#since it’ll be looping back in it might look a little odd but

[letoasai]

dp x dc

I’m usually more of a lurker in this fandom, you know? But this happened and it just needed to be written down. If someone wants to take the idea or continue it, go for it! Prompt - Consort

~~~ ~~~

Danny is told that while he is officially the Ghost King, there are a few last minute things to check off the list to keep the Observants from being able to mess with Danny's business. Clockwork even subtly confirms that this is something Danny should consider carefully. Being able to keep them in check is important.

 While not keen on a to-do list, Danny sighs and trusts that Clockwork is ultimately giving him less work.

He spends a few years doing odds and ends. Whatever task Clockwork mentions and it honestly suits Danny fine. It’s giving him time to grow into his position. It’s going well, that is until he learns that in his last task he has to consummate his newly acquired position in a very traditional way. With someone else...

That's bad enough, but it's thrown out to him that he must do this with one of his own kind. It's never been an issue before since The Ghost King is usually... a ghost and can pick whoever they want in the Zone.

Danny however is a halfa and because he's only one of three halfa's he's forced to pick between Vlad and Dani. A fruit loop and his clone/sister. The first is horrifying on many levels and the second is just plain unappealing. It's not happening, nope. 

It's practically a miracle that before Danny can completely fall into panic, Clockwork mentions the existence of a forth halfa. 

It doesn't matter who they are, it HAS to be better then his current options. That's how Danny ends up in Gotham.

~

"I can't believe you went without us." Sam complained. "We could have gone with you. What if you need help?" 

"I don't think Gotham is ready for ghost powers, Sam." Tucker commented. "Any trouble he runs into won't know what hit them." 

"Could you both stop wishing trouble on me?" Danny asked, he should have known he'd get ganged up on when he had them both on the phone at once. He was looking around and had noticed how he wasn't headed to the...best of neighborhoods. Had he not had ghost powers he might have turned right around. 

He'd gotten a fairly nice hotel room for the long weekend in a somewhat nice area. All of Gotham looked pretty damn bleak to him but at least he could easily survive in a place like this. There was so much ambient ectoplasm in the air that he was, frankly, surprised he hadn't spotted more ghosts. It was all to his benefit though. 

"Wishing?" Tucker chuckled, the sound of his keyboard clicking on the other side of the call. "It'll find you whether we wish it or not." 

"And then you'll be able to say you got to fight in Gotham." Sam lamented. 

"So this isn't about me not bringing you along to help me find this halfa, but because you just wanted to see this city in particular?" 

"Little bit." 

Tucker started laughing. "Damn, Sam. Nothing's stopping you from visiting." 

"There absolutely is." Sam grumbled. "Their names are Jeremy and Pam." "We're graduating soon, Sam." Danny commented. "After both your eighteen birthday and graduation you'll find your freedom." 

"And possibly your way out of their living will." Tucker commented, but Sam only snickered at the thought.

"That doesn't help me today. Danny's out in one of the coolest cities ever on a quest to get laid, and we’re stuck having a boring weekend." "Sam." Danny hissed as if someone else could have possibly over heard their conversation. This entire situation was beyond awkward. He didn't even know how to start. Hi, you're a halfa too? Wild? Wanna sleep with me so i can make sure my position isn't puppeteered?   "What? That's literally why you're there." Sam was back to being amused, conveniently forgetting for a second that she wasn't with him in Gotham. "You're not gonna seduce anyone with that attitude." "I'm not trying-!" "Aren't you supposed to be though?" She hummed. "Gotta put that charm to work, Phantom." "Oh shut up..." Danny grumbled. If this halfa immediately pegged him as king, would they feel obligated to sleep with him? Ugh, this was the worst. If the ghost he was tracking lived in this neighborhood then it was no wonder he was half dead... "I mean, the wording of this could mean anything." Tucker commented right as the clicking stopped. He'd shown his to-do list to Sam and Tucker ages ago, and this hurdle had always seemed so daunting. "Go forth and find what's just. A night of bliss and trust. A match for your soul in desire. A second coming to conspire." Tucker repeated the lines. "Man, someone did not take a poetry class." Danny just made a face, so sick of the instructions that even making fun of it didn't help anymore. "And you think that can mean anything?" Sam hummed quietly. "I guess you were told it was a basic innuendo so that's what you hear. It’s what we all heard." "Yeah, it doesn't say go fuck." Tucker said. "Could just mean you could hang out for a night and vibe. Video games. Take out." Danny made a face. "I can't see me doing that with Vlad either." "I should fucking hope not." He could practically see Sam's disgusted face. "Okay but that still doesn't make sense. I gotta hang out with another halfa? Why? Why would that block the Observants and their never ending input?" Danny wondered. "No idea." Tucker relented, "But it's worth a shot. right? You can always hang out first and see if it works. If it doesn't... well then you know what you gotta do." "Flirt. Bend over and show your butt. It's eye catching." "Sam..." Danny sighed, this was exhausting. She clucked her tongue. "It's good advice. Even Paulina did a double take last week." Danny just made an irritated sound in his throat, nearly tripping over a destroyed section of the side walk. All the businesses nearby had bars across their windows as extra security and more and more people seemed to loiter. "So glad that ship has sailed." Young crushes were painful. "It could also mean cuddling?" Tucker offered. "How'd you make that leap?" Sam asked. "Guys." Danny interrupted suddenly, his ghost sense chilling him. "I'll call you guys back. I might have tracked them down." "Don't forget!" Tucker said, tone only slightly accusatory. Sam just made a noise of agreement. "We'll want the whole play by play." "Well... maybe not the whole play by play." Tucker added, but Danny just hung up on them. His support system was filled with bullies. See if they got their Gotham tee-shirts now! Danny turned down an alleyway, not sure just yet what he was following but it felt fairly powerful. So far he'd seen mostly shades and remnants of what was. He was left to try to find this halfa the same way he had to track down Dani when looking for her, and that usually meant looking for a big source. When he took a turn and nearly walked right into an obvious drug deal, he inhaled sharply and turned invisible. The dealer had looked up at the sound but brushed it off a moment later when he didn't see anyone rounding the corner. Gotham was nuts but at least they weren't clowns. Deciding it really was within his best interest, Danny transformed completely, staying invisible for the time being as he followed his ghost sense through the scary part of town. Minutes felt like hours but he spotted a dude coming closer on a motorcycle and Danny's skin felt like it was vibrating. The halfa was a guy, okay. Danny could work with that, he really could. Even sitting on the bike, the guy looked a head taller than Danny. All the ghost powers in the world couldn't take away him inheriting his mothers build. For fucks sake, did he have to become evil to bulk up?! Danny flew closer, wanting to get a good look, only to have his vision impeded by a red helmet. When the bike swerved and the rider looked around around, likely sensing him, Danny backed off. His jaw was already hanging open in disbelief. Red Hood. That was Red Hood. Red Hood was a halfa?! Okay, he was the freaking Ghost King. When was that memo gonna land on his desk. Holy crap. Was he actually going to ask Red Hood to have sex ...er... platonically hang out with him? Danny's face was going to explode with heat. He flew away, watching him from the sky. Red Hood slowly brushed off whatever he had felt from Danny and rode on, making only a few more turns before stopping at an apartment building that Danny wouldn't have thought was still in use. This had secret lair written all over