getting good at pretending. He’d never been able to tell if that was a good thing or a bad one.

Nodding as Bridie spoke, he pulled her towards the car, half leading her and half leaning on her. He opened the passenger's side door to let her in, then moved over to the driver’s side to climb in himself. For a moment, he just sat there. He made no move to start the car, but his hands gripped the wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white with the force of it. Closing his eyes, he sighed. 

“It’s the necklace,” he said, though that was obvious. “I mean, it’s — We have to get the necklace. Break it. That’s the only thing I can think of.” If it were something simpler, the woman probably wouldn’t have been so adamantly against it. No matter how cruel she might be, she wouldn’t deny them relief if relief cost her nothing to give. Emilio had to believe that much. Opening his eyes, he turned back to Bridie. “We’re gonna need to steal it.”

—

Bridie nodded in agreement. “Steal it, burn her house to the ground in an attempt to melt it- I don’t give a fuck, it needs to go. Now. Blood curses are so bad.” Her hands opened and closed into fists as her gaze drifted back up toward the house where the one thing that could cure them both was hidden. 

“But she’s going to know that we’re coming.” She was talking quickly, as if she had to get her thoughts out before the voices interrupted her again. “I mean, look at you. Big bad detective man. Why the fuck would you take it. Just giving up doesn’t look like it’s in your vocabulary. And I think she may have caught on that I wanted nothing more than to stomp her smug face in.” 

The voices started cackling and jabbering again. “I said shut the fuck up-” She hissed again. Bridie was answered with grumbles, but another momentary reprieve. “How the fuck are we going to do this. What is the play. Because my answer is usually to try and seduce her, but there is no way in fucking hell I’m kissing that lady.”

____

He couldn’t find it in him to disagree with her sentiment; burning the woman’s house down was a tempting proposal. But… “We need to be sure it’s broken all the way. So we need to get our hands on it. Probably break it with the both of us there.” 

Bridie had a point, of course. They’d tried asking nicely, and that was going to be a point against them. She’d suspect that they would come back for the necklace. Maybe she even wanted them to. She’d certainly seemed to enjoy their misery well enough that Emilio wouldn’t have been surprised if she wanted another taste. “Yes, I think she might know you don’t like her,” he replied dryly.

She snapped at someone not present, someone in her head, and Emilio understood the urge. He’d tried the same thing a few times, but he found it brought him little relief. Maybe it worked better for her. The curse had to work differently for a fae than it did for a human, even if the human was a hunter. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he tried to push past the voices in his own head well enough to think. Luckily, the answer was obvious enough. “I know someone. Nora. She’s my…” He struggled to find the word, giving up with a shrug. “She works for me. She knows how to break into places. Talks about doing it a lot. She’ll help if I ask her to.”

—

“So what?” She asked, grimacing slightly as one solitary voice started wailing, pleading for its life as though it were replaying its final moments in her head. Those were the voices she hated listening to the most. Bridie shook her head again, trying to shake the voice out her ear like water. “We steal it and then like… hit it with a hammer?”

The faun snorted. “If she’s still not sure if I like her, I’d love to get my point further across.” It was a grumble, but she managed a hint of a smile. Somehow having the answer to what was wrong with her and knowing the solution brought a little bit of clarity. She wasn’t going crazy- or at least not of her own accord. This was magic, plain and simple. Just not any kind of magic she was practiced in. But magic could be undone for the most part, and that fact was something to hold on to. 

Nora. That was a nice name. One of the voices in her head picked it up and started chattering the name over and over and over- nevermind. It was not so nice after hearing it seventy times in a minute. “Where is Nora, and how much time will she need to prepare? What do you even need for breaking and entering?”

____

“Something like that. We can worry about how we’re breaking it after we have it.” One thing at a time was the only way Emilio was going to be able to get through this. Even on a good day, he wasn’t the best at planning. His ideas always tended to be spur of the moment things that didn’t much focus on the long term effects. Hunters, after all, had little reason to worry about the long term; most of them didn’t live to see thirty. He was already an unwilling exception to that rule.

Though maybe not for much longer. Not for the first time, he thought of the pawn shop owner. How long had he lasted? The newspaper article on his death had been published only a few days after Emilio saw him. Had he been towards the beginning of the curse when Emilio went to his shop, or already nearing the end? He heard Bridie talking, something about a point, but it was hard to focus. And Bridie talked a lot. Better to make sure he heard the important things and let the smaller ones slide, wasn’t it?