it. Danny followed, waited, watched. Of course he knew all about the vigilantes of Gotham but he hadn't really expected to run into any of them. Honestly, what were the odds? What did he do? Red Hood was technically a killer but he'd met more then one ghost who'd been avenged. It caused mixed feelings really. After two hours of nothing, a guy walked out of the same apartment. This time in street clothes. Same build, same height, same half energy. Crap. There goes that secret identity. Danny didn't know his name but he knew what he looked like. Dark hair, that curl of white in the front. Light eyes. Permanent looking frown and... Well now, Danny was frowning too. Something about his energy was off putting. Twisted. Wrong. Well... that would need to be looked into. From afar, Danny watched him go about his evening which involved stopping into those little stores and checking on people. Those people seemed to greet him with a friendly smile and know him somewhat well. Danny also got the impression that none of these people knew he was Red Hood, though he wasn't sure it would have mattered if they had. Red Hood was a crime lord but this was his territory... his haunt. Danny wasn't quite sure how this was both incredibly confusing while making all the sense in the world. He'd have an attitude too if his ectoplasm was all jacked up. What was he supposed to do? Suddenly if felt so presumptuous to show up at this guys doorstep to ask for such a favor from a stranger. He could leave and figure something else out, but the guy clearly needed help too. Maybe they could work out a trade or something. Danny felt torn about the whole damn thing and only decided to suck it up and act like an adult when his alternative was to call Jazz and ask for advice and he was not asking his sister about this. He flew ahead of the guy, making it back to his apartment first. He turned human again and sat on the stoop to wait for him. Internally he went over his lines in his head, what he would say, what parts he could leave out but all of that stopped when a shadow towered over him. The guy somehow seemed so much bigger in person. "You alright, kid?" he asked, there was the strange mix of concern and suspicion on his face. "There's housing up the street if you need someplace to go. They take anyone." "Oh uh..." His haunt had a place like that? Cool. So much for all those lines he’d been rehearsing. "I wanted to talk to you, actually. If you have a second?" He raised a brow but gestured to Danny with a nod to continue. Guess they were doing this out here then. "Okay, this is going to sound strange as hell but i've been looking for another halfa to help me with something. It's like.. a stupid huge favor and, fuck i hate even calling it a favor because that sounds weird. I also wanted to say up front that you can totally turn me down too, this isn't like, a demand or anything." Danny started talking, and couldn't seem to stop. His nerves were getting the better of him along side this guys emotions which were confused and itching with something aggravating. "It's not like i wrote this particular law either. I'm not even sure why i agreed to this shit but i've seen bad alternatives before a-" "What the fuck are you talking about, kid?" he interrupted. "Rude. I am actually eighteen." Danny grumbled. His eyes narrowed. Did he think he was lying about his age? "You sure about that?" "Yeah, my birthday is the same day every year." Danny deadpanned, almost getting a smile. "Let me start over, um, my name is Danny." he stood but didn't offer his hand because this guy didn't look like he'd take it. "And i've been looking for you." "Right i sorta got that, but why?" Danny could already feel his ears turning red. "Okay, hear me out because this sound fucking awful. I need to sleep with a halfa." Just rip that baid-aid off right?

Red Hood's frown was back full force. Guess he was still Red Hood since he didn't offer a name. "What the fuck is a halfa?" Danny short circuited. Was it possible this guy didn't know? "Okay." Danny said slowly. "Backing up and starting over again. Did you... You... You know you died once, right?" He scowled. "Yeah, i was there. How the fuck do you know that?" "Oh good, we don't gotta go back that far. Okay. Okay, so a halfa is someone that died. Like me." He gestured to himself. "Who came back. Someone who is half dead and half alive. There's only four of us. I have to sleep with one because of some political bullshit and i know how desperate that has to sound to you but i absolutely can not sleep with my sister or a fruit loop that wants to marry my mom." Red Hood stepped closer, a large hand wrapping around Danny’s bicep and pulling him along with him towards his door. It was opened long enough for the two of them to slip through and then shut and locked again. "Alright, lets unpack everything that just left your mouth and start to pick out the sane verses insane pieces." He said, somewhat exasperated. He was unhappy. Very unhappy. Danny had to hide a wince, guess Hood wasn’t ready to talk about his death. Jazz would be pissed, he needed to learn to be more sensitive about these things. "You're half dead?" "And so are you." Danny said. "Haven't you noticed any ghost abilities?" "Any what...?"  Distress. That was an odd reaction. Danny looked around, there wasn't much furniture but there was a couch and Danny made a show of going intangible and walking right through it. "Anything like that?" Red Hood was frowning. "No. Look. Half dead and half alive sounds more like a zombie to me. Where are you getting this ghost shit? How did you find me at all?" "Ghost sense." He scowled. "Of course." Danny sighed a little, biting his lip and brushing a piece of hair from his face. "Okay, this is my fault. I'm bad at explaining and i'm sorta having too many conversations at once. Lets start with you. You ever seen like.. glowy green sludge?" His scowl deepened, for a second there was true hatred etched into his face but it wasn't directed at Danny. The suspicion and distrust however were. "What do you have to do with the Lazarus Pit?" Danny blinked, it was evidently his turned to be confused. "The what?" "The green shit, kid. The Lazarus Pit. It's what did this shit to me. What drives me insane." Danny frowned. "The green sludge is ectoplasm, which we need. It shouldn't hurt you, but if it did...could explain why you feel so twisted up inside." He scoffed. "Twisted up, that's the kindest way anyone has ever put it. I don’t need someone elses insane ramblings on top of what i already got in my head. So if you're looking for a fuck, go somewhere else." "Okay." Danny muttered, he'd known that could be an option. "But would you let me see if i could straighten out to ectoplasm anyway? I think i can help at least a little and uh, i think your's is trying to eat away at your soul which is...bad?" Hood actually dropped onto the couch, looking beyond done with this day. "Do you think you there's anything i haven't tried?" "I bet you have." Danny said, stepping closer. "But my ectoplasm is healthy and isn't trying to eat me. You don't really have anything to lose, do you?" Trustme. Trustme.  His expression was nearly murderous and Danny could taste the rage. It seemed like he was having a hard time controlling it, and the more Danny looked, the more he was blaming the tainted ectoplasm. It even seemed to block some of the calm Danny was pushing towards him. "Kid, you have no idea what you're -" Danny stepped closer, hands on Red Hood's chest. He could feel the faint humming of a drowning core, trying to breath through the toxicity that had been forced into his body. Danny added his own ectoplasm to the mix, a sort of ghost transfusion. Ghost King privileges came with a wide aura and a lot of energy. There was a shudder, and the difference was almost instantaneous. The tainted ectoplasm had tried to rear up, tried to roll into rage and snowball but Danny just had more to work with. Danny didn't remember kneeling in front of his new acquaintance, or shutting his eyes, or shifting into his ghost form. He was however, aware of his core tuning into Red Hood's, trying to coax it to life...so to speak. He didn't know what it would have been like, a half ghost but confined only to his human side. Maybe if he'd never known any better it wouldn't have mattered to him but the thought of it now was suffocating,

There was a moment when Danny suddenly felt Hood’s confusion. It seems like he was finally picking up on Danny’s silent messages. 