Like this. Questions about the plan. Belatedly, he realized he’d said Nora’s name. He probably shouldn’t have. She didn’t seem to like people knowing it. But it was a little late to take it back now, and so, so hard to control what came out of his mouth. “She’s at her place,” he mumbled, leaving out the fact that ‘her place’ was a crypt. “Don’t think she needs much time. Don’t think she needs much stuff, either. She’ll know how to do it. Just need to make sure she knows what the necklace looks like.” He rubbed at his eyes, finally starting the car and putting it into drive. “I’m going to drop you off at your club and then get with Nora. I’ll let you know when we’re doing it. We can meet at my place before.” He paused a moment, his grip on the steering wheel the only thing keeping his hands from shaking. “It’ll be soon.” It had to be. Otherwise, there’d be nothing left to save.

_____

Her mind was getting crowded again. Jabbering and cackling and talking all began clashing over one another in her mind, and she buried her face in her hands with a groan. Bridie leaned forward to rest against the dashboard. Screaming back at the voices in her head worked a bit, but she was so damn tired she didn’t know how long she could do it for. And if she had to steal a jewel, she needed as much energy as she could. 

She heard bits and pieces of the plan. Mostly she heard ‘your club,’ and ‘I’ll let you know’, and ‘meet at my place’.  She figured that was enough to piece together what was happening. The faun watched the man grip the steering wheel. She didn’t say anything, but Bridie understood. 

Bridie rarely ever sounded serious. She was too busy having a good time for that. But she placed a hand on the dashboard near the steering wheel. She didn’t touch him, since she knew they were both too ok edge for that. “Then let’s get ourselves out of this mess.” She said slowly. “And when we do, I owe you a drink for giving you a hard time over a stupid ugly necklace.”

[sommer-girl]

Fremover, Part I | Self Para

Date: 12 March 2023 Warnings: Discussion of the destruction of the Norway Pixie Hollow, vague reference to Anna's drama with Ashleigh

Anna arrives in Norway.

Anna’s world had fallen apart overnight. It turned out that her best friend was never her friend to begin with; that her best friend actually wasn’t a nice person at all; and that Anna was in the wrong in all the conflicts, big and small, that had begun over Ashleigh. When I go, Ashleigh had said, you’re not going to have a single friend left.

That wasn’t entirely true. Anna still had Elsa. And she still had Danny, who was here despite how distant and weird he had been lately (honestly, Anna was a little surprised). She had Peri, whom she was really looking forward to seeing. But she still couldn’t shake this awful cloud that had descended over her, this sense that everyone could see exactly what she was and everyone was judging her. So she’d even pulled away from the few people who were still on her team, burying herself in a book on Norwegian fairy history even though she sat next to Danny on the plane.

She knew she had to talk to all of those people she’d fallen out with over Ashleigh. She had to apologize to them. The thought was as mortifying as it was inevitable; especially when it came to Nemo, who was on this trip. Anna couldn’t avoid eye contact with him forever.

But weren’t people always telling Anna to think less about herself? To focus on the people, the issues that she was so passionate about? That sounded like a pretty attractive plan to her, now. So she was silent, eyes focused forward, as the group made their way to the Fremover offices for orientation.

“Anna?”

Anna’s head whipped around. Somehow, deep in thought, Anna hadn’t even noticed the familiar waves of frosty blonde hair. The person who was a huge part of the reason she was here to begin with!

Somewhere, despite all her heartache and confusion, Anna felt a little twinge of hope.

“Peri!”  She peeled off from the group that was starting to make their way into the meeting room— she wouldn’t be long, really!— and ran to give Peri a hug.

“Anna! It’s so good to see you! Welcome to Fremover!” Peri greeted in Norwegian. She looked happier than Anna had seen her in a long time. Maybe Anna was projecting a little bit, but she looked like she had this sense of purpose about her. Anna envied that. All she wanted was to know what her purpose was. Especially after realizing she had no idea, after all, who she really was.

“Thanks!” Anna said breathlessly. “I’m, uh, really excited.”

“That’s great. You should be. I think Mari is leading your orientation today. You’ll be in good hands,” Peri assured her. “But I won’t hold you up any longer. Get in there!” Peri smiled and gestured toward the door. “See you later!”

Anna followed behind the last person to go on and grabbed an open seat at the table in the center of the room, still riding the high of running into Peri. It didn’t quell the nervous energy that was still bubbling up in her. She just… didn’t want to mess this up. Especially because of who her dad was. And at least that was a familiar anxiety, instead of the unfamiliar territory Ashleigh’s words had led her into…

There wasn’t much time to go down that particular spiral, though. 

“Hey everyone!” Anna sat up straighter to see a small, stocky woman with silver-blonde hair pulled back to show pointed ears enter through the front end of the meeting room. Her face was weather-beaten, with deep lines around her eyes, but her smile seemed to warm the whole room. “Welcome to Arendelle! My name is Mari, and I’m the volunteer coordinator here at Fremover. First off, I just want to thank you all for being here. You could have done a lot of different things with your spring break, but you’re here with us!”

With that, Mari launched into a detailed explanation of Fremover’s mission. The word, she explained (though Anna already knew this) meant “Forward” in Norwegian, And that summed it up, what they were doing: bringing the fairies of the Norsjø Hollow forward. Into life beyond the hollow. 

The organization had started as a way to connect displaced fairies with new hollows that could take them in. Everyone wanted to stay together, but it simply wasn’t possible in all cases, and so the volunteers kept detailed records of who had gone where. When lost fairies came to them looking for their families, Fremover helped them find the people they were looking for, and gave them food and a place to stay while they waited or planned their next moves.

Now, most of the fairies were settled in their new homes, but lost fairies still came by all the time. And Mari knew her work wasn’t done yet. Her new focus was to petition the government to give back the land that had been destroyed by developers, and to dedicate it as a monument to the ruined hollow. 

“It’s slow-going, but we push forward,” Mari said, smiling gamely. Anna hung on her every word. This was someone who was doing something. Making a difference. She wasn’t a politician or a celebrity, she was just a person. And she was maybe doing more for fairies than the entirety of the Arendelle government. “Any questions?”

Anna’s hand shot up in the air. She was about to put her entire heart into this thing.

[eclvpses]

The nice thing about Dilara was that things didn’t always have to be said. She was smart, and she’d known his family long enough to read them like a book by now - not that any of them were traditionally textbook, but she seemed to speak their language. When Leo struggled with his words, most of the time she could pick up on them, almost expertly. Usually, Leo would tease her about it, but it’d come in handy more and more often. Now, he was just grateful. It was a comfort, knowing his aunt had a friend that wasn’t related to her by blood. It was good to have an outside third party, Leo always thought, a friend to fall back on - Dee had seemed to step up one day and refused to back down, even after she’d witnessed the deepest caverns of what they were all like.

Happy that they didn’t delve on the more serious, Leo rolled his eyes cartoonishly. It was a major tonal change, but he appreciated it - those that knew him well knew he’d never been good when it came to expressing how he felt, how he really felt when things got significant. It was worse when it came to his family, something he tried not to open up about if he could help it. “You expect me to clean? After you give me your poison fluids?” About a dozen dirty jokes immediately came to mind - Leo’s restraint truly showed no bounds. Side-stepping around the mess he’d very clearly made, Leo made a vague gesture towards it, clearly stating he’d get to it when he got to it. There was no clear indication of when this would be - if he did. His mindset immediately leapt to someone else would have to get to it eventually if he didn’t.

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” He mumbled, chuckling lightly as he buried his face in his hands. “That’s not fair - it’s a bad day for me! I’m usually plenty polite, totally accommodating, even when people are being really fuckin’ annoying. Y’know, I had to talk to this little old lady for, like… an hour yesterday.” It’d actually been the better part of his shift. Even for the older clientele, Leo struggled with biting his tongue, refraining from all but giving them heart attacks, but she’d been a refreshing change. He’d never admit it, but she’d probably been funnier than he was. “It made me actually jealous of you for a second. Then I thought about working with only kids and almost tore all my hair out. You have the patience of a saint. Babies are cool and all, but once they can talk - yeesh. They’re all dribbling assholes.”