"What did you do?" Red Hood asked, sounding tired, but far less hostile. "You made it quiet. You're also..glowing." Danny looked up at him with a nervous laugh. "Well, i did say i could fix it. This fix is kinda temporary but I know Frostbite can fix it for you permanently. I'll talk to him." He reached up and rubbed at his eyes, "...Thanks...." "No problem Hood." His eyes jerked up and Danny just smiled. "I won't tell anyone..." He hissed in soft irritation but it didn’t match his emotions. He was still riding the high of being in control of that rage. "So i did feel you following me earlier? I swear there was something around." Danny nodded once. "Had to be sure you were who i thought you were... and all..." Excuse. Excuse... Red Hood shook his head. "My name's Jason. I have a hundred questions minimum about this half ghost thing." "I could probably answer most of them?" Danny offered, realizing he was still on his knees in front of Jason and quickly getting up, a cold blush coloring his face as he shifted back into his human form.  Jason watched him, brow quirking again but he seemed so much more relaxed now that the tension was drained out of him and the taint to his ectoplasm was quiet. It almost made him seem a little younger too, not that Danny would have pegged him any older than early twenties, if that. Maybe he was still a teenager too. "Halfa's... You said there were four of us?" Jason asked cautiously. "Yeah." Danny sat on the other end of the couch. "My sister who is also my clone, and Vlad. Billionaire asshole who's a major creep." "Clone. You have an interesting life."   "That's a lot coming from Red Hood." Jason snorted. "Fair." he paused, proving he'd been listening to all the jumbled up words Danny had been spurting. "Why do you have to sleep with a halfa?" "Aah..." Danny's face went hot again. "So...i..." he paused. "Okay this all sounds bad. I defeated the Ghost King in combat, making me the new Ghost King." Jason brow arched again, "Kudos." "Thank you? Anyway... there's a lot of stupid... add on rules. I didn't make them. Hell i don't even know them all. Some ancient jerk just tells me one at a time. Usually with bad timing which is stupid because he basically is time." "And one of them is fucking?" "Ugh." Danny actually groaned, head falling into his hands. "Someone of my own kind and there's only us four..." he spoke into his hands. "Sucks." "Little bit, yeah." Danny looked up at him, hoping Jason wasn’t actually feeling any of Danny’s nerves or embarrassment. "My friend has a theory that it might not mean sex exactly and might be more of a proximity thing." Jason didn't look overly convinced. "And you decided to try that with some guy you don't know over your clone?" Danny blinked, brain crashing. If he could have just had a sleep over with Dani and avoided all of this... certain ghosts were going to get banished from the Infinite Realm. "Didn't think of that did you?" Jason snickered suddenly and Danny just groaned again. "No.... She's like my sister, i just completely wrote it off." He was going to die... again. This time of embarrassment. Jason laughed softly, the sound not used very often these days. "I mean, i guess i get that. Some times things are easier when you're family isn't involved." "You can say that again..." Danny muttered. Jason leaned back on his spot on the couch, watching Danny with something like amusement in his eyes. He was...so different without the tainted ectoplasm gnawing on his soul. He was finally relaxing. "Well, your Majesty. Would this get me a favor with the king?" Danny's blush stretched down his neck. "Don't call me that. It's too weird." "Nope." Jason was grinning now. "Too much fun. You are way too easy to fluster for a guy that just popped up to ask for sex." "That's not-...!..." Danny winced. "I mean you said no, so that's that." "Changing my mind." Jason said instead, attuned to Danny's look of surprise. Ah, fuck he was definitely able to read Danny now. "Besides. "I have a hundred questions, remember? I'm sure we can mange between rounds." "Rounds?" Danny mouthed the word but no sound came out. Okay, it wasn't a big deal if his heart stopped beating but he was pretty sure it just did. Yeah, it stopped. "O..okay." He attempted, but it just seemed to endear him more as Jason moved again, his time leaning closer. Okay, hot guy in his personal space, he could handle this. It was why he was here.   Jason tugged on Danny’s hair. “It changes. Black to white. That’s cool. Kinda wanna see it more.”

Okay, hot guy in his personal space, he could not handle this. “It uh..yeah. Does that. Alive verses dead i guess. I’ll show you once your ectoplasm is worked out. I don’t see why you wouldn’t gain abilities too once your core is sorted out.”  “You really love to say words without context, don’t you?” Jason said and his amusement was loud.  “I guess... i get ahead of myself.” Danny muttered, unable to make eye contact as Jason slid closer. This was not his first kiss. What was going on with him?  "It’s alright, i’m a quick learner. Besides, i really want to say thank you for you clearing my mind, even if it is temporary." Jason muttered. He’d been screaming for help but no one had ever heard him before.  "We will get that fixed." Danny promised, voice just as quiet. "First thing tomorrow, if you want." "Second thing." Jason said, reaching out to cup Danny's cheek this time before drawing him closer to kiss. Danny didn't think you could see stars in Gotham but he was sure seeing them now. ~~~~  ~~~~

I kinda wonder who’s going to tell Danny he just found a consort. My money’s on Frostbite....  ...As for who tell’s Jason?....That’s Dani barging in to meet her new brother in law  Hope you enjoyed this, feel free to add whatever you want.

Master List 

[etherealphosphor]

Bluebell

⟡ Contains: Dottore x Gn!Reader, Sfw, Angst to set the scene, Fluff otherwise, Dottore has amnesia, Reader is married to Dottore

You and Dottore had always been the envy of Snezhnaya, your relationship being quite the popular topic among its citizens. Everyone in the Fatui, from Cicin Mages to the Harbingers themselves, knew about your marriage. It was impossible to be out of the loop, as gossip spread like wildfire in the headquarters. Even if one were to live under a rock, the way Dottore looked at you with pure and unmistakable adoration was a dead giveaway.

For approximately a year, things were peaceful. You spent every day by Dottore’s side, and every night in his embrace. Until one fateful day, when one of Dottore’s experiments failed, and awfully so. The explosion could even be heard from the offices on the upper levels. You also worked in the headquarters, and your heart lurched in fear when you heard the loud bang.

Running down the stairs leading towards his lab, you could feel the panic setting in. There was nothing you could do to help, as Dottore never let you into his lab in fear of something happening to you. Your eyes began tearing up as you saw the walls of his lab completely collapsed, and your blue-haired husband trapped under the rubble. In the past, Dottore had made it very clear to his assistants that, in case of an emergency, they were to hold you back. They honored his request, and you could only watch in horror as the medical staff rushed in to save him, struggling against the arms keeping you from your beloved husband.

In the aftermath of the explosion, Dottore was rushed to the nearby hospital. You sat anxiously in the waiting room, tears streaming down your face. Your heart was beating faster than ever before as you silently prayed to the Tsaritsa to spare his life. Eventually, after what felt like hours, you were given permission to visit Dottore.