“I wouldn’t get too carried away believing such things.” she teased as he entered her arms then squealed when he lifted her off the ground. It was sweet, she though, how excited he always seemed to get whenever she came around. It lightened her mood without fail, even if she hadn’t been down before. Everything just seems to shine from then on. Dee held on tight so she wouldn’t go flying - though she doubted he’d just lounge her - but you could never be too careful. “You’re a real charlatan, you know? Cheeky nugget.” she scolded him playfully scrunching up her nose to let him know she wasn’t buying a single word he’d just uttered. Bringing her hand up towards his hair, she gave him a good ruffle messing up his previously laid strands.  As he went on, Dee found herself anxiously biting at her lower lip. There was no stopping the worry that marched its way in her thoughts as she thought of her dear friend suffering. It was hard enough knowing that she hurt still, but even worse not being able to help ease her pain in any way. Her doctorate nothing but a pile of papers when it came to matters of the heart. Finn’s death was something Dilara tried to not bring up with Marj, doing her best to find distractions and things for them to explore in order to give her sweet friend some much needed emotional disconnect. They had shared plenty of evenings discussing the matter and how she felt, but over time Dee found that it didn’t help her all that much. She was so ready to be a shoulder to cry on, but also felt the need to ensure Marj didn’t waste away due to it. Leo didn’t need to finish his sentence for her to understand, so she nodded her head and made a mental note to pass by the house after she left the flower shop.  Without missing a beat, she angled the coffee in his direction for easier reach, pushing aside all previous thoughts and conversation. She liked to follow Leo’s lead whenever conversation got too serious, not wanting to over step or make him think she was prying too much. Dilara would ensure to come around more often and organize activities for both the women to dive into over some much needed wine. “It’s good to know your heart’s loyaly.” she grinned at his display of affection. Dee knew him too well to think it went beyond a simple jest so she didn’t attempt to put a stop to his flirtatious nature when it came to her. He was no longer a child, so their conversations could stand to be a little more mature. All within reason. “Watch your mouth!” she exclaimed, smacking the side of his arm over the coffee outburst, “If you don’t like it then don’t drink it, Leopold but I will not have you talking bad about my locally crafted coffee.” Her eyes darted around them to the splatter of coffee and spit that adorned the previously dry floor. “You better be getting a bucket for that.” she said, chuckling and rolling her eyes. “But I have some free time to spare. What have you been up to? I heard you on the phone when I first walked in. Does Marj know how you treat her customers?”

[mercy-burning]

Affection

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Summary: Spencer and Y/N decidedly hate each other. But when a near-death experience puts one of them in a coma, their mutual hatred might have to take a backseat— Or will it? Category: Angst / Happy Ending! + Humor and a lil bit of Fluff Content: Strong language, Reader is in a coma, mentions of injury, kissing Word Count: 2.6k

MASTERLIST

NOTE: This one’s for Pom’s ( @imagining-in-the-margins ) September Writing Challenge, Enemies To Lovers! I have another one coming up as well, but this idea wouldn’t get out of my head ever since I watched The Abyss with my dad and I had to get it out 😅 I hope you like it!!

———

I swear to fucking God, if this motherfucker really thinks he—

That was the last thing Y/N thought before she was knocked out cold.

With her line of work, it was natural to assume that she was thinking about the unsub, but unfortunately the criminal she and her team were tracking down was the farthest thing on her mind. Spencer would have chastised her for it— letting something else cloud her thoughts while she was in a dark alley, alone, and with a serial killer on the loose.

"You should be smarter than that!" she could hear him say in that high pitch he always carried when he was upset— especially with her. "If you don't get yourself killed one of these days, then it'll be the rest of us!"

Thinking about it made her blood boil.

"It's your fault," she wanted to tell him. "I had to blow off some steam because you were pissing me off!"

The only thing was... She couldn't tell him.

Well... She could.

He just couldn't hear her, because no one could.

It was like some stupid, cliché movie, where you found yourself standing over your dying body and having to choose whether to live or not. It seemed like the obvious choice, to fucking live, but... Y/N found herself wandering around her hospital room, yelling into the void and attempting to jump back into her own body.

Nothing was working.

And when Spencer showed up, his face red and his hair and clothes all messed up, she wanted to scream at him.

"Hey!"

Nothing. He was practically lifeless as he drifted to the chair next to her bed and sat down. It was nearly impossible to read from his expression and body language how he was feeling, and that alone was enough to make her angry again. (Not that the anger had really gone away since waking up next to her comatose body, of course.)

"Hey! Dumbass!"

Still nothing.

As Spencer just blankly stared down at Y/N's bed, she decided she'd had enough.

"SPENCER FUCKING REID, IF YOU DON'T HELP ME RIGHT NOW I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL HAUNT YOUR ASS UNTIL THE END OF ETERNITY, AND I'M GONNA LAY FAT, STINKIN' GHOST SHITS IN YOUR SHOES, DO YOU HEAR ME? AND—"

"I hate you."

It was a bold enough statement to stop Y/N in her tracks, no matter how quietly he'd mumbled it. She knew for sure that he didn't like her, after years of constant bickering and dirty glares and whatever else, but... The word 'hate' was like a knife that sliced through her joking rage and stopped the whole world around her.

If she wasn't already out of her own body, she just knew she would have felt her soul leave.

Spencer didn't hate anyone. Not that she was aware of, anyway. He found nearly everyone delightful, and vice versa... But for some reason, he hated Y/N.

She scoffed, crossing her arms. "Yeah, well... Feeling's mutual, I guess..."

"You're stupid, and reckless, and you don't think. And you're a goddamn nightmare to work with... You know what— You're a stone-cold bitch."

His words made her physically step backwards, and it felt like if she were a cartoon, there might have been steam coming out of her ears.

"Yeah, well jokes on you, you make it easy," she seethed. "Fuck you!"

"How... How dare you..." he continued, anger reddening his face.

Y/N watched as he balled his fists and leaned in a little closer to her body, his voice tight and strained. "How dare you walk into my life and boss me around and make it impossible to breathe... From the moment I met you, you've brought out this... this fire in me that I can't put out no matter how hard I try, and it's insufferable—You're insufferable, and I hate you, how dare—"

Whatever he was going to say next was cut off by a shortness of breath. Spencer breathed in, loud and choked, and the next breath he let out was nothing short of a sob. His eyes squeezed shut, tears rolling down them and his hands clutched the bedsheets with a vigor and rage that Y/N had never seen from him, even in all the years she'd spent visibly getting on his last nerves.

"N—No," she choked out, feeling her throat tighten. "Don't... Don't turn into a sappy mess on me now, do you hear me, Reid? You hate me, don't... Don't..."

"I don't hate you," he whispered, wiping his eyes and reaching out to grab her lifeless hand. "I hate that you make me feel this way, but... I could never hate you..."

She wanted nothing more than to be able to squeeze his hand back, to tell him, not even necessarily with words but with a simple gesture, that she was right there and wasn't going to go anywhere.

She just... had to figure out how to make that true.

Still, Spencer kept going, a small laugh bubbling up through tears and phlegm. "But I will hate you if you die, because I just know you're gonna come back and haunt me for eternity... Probably... shit in my shoes or something."

Y/N barked a laugh that was true and pure... Happy, even.

The genius may have acted like he hated her, but it turns out he knew her pretty well, perhaps even fondly in one way or another.

To think— All those years she spent seeing him sneer at her, feeling his glare burn into her soul, the amount of times she caught him making faces or inappropriate gestures behind her back, all of it... And the whole time, he was probably doing it with a little flicker of fondness deep within the confines of his heart, which he swore to fill with nothing but hatred for her.

The thought made the little flicker in her own heart burn brighter.

As she wandered closer to her bed, beside Spencer and in front of her own body, she reached her hand out to see if she could touch his face, to give him something...

Even though she had no luck, something shifted when he spoke.

"Just... Come back to me, please? I know I'm not good at apologizing, but if it means I get you back... I swear that I will make up every horrible thing I've ever done or said to you. Just... Please don't leave me."

He laid his head down in his hands and tried not to cry again, every said horrible thing replaying on a loop in his brain like some kind of taunt. He wished more than anything for a chance to make it up to Y/N, and now he might not ever be able to.

"You think I'd leave this mortal earth without getting the chance to kick your ass?"

Everything was so fuzzy and light and brimming with these high emotions that Y/N almost didn't realize she was saying these words and Spencer was hearing them. She almost didn't feel the warmth of her bloodstream beneath layers of skin, the beat of her heart slowly coming back to life at the sounds and smells of the hospital room.

She almost didn't realize that Spencer was grabbing her now, his warm hands covering her cold ones and bringing them back to life as well.

"Screw you," he breathed with absolutely no malice to be detected in his voice.

They shared a smile so bright, no one would have been able to guess that they never got along.

TWO WEEKS LATER

Not only was she stuck at home doing nothing while on suspension (Yes, it turns out that storming off into an alley and not paying attention while on the job, just because a co-worker pissed you off, can get you suspended by Chief Strauss), but Y/N was also being visited by a daily rotation of her co-workers and friends and family, and her house was nearly covered in flower bouquets and baked goods.

It was a nightmare.

The sentiment was nice, sure, but if she had to move one more vase, she was going to start throwing them.

God, maybe Spencer was right, I am a stone-cold bitch...

Thinking of him also put a little damper on her mood.

He hadn't been to visit her once... And she figured that after their nice little moment at the hospital, he'd at least stop by with flowers or an "I'm glad you're not dead!" call, but there was nothing on his end. Not even a text message or a letter.

But for all she knew, their small moment of kindness could have been a figment of her concussed imagination.

Please, she thought, if I brought it up to him he'd probably just laugh in my face.

Rather than a laugh, Y/N heard the bright sound of her doorbell, which normally would have meant a fun unexpected visit or a date she was getting ready for, but by now it only meant another vase of flowers or a pie from a neighbor she still didn't remember the last name to.