When you walked into Dottore’s hospital room, he was asleep on the bed, his chest and the top of his head mostly bandaged up. It pained you to see your husband like that, and as you sat down next to him, he began to slowly open his eyes.

"Darling?" You asked tentatively before reaching out and stroking his cheek.

Dottore looked up at you, his red eyes filled with confusion. "Sorry, who are you?"

Your worst nightmare had come true.

The months following the incident had been difficult; however, you were relieved to find that Dottore’s affection for you hadn’t disappeared. The hospital staff had informed you that there was indeed a small chance for him to regain some—if not all—of his memories. That possibility was like the light at the end of the tunnel for you, and no matter how long it would take, you vowed to help Dottore remember your past together. You swore to stay by him in sickness and in health, after all.

One night, as you lay in bed together, Dottore turned over to face you. "Love?"

"Yes darling? What is it?" You asked, a little worried that something might be wrong.

"I’m sorry that I can’t remember anything right now; it must really hurt you. My memories—they’re all so hazy. But I do recall how I felt, and I want you to understand that my feelings haven’t changed a bit." Dottore said, a comforting look in his eyes.

You smiled at him. "Dottore, you’ve reminded me of that nearly every night since you got back from the hospital. Don’t worry; I know you still love me, and I’m very glad to have you in my life."

"I know I’ve told you many times, but I feel like I need to assure you, or else you may fret about it." Dottore spoke softly, reaching out to stroke your hair.

"Love, I won’t. What’s most important right now is that you get a good night’s sleep. Tell you what, I’ll take you to where we first met tomorrow morning; maybe it’ll help your memory a little."

Dottore smiled at your words and nodded. "That’d be great." He paused for a second before hesitantly asking, ".. may I hold you?"

Something about his strangely shy tone evoked an odd feeling in your chest. Even after all the years you spent together with him, he still found new ways to stir the butterflies in your stomach. Without even answering his question, you wrapped your arms around his body, burying your face into the crook of his neck.

Dottore gently put a hand on the top of your head, calmly stroking your hair. The warmth of your husband’s skin and the rhythm of his heart made you slowly drift off to sleep. No matter how difficult things got, you’d always have him.

When you woke up in the morning, Dottore was still sleeping soundly next to you, a peaceful look on his face. Your eyes fell to the scars on his chest left by the accident, a constant reminder of the time you nearly lost him. Despite all of Dottore’s strength as the Second of the Fatui Harbingers, one mistake could have ended his life.

Your mind began to race at the possibilities of what could have happened if even one little factor had been changed. Would he not be lying next to you right now if he’d been even a foot closer to the explosion?

Unconsciously, you reached out to touch those rough patches on his skin, accidentally rousing him from his sleep. Your breathing was a little shallow as your brain spiraled. Despite just waking up, Dottore instantly recognized your distress and pulled you into his arms.

"Darling, can you breathe deeply for me? Hyperventilating will only make you feel worse." Dottore said softly as he stroked your back, trying to soothe your anxiety.

After about a minute, your breathing slowed down with much encouragement from Dottore. His gentle words and touch grounded you; he was here, not back in the accident. And he never would be, because things were okay now.

"I’m sorry for waking you, Love. I was just overthinking again; that’s all." You spoke quietly, with a tinge of guilt in your voice.

Picking up on it, Dottore began to reassure you. "It’s not your fault for being anxious, [Name]. What happened back then was very traumatic for you; it’d leave a lasting impact on anyone. So don’t apologize to me for anything; you don’t need to. Plus, I don’t need to sleep in any longer than I did; if you’re feeling that way again, please don’t hesitate to ask me for help, even if I’m asleep."

Dottore knew exactly what to say to calm your mind; he always had. Cuddling up next to him once more, you breathed in his scent as he brushed through your hair with his fingers.

"We should get ready soon, darling. I promised to take you to where we first met, after all."

"Don’t feel obligated to; if you’d prefer to stay at home today, that’s fine." Dottore said as he continued to run his fingers through your hair.

"I want to go as well, Dottore. My offer to take you still stands." You assured him as you began to get out of bed.

Once you two had gotten ready, you led Dottore out of the house. Due to losing his memories, Dottore was unfamiliar with the streets he once knew so well, so you had to show him the way.

After a short stroll through the main city of Snezhnaya, you stopped at a large building made from grey stone bricks of varying lengths and shades.

Reading the sign on the front of it, Dottore asked, "We met at the library?"

"Yeah, we did. It was by pure coincidence that I even talked to you in the first place." You replied with a soft smile on your face. It had been so long since that day, and oh, how things had changed.

Hand in hand, you brought Dottore into the library and up the stairs to the second floor. You led him over to a small reading corner surrounded by large windows, which contained a singular round wooden table with two plush chairs on either side. A strong sense of deja vu washed over Dottore as he walked closer to the room.

You motioned for him to sit down, then took your own place next to the table. You gazed fondly around the room for a brief moment, before resting your eyes on your husband, who sat in front of you.

"I was sitting in this very chair when we had our first conversation." You paused, thinking back on that day. "You know, I was scared of you at first."

"You were... scared of me? Why?" Dottore asked with a confused look on his face.

You chuckled. "Darling, have you forgotten you’re ranked second out of the Eleven Fatui Harbingers? Of course I was terrified."

"[Name], I’ve been reminded of what my title entails, but nothing of the reputation it holds." Dottore explained. "What exactly do you mean?"

"Let’s just say... You were a very intimidating man back then. Everyone who didn’t know you properly fled in terror when they saw you."

"Really? Have people changed how they view me since the accident?"

"Not exactly; you’ve kept your status and title, after all. That’s what people are afraid of."

Dottore thought that over for a minute, then hesitantly asked, "Love, was I wrong to you in the past?"

Surprised by his words, you responded, "Archons no, what would make you think that?"

"You kept saying how frightening I was back then—and how I apparently still am. I can’t help but worry that I did something awful to you."

You reached out to gently stroke Dottore’s cheek, assuring him. "Oh, darling, I’m sorry I didn’t make it more clear. I don’t think you’re any of those things. Sure, back when we first met, I was scared by your title like everyone else. But as we got acquainted, I saw a different side of you, one which was nothing like the man the public viewed you as."

"I’m glad." Dottore paused, before asking, "Could you possibly tell me about the day we met, since we’re here?"

"Of course, I’d be happy to." You continued, "It was a particularly gloomy day, and a heavy blanket of snow covered the ground—the amount being more than it usually was. Despite all of that, I couldn’t stand being inside; I instead decided to go out into the storm. Many of the buildings and stores in the city were closed, but the library wasn’t."

"Oh dear, I hope you didn’t freeze to death; Snezhnaya is already a harsh place as it is." Dottore said softly.

"You worry too much, my love. I was perfectly fine." You replied, assuring him.

"Alright, I’m simply making sure. Isn’t that what a husband ought to do?"

"Darling, that happened six years ago." You chuckled, but you could feel your heart fluttering at his concern.