Either way, she answered the door with as polite a smile as she could muster, and instead of finding a vaguely familiar neighbor or acquaintance, she found Spencer.

Though, to be fair, he was holding a bouquet of flowers.

"Well, this is a surprise," Y/N drawled, crossing her arms. "I don't even think you've ever been to my house."

She was surprised to see him nervous around her, rather than irritated. And she would have found it endearing had they not been practically mortal enemies from the moment they met... She was suspicious.

"O—Oh, yeah... I know, I just thought... I wanted to come see how you were doing... These are for you."

He held out the flowers, which were truthfully the pretties set she'd received, and it irked her. Because of course he of all people would be the one to tell which kinds of flowers she'd prefer.

"Thanks," she said, taking them from him and allowing him the space to come inside. "Watch out, it's a maze in here..."

While she looked for somewhere to put the flowers on display, she could feel Spencer looking around her space, probably profiling what he could behind a sea of flowers.

"Hm."

Y/N sighed. "What?"

"Nothing. I'm just... I'm surprised this many people actually like you."

Despite the nature of his observation, she found it comforting. That level of playful contempt was what she was used to, and it brought a sparkle to her eye as she turned to face him. "Ha... I'm not a complete bitch, you know."

"Sure."

Between the growing grin on his face and the smirk forming on her own, Spencer and Y/N found themselves falling back into a familiar rhythm. And yet, something about it was still... different.

So much so that Y/N felt honest-to-God butterflies in her stomach when he approached, hands retreating from his pockets and head tilting off to the side. His expression held that look he got when he was trying to figure someone out, usually an unsub. She hated to admit it to herself, but a little part of her always found that side of him extremely attractive.

And now that it was right in front of her?

She didn't know what to make of it.

"What?" she snapped, looking for an excuse to hide any and all attraction she was feeling.

Spencer stepped back a little, breaking away from whatever trance he'd just been in. "God, why do you always have to do that?"

"Do what?"

"You push away every single show of affection! Any time I'm trying to be nice, you just act like it's some big inconvenience to you!"

Y/N laughed. "Ha! That's what that was? Just now? When you insulted me, and then started stalking towards me with that look you get when you're interrogating an unsub? That's what you call affection?"

"That's not... That's not what that was!"

"Oh really? Then what was it?"

"It was part of the routine! Banter! Y—You know, that's our thing! We insult each other, and we act like we hate each other but we... We don't, really..."

The longer he went on, the faster her heart raced. This was the moment in the movie where he inevitably blurted out that he loved her, and in turn she would either kiss him or slap him, or slap him and then kiss him...

But Y/N was still feeling rather playful despite the swarm of butterflies in her stomach begging for some relief.

"Oh?" she prompted, taking a slow step closer to him. "We don't?"

Spencer seemed to get red immediately, and he avoided her eyes. "U—Uh... Well I... I thought... Maybe I read it all wrong, a—and I'm sorry if I did..."

She'd been getting closer meanwhile, and now they were practically toe-to-toe. He did his best to ignore her, taking a few steps back until she cornered him against the front door. And with the way he wasn't doing anything to get out of his predicament, she took that as his acceptance and took another leap.

"What..." she cooed, crawling her fingers up the front of his chest like a spider. "You like me? Hmm?"

When he finally looked down at her, she allowed herself to smile, albeit slowly and with calculation.

In a flash Spencer went from nervous to fed-up, weight seeming to visibly lift from his chest as he sank against the door. "You're messing with me..."

"It's so fun."

"You know what, screw you."

"Is that a promise?"

"Maybe it is. What are you gonna do ab—"

She didn't let him finish.

In an instant, Y/N lunged forward and pulled him down for a kiss.

Even though she thought he might have tried to take control of the situation, he ended up surprising her with a wanton moan as his hands clutched at her sides, holding on for dear life. Their bodies and tongues collided in a mess of years worth of pent-up tension, chaotic and wild and fiercely beautiful in a way that put even the greatest first kisses to shame.

And of course, Spencer had to go and ruin it.

He pushed her away and looked almost panicked. "W—Wait, are you even cleared to do this?"

Y/N rolled her eyes, reaching out for him again. "I'm fine."

"Y/N, you were in the hospital! I thought... I thought you were..."

She appreciated the sentiment, but with her entire body on fire from his touch, she decided she needed more of it. "Yeah, but I'm not... I'm very much alive, and you know what?"

He blinked back at her, watching carefully as she leaned in close to him and wrapped her arms around his neck.