"Well, I’m still going to express my worry regardless of how much time has passed, and that’s final." Dottore smiled at you, before saying, "anyway, please go on. I’d love to hear the rest of the story."

That smile of his only made your heart beat faster. "As I said, the library wasn’t closed, so I decided to head over to warm up inside. After all, I went there a lot back then to relax. Coincidentally, when I climbed up the stairs, you were there, sitting in my usual spot.

"When I saw the Second Harbinger himself seated in that chair, I really did consider turning around and walking all the way back to my apartment through the deep snow. However, hearing my footsteps, you looked up from your book towards me. Once you’d sensed my presence, I figured there was no turning back. After all, it would’ve been highly disrespectful to run the opposite way when you looked at me.

"So, despite my shaking legs, I made my way over and sat down across from you. Despite having your mask on, I knew you were looking directly at me. Though terrified, I attempted to make small talk to fill the silence. That small talk turned into a full conversation, and then another, and another; we barely realized how late it was, and we were only alerted to the time when it had gotten quite dark outside. You gently took my hand in yours and walked me home to make sure I was safe, only bidding me farewell when I was at my door."

Dottore silently listened to your story, smiling softly as you finished telling it. "I wish I could remember that day; it sounded like it was a truly lovely one."

Noticing the slight falter in Dottore’s smile as he said that, you gave him a quick kiss. "It’s okay, darling. Don’t fret; we’ll make many more beautiful memories together in the future. Anywhere you want to go, I’ll take you."

Without another word, Dottore stood up and pulled you into his arms, fully picking you up off the ground.

"I—wha—what are you doing?" You stuttered, quite flustered as well as a little confused.

"Taking you home, like I did back then." He simply said.

"Darling, you held my hand to lead me back to my apartment. You didn’t carry me!" You replied, chuckling.

Dottore continued walking, his grip on you firm yet comfortable. "Hm, well, I prefer it this way. So I will have it this way."

You sighed, nuzzling closer to him. "You’ve always been like this, and I love you for it."

That night, you couldn’t bear to leave Dottore’s embrace for even a second. Comforted by his scent and the warmth of his skin, you drifted off peacefully. For a moment, it was easy to forget that the accident had ever happened. He still held you the exact same way as he used to, after all. Some things truly never change.

When Dottore woke up the next morning, he noticed that you weren’t cuddled up next to him as you usually were. "[Name]..? Where—"

"I’m right here, darling. Don’t worry." Just then, you walked into the room, holding a mug in both hands.

Dottore looked at you as you sat down on the bed next to him, his tone still a little sleepy. "What’s in the mug?"

"It’s coffee; you’ll like it. I swear." You said, offering it to him.

Dottore hesitated, unsure. "I don’t want to take something you made for yourself."

"No, no. Darling, I made it for you." You chuckled, smiling at him.

"You did?" Dottore looked a little surprised. "You’re too sweet, darling. Are you suggesting I drink it because I liked it back then?" Dottore took the cup, staring at its contents.

"You’re right, my love. It used to be your favorite."

The drink was as dark as the abyss, and smelled quite strongly. Dottore put the mug to his lips, and tentatively took a sip. Instantly, his eyes lit up, and he drank nearly half the cup.

Dottore’s expression made your heart skip a beat. He looked so happy to be experiencing his drink of choice for the first time again.

Dottore then downed the rest of the cup, and looked up at you with a sparkle in his deep red eyes. "Darling, could you make me another? Or, even better, teach me how to make such a lovely drink?"

"Love, if I teach you, you’ll make yourself crazy. Too much caffeine can give you anxiety. However, I'm sure another cup won’t hurt you." You smiled at him, and then walked out of the room to brew him another drink.

Day after day, Dottore woke up with you in his arms, and each morning, you made him coffee for him to have with breakfast. Life had been very lovely, but there had been little to no progress in recovering any of Dottore’s memories.

Even so, you refused to give up.

One evening, when Dottore had gotten back from work, you seemed quite eager to show him something.

"Darling, quick, follow me!" You said, grabbing his hand and pulling him upstairs.

Although Dottore was a little dazed at your enthusiasm, he followed you to the second floor of the house. "What is it, my love? Do you have something to show me?"

You dragged him over to a window in the bedroom and began to unlock it. Once you were done, you pushed it open and began to climb out onto the roof, leading Dottore along with you.

"[Name], are you sure this is safe? I wouldn’t want you to get hurt." Dottore said as he carefully stepped out, holding onto you tightly.

"Actually, coming up here was your idea in the first place. Back then, at least." You replied, sitting down on the roof, dangling your legs over the edge.

Dottore sat down next to you. "Even so, you need to be careful, darling."

Ignoring his words, you nudged him and pointed up at the sky. "Look."

As the sun began to set, the clouds were dusted with a beautiful pink color, painting a stunning picture. Dottore was not particularly intrigued by beautiful landscapes, but even he was enamored by such a scene. Especially if his beloved was watching it with him.

While Dottore was gazing at the sky, you pulled a small bunch of bluebell flowers out of a pocket in your coat, and extended your arm to offer the gift to him.

Noticing the sweet smell, he looked down and saw the pretty blue blossoms in your hand.

"..Are these for me..?" Dottore spoke, a blush rising in his cheeks.

You nodded, smiling gently. "They are. Back then, you loved to give me bluebells on any occasion you could."

Dottore closed his eyes and put the flowers to his nose, breathing in the scent. Suddenly, his eyes shot open, and he turned to face you. "Darling? Did I.. did I ask you to marry me up here?"

You looked at him in surprise. "Y—you remember?"

Dottore’s deep red eyes were shining with happy tears. "I do! I remember!"

Dottore wrapped his arms around you, and kissed you deeply. Draping your arms around his neck, you reciprocated his passion, letting yourself melt into his embrace.

Unexpectedly, Dottore pinned you down, and pushed your head to one side. Softly, he began to bite your neck all over, sending a shiver of pleasure down your spine. Oh Archons, he knew how to drive you crazy.

"Darling, didn’t you say to be careful? Aren’t you afraid we might fall?" You teased, a little out of breath.

Pausing for a moment, Dottore replied, "I would never allow you to fall."

Dottore moved his face away from your neck, instead pressing his lips to yours once more. He tilted your chin up as he fervently kissed you over and over, pouring all his love into the act.

The sun had long ago set when you two finally climbed back through the window.

In bed, Dottore pulled you into his arms, and whispered in your ear, "Sweet dreams, my lovely Bluebell."

"Found a new petname for me, huh?"

"Indeed, it suits you. You’re sweet-smelling, pretty, and you help me get my memories back." Dottore said softly.

You chuckled. "Where in the world did you ever learn to be this charming?"

Yet again, you spent the rest of the night cuddled up next to him, sleeping soundly. His body next to yours was something you were forever grateful for, and you hoped you’d never have to sleep alone again, like you did when he was being treated all those months ago.

You slept, knowing there was hope. Maybe, one day in the future, Dottore would truly recall all those years you spent together. But for now, one memory is enough.

[chaos-cousins]

Pelipper Mail! A nightmare that could be yours.

You’re almost used to it by now. To waking up, every time you think you might have escaped the time loop, in an entirely different world where you and your cousins have to help save it.

This one’s… it could be better, in a lot of ways. There’s never been so much blood before, something that you’ve had several separate panic attacks over already, something that your new friend Hunter is a lot more patient with you for than most others. You’ve never had to fight things that used to be people before, never had to use a real gun with real bullets outside of the Metaverse before.

At least the Hunter’s Dream, an odd space between reality and not, is safe enough. At least your cousins are safe there, with a strange yet kind living doll bearing an uncanny resemblance to Maria. You could be safe there too; Hunter’s made his stance clear that he doesn’t think you should be out here with him.

But you can’t let your friend face the horrors alone, no matter how much you wish you could. You care too much for that. You’ve always cared too much for that.

So you repress and repress and repress, shoving the panic attacks aside as much as you can, and you learn how to use a real gun. At least the cane-sword-whip thing is cool, if you don’t think too hard about how it’s tearing through once-human fur and flesh.

You and Hunter make a pretty good team, once you’re mostly done having panic attacks over basically everything about this place. You take down a gigantic horned beast at the end of a bridge, another hunter who went mad and tried to kill you both, a vicar who transformed into a wolf-thing before your very eyes, and you… cope. Sort of. Maybe.

(You return to the Hunter’s Dream more often than you have to, and maybe more often than you should. You tell yourself that it’s to check in on your cousins, to make sure that they’re still doing okay, but really it’s because popping into the Dream removes the blood from your clothes, and there’s so much of it.)

Night falls, and you remember that you haven’t even been here for a full day. The moon rises, a full moon, and as bemused as Hunter is by you promptly flipping it off, he also quite cheerfully joins you in making various obscene gestures in the direction of that particular celestial body when you‘ve got free moments.

It’s around this time that Elena decides she’s had enough of waiting, of losing to cards over and over against the doll that looks weirdly like Maria. She takes to hunting better than you did, and you don’t know how to feel about that. You’d be jealous if you weren’t worried, if you weren’t relieved, because between the three of you, there doesn’t seem to be anything that can stand in your way. The weird snake people in the woods really don’t stand a chance.

And then—

And then there’s a fucking spider, because of course there is. At least you can shoot this one. Which you do, with extreme prejudice. Because, honestly, fuck this thing in particular.

Then the moon turns red. The blood moon rises over Yharnam. Everything you thought you could handle comes surging back with a vengeance, to the point where Elena basically has to drag you back to the Hunter’s Dream and tells you to sit down, she’s got this, it’ll be okay.

With nothing better to do, you too spend some time losing badly to the strange doll at cards.

The only reason you do actually stay there for as long as you do is because thinking of returning to Yharnam with the moon like that makes you want to collapse. At least you know that Elena can’t die, not permanently, not in any way that matters—and you haven’t been calling it ‘death’ because you’ve got a weird enough perspective on death as is, but you very much have died a lot since you got here, and it’s been painful every time—but she’s still your cousin, and you’re terrified for her, and you can see her expression hardening a little more every time she pops back in for a visit.

You force yourself back out there eventually, but you aren’t sure where Elena or Hunter are. The city seems darker, with the reddish glow of the moon illuminating it—and it really doesn’t help that there are these… things, perched atop every building. One of them grabs you when you get too close, crushes you into—not death, death means nothing for you here—nonexistence.

Except you’re definitely somewhere that is neither the city nor the Dream now. It’s… hellish, is what it is. You find someone else sane, eventually, someone who warns you that there are secrets hidden here, secrets that some are willing to kill to keep.

You laugh. Death means little to you now.

You take down a beast who used to be a man, who regains some of his sanity before the end of the fight. You don’t have the heart to tell him what his lofty ideals have become. You don’t have the heart to finish him, either.

(When you circle back later, you find that someone else made both of those choices for you.)

You find a clocktower. At the top of it, you find a face you recognize—but she doesn’t recognize you, and she seems deaf to your pleas.

You can’t kill Maria, either. Maybe it’s for the best that Hunter and Elena catch up to you when they do, because Hunter is willing to do what you cannot.

You end the Nightmare, eventually, returning the three of you to your regularly-scheduled horrors in the city of the present day. Hibiya is starting to look at you and Elena like you’re strangers.

(You can’t let him become as jaded and desensitized as you have. He’s already been through way more than you, and he’s still functional.)

You continue fighting. Continue hunting, for it isn’t as if you have another option. This night has lasted eons, and it’ll last eons more until you find the key to ending it all.

At last, you do. You find it. You kill it.

You return to the Hunter’s Dream. Hibiya is alarmed. The doll, calm as ever, informs you that the master of the Dream is waiting for you. You wonder if she’s capable of feeling anything.

You go to meet him, all four of you, beneath a massive tree. He offers you a choice.

Hunter accepts, choosing to awaken. Choosing to give in.

You can’t give in. Rebellion is etched into your heart, your mind, your body and soul.

“So be it,” the Dream’s master says, and suddenly it’s you and your cousins against him. Suddenly, it’s a fight to the death.

You can’t risk losing here. There won’t be any more second chances.

You discover that you can summon Arsène here. Something about your Persona feels different, but you don’t have time to dwell on what. You’re busy evening the odds.

You win, eventually. The Dream’s master fades into mist, and at least there isn’t blood to highlight the fact that you just killed a man.

The moon is closer than it’s ever been. Larger, too. Hibiya, looking anywhere but at you and Elena, gasps and points at it.

Something is coming. A presence from the moon. Not Nyx; you almost wish it was Nyx, because then it would at least be something you know how to fight.

You can’t move. The presence snatches you up, sizing you up. You get the weird feeling that it wants you to replace the man you killed.

You refuse. Resist. Rebel. Revolt, in any way you can.

The presence from the moon recoils, dropping you onto the ground. Your cousins rush to your side, or try to—only to be pushed back.

This is between you and the thing from the moon, now. You won’t lose. You can’t, not now.

You fight it with everything you’ve got. Your cousins can’t help you here, Hunter can’t help you here—but you can rely on yourself, and yourself alone.

You win. Barely.

As the thing from the moon dies—it’s a god, perhaps, or a Great One as the people of this world call it—you make a mental note to update the deicide tally. When you can. You’re a little more concerned with adding this to your list of reasons to hate the moon, and also not keeling over on the spot, because that took… a lot out of you.

But you won. You did it.

Didn’t you?

Your eyes flutter shut, and you collapse. You can hear the concerned shouts of Elena and Hibiya, now that they’re able to reach you, but it’s too late. You can feel yourself shrinking and changing and growing in ways no human was ever meant to grow, and then you feel nothing at all.

When you come to, you’re not human anymore. You’re small enough that Elena can cradle you in her arms. She’s been crying. Hibiya is still crying.

“There has to be something you can do,” she begs the doll.

“I am sorry,” the doll murmurs, gaze downcast, and she almost sounds like she means it. “I truly wish that there was.”