"It's because of you. You make me feel... more alive than I've ever been."

"And... You're not messing with me this time?"

With a laugh,  Y/N shook her head and leaned up to brush her nose with his. "Nuh-uh... But if you'd like to, I'd love to mess with you in a more fun way. And maybe I'll even let you do it back..."

Spencer hummed, feeling himself gravitate towards her more with every passing second. "Deal."

He barely got the word out all the way before she was dragging him through the maze of flora and contained food and into her bedroom, where piece by piece, their hatred and fondness for one another combined to create the most exquisite of nights.

———

PERMANENT TAGLIST:  @elldell1204 @muffin-cup @calm-and-doctor @slutforthegubes @rainsong01 @yourmisosoup @liveloudwriteloud @reidsconverse @la-vie-en-amour1 @edgycowboy666 @averyhotchner @centiaaa @lizziechaseee @coffeeandendlesswords @usuck @spenxerslut @ssacalumsg0lden @emilyprentisslittlewhore @takeyourleap-of-faith @reidyoulikeabook @spencerreid9 @b-a-utiful @jareauswifey @flipperpenguins @pansexualthing @donald4spiderman @awesomebooklover17​ @shemarmooresfedora @izraahh1 @bakugouswh0r3 @singularityjc @xoxospencerreid @thatsonezesty13 @big-galaxy-chaos @mggskneescrews @youabitchhhh @spencersjello @moonlight-2-6 @starrylang @foreveryoungxx3 @spencerreidscoffeecup @morganwilliams  @this-is-doctor-and-its-calm @gubswh0re @mrsobrien888  @umbreonwolfy 

TAGS NOT WORKING: @ayla-1605 @loveeee@2134 @emilyprsntiss

If you would like to be added to or removed from the taglist, feel free to message me or leave a comment and I’ll get on it right away!

[harpershigh]

The sunlight stabbed into Jaheira’s pounding skull like an unwelcome dagger. She groaned, shielding her eyes with an arm as she stirred, her mouth dry as the Calim Desert and her head spinning as if she'd been tossed into a maelstrom. Every muscle ached, her body feeling heavier than it had any right to.

She sat up — well, more like half-rolled, half-sat — only to immediately regret the decision as her stomach churned in protest. Clutching her temples, she squinted at her surroundings. The distinct absence of anyone else struck her first. Alone. Blessedly, cruelly alone.

The next thing to hit her was the state of the tent. Several wine bottles lay on their side, its contents long since drained, while her boots were haphazardly discarded in two opposite corners. Her cloak? Missing. Her sabers? Propped up against a pile of things that were definitely not hers.

“By Silvanus’ green grace…” she muttered hoarsely, her voice cracking like dry leaves. “Never again...”

It was a lie, and she knew it. Like clockwork, she knew she’d break it the moment someone waved a bottle of wine and a half-decent excuse in her direction. Never again... Until next time. Because who was she fooling? Certainly not herself.

She managed to push herself upright, swaying precariously. She cursed softly under her breath, the sound more a sigh of resignation than anger.

Then, like a cruel whisper, snippets of last night began to claw their way to the surface of her mind. There was singing — horrible, off-key singing. Something about her proclaiming she was “still young enough to drink anyone under the table.” And then came the anger — hot and consuming, a tidal wave she couldn’t stop. The cruel, terrible memories clawed their way to the surface, each one sharper than the last. And poor Gale... How had he ended up as the target of her misplaced fury? It wasn’t fair — none of it was — but especially not to him. Yet, she’d let her rage spill over, lashing out at the one person who had only ever tried to help. The weight of it settled like a stone in her chest, heavy with shame and regret.

“Oh, gods,” she muttered, running a hand down her face. “What in all the hells did I do?”

Dragging herself upright at last, Jaheira stumbled toward the tent’s flap, her movements stiff as if she could will herself into appearing composed despite the invisible needles stabbing at her skull. The morning air hit her, and she paused, her eyes darting about until they landed on Gale. Her stomach churned — not only from the hangover, but from the weight of what she had done. She had messed up, and gods, did she know it.

Approaching him slowly, she stopped a few steps away, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her blouse. “Need a hand with breakfast?” she asked, her voice lighter than it should have been, her gaze fixed somewhere just past his shoulder. “I can, uh... chop vegetables or... something.”

She shuffled awkwardly, hesitant, then cleared her throat. “About yesterday,” she began, her tone faltering. “I... I wasn’t... it wasn’t—” She stumbled over her words, biting her lip before rushing on. “What I mean to say is, it was a long night, and I might’ve—well, I did—overstep. You know how tempers can be after—” She waved vaguely, gesturing to the air as if it held the answer. “Anyway, I just... I shouldn’t have snapped. Or said... what I said. Because... None of that made sense.”

Her words trailed off, and she dared a glance at him, her brow furrowed with something between apology and uncertainty. Gods above and below, what was her fucking problem? Why couldn’t she just swallow her damn pride and apologize? The words were there, right on the tip of her tongue, but they seemed to stick, mocking her at every turn.

With a sharp breath, she blurted it out, her voice tight, as though ripping the words from her chest: “Sorry. I’m sorry.” The words came in a rush, quick and jagged, like pulling a splinter free — painful but necessary. Her shoulders alumped as she couldn't even look him in the eye, as if the very act of apologizing might burn her alive.

Jaheira slammed her palms on the table, her eyes glassy and unfocused, but her voice sharp as a dagger’s edge. She swayed slightly as she pointed a finger in Gale’s direction, her tone slurring yet dripping with venom.

“Wizards,” she spat, her lip curling. “Every last one of you is the same. Arrogant bastards, playing gods with your little spells and your oversized egos. Always reaching for immortality, divinity, or some other unreachable nonsense — and damn the cost, eh? Damn the people you crush beneath your boots on the way!”

“I’ve seen what your kind is capable of. I lived through it. Irenicus — oh, he was one of you! A mage so obsessed with godhood that he tore my life apart like it was nothing. Tortured me, mauled my husband beyond any resurrection — do you know what that means? Hmm? No miracle, no magic, no bloody second chance! Just... gone.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, but she quickly straightened — or tried to — her hand clutching the chair so tightly her knuckles turned white.

“And for what? A petty dream of power that wasn’t his to take. That’s what wizards do. Take and take and take until there’s nothing left.” She glared at him, her expression a mix of fury and sorrow. Her legs wobbled, and she slumped into the chair, her head dropping into her hands. “I...” she muttered, her voice quieter now, almost as if in surrender. “I think I had too much wine...”

@harpershigh | oooof

What had started as a shared bottle with a friend had spiraled into several more, and both of them were now drowning in the bitter depths of intoxication. They had stumbled far past the threshold of a happy buzz, crashing through the haze of being sloshed and landing in the treacherous realm of their own haunted thoughts.

Gale’s fears loomed large, alcohol magnifying the shadows in his mind, whispering cruel truths he could scarcely refute. 'No one here likes you. They tolerate you because you’re useful. Not even Mystra liked you for you. When your power vanished, so did any chance of her love.'

He slouched into his chair, his gaze fixed on nothing, his lip trembling ever so slightly. Jaheira’s words cut deeper than any blade, sharper than any spell. 'I’m not Irenicus,' he wanted to scream. 'My desire for power was never for dominance, but to be useful, to be loved.' How could she not see that? How could she look at him and see just another arrogant wizard, another tyrant ready to crush others beneath his ambition?

Memories of their journey together flashed through his mind. Yes, he had killed—cultists, bandits, those who threatened their lives—but each act was a desperate struggle for survival, a fight to protect the people he cared about. He never killed for personal gain. He never tortured, never sacrificed innocents on the altar of his ambitions. Yet here he was, cast in the same shadow as Irenicus.

Jaheira didn’t know how often he teetered on the precipice of despair, how the void whispered promises of peace if he would just let go. If his death didn’t mean the death of her, of Wyll, of Shadowheart, of everyone in their camp, he might have stopped fighting long ago. The only things anchoring him to life were Elminster’s letter, Tara’s pleas for him to keep going.

But none of that mattered now. Not to her. She saw him as just another wizard, a cautionary tale of ambition’s corruption, someone who could never truly be loved, only tolerated. A tool. A means to an end.

A hollow whisper escaped him, barely audible over the weight of the silence. He spoke to himself moreso than his drinking companion.

"I have nothing left…"

The words hung in the air, a brittle confession laced with despair. Gale didn't take, he gave and gave until Mystra had nothing left to take of him. He wanted to say more, to explain himself, to bridge the chasm Jaheira’s accusations had carved between them. But the fight drained out of him, replaced by a deep, aching weariness. All he could hear in his mind was the reminder of his failures, his flaws.

His eyes glistened as he looked away, this time he spoke to her.

"I’m sorry…"

He was sorry for her loss, for what Irenicus did to her, for what pain his very presence had done to her and for simply not being good enough. Clearly he failed to prove that he was no better than wizards of the like.