When you awaken, it’s with the taste of blood in your mouth, and the nagging feeling that you have both too many limbs and not enough.

Whsr the fuck WJSR TJE FUCK EJST TJE FUCK WJST TJE FUCK IN GONNS TJROEN UL WHZ WSS TJST FSMILSR DOMEWJST

(what the fuck WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK IM GONNA THROW UP WHY WAS THAT FAMILAR SOMEWHAT)

[sheepwithspecs]

The War Consultation Social

|| Hellsing || Rated G ||

Ao3 Link

Because she's both young and a girl—heaven help her—newly appointed Sir Integra Hellsing is forced to stay upstairs with the women instead of being allowed to attend the Conference. But perhaps she could learn a thing or two from the Ladies of the Round Table?

[Original Post Date: 2017-01-26]

Sir Integra might have been stuck between childhood and the cusp of womanhood, but that didn’t make her any less prominent among her peers. That’s what she liked to think, in any case, and scenarios like this only made her sullen and angry at the world. Despite her performance as the head of her family, the men of the Round Table looked down on her as a ‘little girl’ and excluded her from many of their meetings. And when she insisted that she needed to be in the loop, they merely patted her head and told her that Walter could come in her stead! As if Walter was the one commanding soldiers from the main study!

“Walter,” she addressed the man now as they drove the streets towards the Penwood home, where this month’s meeting was scheduled to be held. She tried to sound firm and assertive, not whiny or complaintive. “I don’t want to go to Sir Penwood’s house unless I can go to the meeting as well.” She crossed her arms, glowering at the world out the window. Since it was only her and Walter, she had opted to sit in the passenger seat next to him rather than in the back where she really ought to have been. Her guardian butler laughed good-naturedly, but didn’t respond. It prompted her to add, “I sincerely don’t want to sit in some stuffy parlor and drink tea with a bunch of other women.” She kept hoping that if she referred to herself as a woman, others would start seeing her as one too.

“Now, now,” Walter finally consoled her as they waited for the light to change. “Leader of the family or not, you’re still a bit young for a meeting like this one. You wouldn’t find it very interesting, anyway.” She highly doubted that; adults always labeled the most interesting things as boring. She half-thought they did it only to keep prying children away, and she was most definitely not a child anymore. There was no reason that she couldn’t go to the meeting as well. It was only proper, wasn’t it?

“But I’ll miss the most important things, and then I’ll be behind on news,” she protested. “How can I manage an organization if I’m behind?”

“I’ll take notes for you; don’t bother yourself about that,” he assured her calmly. “You just relax upstairs with the ladies and it’ll be over and done with before you know it.” She had the distinct feeling that he was laughing at her in his head, even though he was stoic enough on the outside. “Besides,” he added a little ruefully, “you need to spend time with other women.”

“I don’t see why,” she replied stubbornly. He sighed, staring at the wheel when the light changed on them again before they could get past it. He seemed to be struggling with something.

“It’s just that I can’t teach you everything,” he finally blurted out, looking almost puzzled as he watched the wheel instead of the light as he should have been. “There are some things that you just need a female to tell you about instead of old Walter.” She almost laughed his ’old’ remark; he only had a few wrinkles here and there, he wasn’t old yet. She thought about voicing that thought, but decided against it.

“Like what?” she asked instead, genuinely curious. Walter knew almost everything there was to know about anything, it seemed. He knew about weapons and soldiers, all about proper housekeeping, and even odd facts about plants, animals, or astronomy. It was hard to believe that he couldn’t tell her about whatever it was that she might need to know. To her surprise he blushed deeply, unable to meet her gaze and instead pressing down hard on the gas the moment the light changed. They shot forward and he tapped the brake to compensate as they cruised the street.

            “I—I wouldn’t know,” he stammered, fingers tapping nervously on the wheel. “I’m not a woman.” He cleared his throat loudly, the expression on his face letting her know that he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. “We’re almost there,” he said, changing the subject abruptly. “Only a bit farther now.”

            “Don’t remind me,” she muttered, watching the roofs of the glamourous houses pass by as she sunk down in the seat. She wondered why Hellsing manor had been built so far from the other Knight’s houses, when it could have occupied any other space on the street. Something set it apart from the others; was it because the soldiers actively practiced there? No, it couldn’t have been—she’d been to Lt. Walsh’s house, and they practiced on his expansive lot as well. What was it that had made her family so standoffish, that they’d distanced themselves from everyone else? Or… had it been the other way around, where everyone else had distanced themselves from the Hellsings?

            They turned onto to the small circular portion of asphalt that separated the gate from the main road, and she waited while Walter exchanged pleasantries with the doorman through the speaker. The gate swung open with oiled efficiency, allowing the car to pass through to the expansive driveway. Integra stared gloomily at the large estate with its perfectly manicured lawn and neat shrubbery separating the gardens. She could see Sir Penwood’s efficiency in the crisp, straight hedgerows and Lady Penwood’s colorful aesthetic in the flowers that sat clumped beyond them. They pulled up next to a large marble fountain that spat water in flowing cascades over frolicking frescos of smiling merpeople.

Integra hesitated, but Walter turned off the car and went over to open her door for her, so that she had no choice but to get out. She brushed imaginary dust from her long skirts before adjusting her glasses, looking up at the formidable panes of windows. The house loomed above her threateningly, as if silently judging the small creature that stood on the walk before it. Walter smiled and led the way up the walk; she followed habitually, used to trailing behind him from her infancy. He had often referred to her as a lost little duckling when she was a mere tot, wandering the halls and clutching at his pants legs while he worked. Some small part of her knew that as the head of the family, she ought to have taken the lead, but following after him had become almost instinctive.

The doorman let them in and they waited in the posh front hall while the steward announced their arrival. Walter stood with a calm demeanor, every muscle relaxed as he waited. She tried to follow his subtle example, but her eye kept catching the lavish décor of the room and she stared about, oblivious to the doorman’s curious gaze. Personally, she liked her foyer better.  Lady Katherine had a knack for clutter that collected dust, or would have had she not personally trained a fleet of servants to live up to her high demands. While the Hellsing home’s furniture was sparse, yet functional and stylish in its own minimalistic way, the Penwood home teemed with knickknacks and plump cushions embroidered with kittens. She was taking in the sight of a statue-d trio of fat-bottomed cherubim reclining on clouds when the steward returned, flanking the master of the house.

“There you are, Walter,” Sir Penwood greeted him rather indifferently, one hand already fishing for a handkerchief. He sweated more than any man Integra had ever seen, despite his reluctance to exert himself. She assumed the perspiration was from stress and not heat, and yet he never seemed to hurry anywhere either. He did wear an expression of perpetual exasperation, but then again he was often beleaguered by something she’d done, or said, or asked of him; she could never tell if that sad, pressured look was meant for her alone, or if he always wore it. Of course, when one’s wife was Lady Katherine Penwood, exasperation might just become the norm….

In any case, he seemed to silently wish that the world would leave him alone with his work, and Integra felt in that something along the lines of a kindred spirit. If he wasn’t the man in charge of her wellbeing—insofar as much as an absent godfather could be in charge—she thought that they might have been good acquaintances. Then again, all of the other knights also seemed to think that their work was the most important, and anything stopping said work was just too big of a hassle to ignore. She often wondered if her father had acted that way as well, and if she in turn might someday wake up with the inner voice of a crotchety old geezer.

“And youn—Miss Integra,” he greeted her, and she noticed that despite his unchanged expression, his tone did soften a bit when he spoke to her. “You’re very welcome too,” he added, looking down at her as though he had no idea what to do with her. He’d done the same thing when he’d first met her, and Walter had introduced her as both his goddaughter and her late father’s successor.

“Hello, Sir Penwood,” she responded civilly, hands behind her back as she looked up at him. Privately, she couldn’t help but think that she would be very pleased when she grew taller than him and he had to look up at her. Walter had told her that her family had all been very tall, and she hoped that the genes had passed to her. He continued to look at a loss, but he blinked twice and his face morphed into his usual agitated expression.

“I suppose now that you’re here, we can begin; Sir Irons has been beside himself with impatience….” he told Walter, before turning to the steward. “See that Miss Integra joins the other ladies,” he ordered before turning and walking away without another word. Walter hopped to attention and followed him, leaving Integra alone with the steward. For a quick moment she thought about putting up a fight to go with the men, but decided against it almost immediately. Her father’s words echoed in her mind: It’s fine to be however you are at home, but abroad one must always put on the face of proper gentry. A proper Englishwoman wouldn’t whine and wheedle because she didn’t get her way, no matter how angry she was deep within. So she stifled her sharp words and instead obediently followed the steward up the elegant staircase and down the finely carpeted halls towards the parlor.

The parlor itself was nearly as ‘Katherine’ as a room could be. The wallpaper was gilded white, the carpet was spotless white, the couch cushions a brilliant white with baby doll pink accents. Lace doilies covered every available surface, crystals hanging from the chandelier and lamps, and cutesy figurines lined up in perfect rows along mantel and bookcase alike. China hens laid their eggs on the unused ottoman, and an entire wall was dedicated to an expansive dish collection featuring two brown and white spaniels playing in a wildflower meadow. One shelf above the door was solely for porcelain dolls in Victorian wear, their little painted fingers holding fragile parasols and folding fans. In this room, nauseating as it was, Integra was left to fend for herself as the steward beat a quick retreat.

There were eleven women scattered along the frilled cushions of the sofas, one for each of the men that were right now sitting down with Walter to discuss what to do about Russia, or how to handle the English/American situation as a whole. She would have given anything to be down there, in the midst of the men, arguing her point just as loudly as the rest while choking on the somewhat attractive, yet pungent fragrance of mixed cigarette and cigar smoke. No matter what horrors they were talking about down there, it paled in comparison to the sight of the women, perched on the sofas and grabbing cakes and cookies from the coffee table while they chatted.

“Young Miss Hellsing,” the steward managed to say, halfway down the hall but still loud enough that the women heard. They turned as one, peering over the backs of sofas and around the arms to see her standing in the threshold. She colored (she hated it when servants called her young, as though she were five years old or something), but she didn’t comment on it. Proper gentry, proper gentry….

“Integra!” The loud voice of her godmother rang out in the silence. “Come in, come in darling!” She stood up and made her way over, getting uncomfortably close before wrapping Integra in an embrace resembling a constrictor’s hold. Integra shrank away from the woman’s affection, unsure of how to handle it; the only women she’d known before her father’s death were the female servants, who never touched her at all, and Cook. Cook was a large woman with the same build as Lady Katherine; however her affection was not shown in hugs and kisses, but rather in fresh cinnamon buns and an a fond pat on the head, if anything. Integra would rather deal with Cook’s no-nonsense attitude than be forced to put up with constricting arms and having her face shoved into folds of plump, warm flesh. But Lady Katherine was just different, wanting to call her ‘love’ and ‘darling’ and dress her up as though she were another one of those prissy china Victorianas sitting pristinely on the shelf.

She wasn’t the type of woman that Integra had assumed would be Sir Penwood’s wife. She’d imagined a small, scrawny, nervous woman who kept a never-ending supply of handkerchiefs for her husband’s sweaty habits in her clutch. But Lady Katherine was the very definition of ‘plump’; she wasn’t obese, but had enough fat on her to give her some girth. It made for those very squishy, suffocating hugs that Integra wasn’t entirely sure if she enjoyed or not. And she wasn’t nervous, either. She was loud, willful and made sure that the entire room knew her opinion without a care for anyone who dared to think different. The only thing that matched Integra’s mental description was the multitude of embroidered handkerchiefs that always appeared at exactly the right moment.

She froze as the tight embrace lasted longer than expected, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks and shifting uncomfortably, shoulders tensed. What was the proper protocol for hugging? No one ever seemed to say anything about it, instead knowing instinctively how to behave. Was she the only one that didn’t know what to do? Was she supposed to return the hug, despite whatever her internal feelings might be? Or was she just supposed to stand there and take it? Just standing awkwardly seemed—well, awkward. But that was all she knew how to do, so she became a living statue and held her breath. When she was released, her lungs released all the air as well in a long, low whoosh; the gentlewoman didn’t seem to notice, perfectly manicured nails resting on the younger girl’s shoulder as she whisked the child to sit in a seat of honor next to her.

Integra sank back into the soft cushions, trying to keep herself afloat long enough to settle the cup of tea she was handed. Her feet weren’t able to reach the ground, so she finally found a relatively comfortable position by subtly tucking her right foot beneath the knee of her left leg and using one of the harder accent pillows to support the small of her back. A plate of cakes, some drizzled with honey or fruit preserves while others were doused in a fine snow of powdered sugar, was passed to her and she took one, surprisingly peckish despite having a decent lunch earlier. When the plates were finished being passed, there were sweets piled high enough that Cook would have been proud to see her pack them away. 

The women continued their conversation as if she wasn’t there, which was—in a way, at least—what Integra wanted. It left her in peace to drink her tea without having to pause in order to answer unnecessary questions or add to the conversation. As she ate, she let the conversation wash over her without really paying attention to it, instead looking at the women themselves. She’d always loved people watching, and there weren’t many chances to see so many diverse people in the same room, especially when your butler didn’t approve of you mingling in with the ‘common crowds’.

Sitting directly across from her was the formidable Lady Marjorie Irons; she was exactly the sort of wife Integra had imagined for the stalwart and stuffy Sir Irons. Thin and bony with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue, Lady Irons had a habit of snapping her fan shut and pointing it threateningly whenever she spoke. She was condescending and Integra thought her cruel, though Walter and Cook both insisted that she had her merits and besides, it wasn’t ladylike to speak poorly of one’s elders. And perhaps she did have some redeeming qualities somewhere within the confines of her bony breast, but Integra couldn’t—for the life of her—figure out what they were. She seemed to have a negative opinion of everything, including her own family. Even now she sat with pursed lips, shaking her head in response to whatever topic was pouring amply from Lady Katherine’s mouth.

Sitting to Lady Iron’s right was Lady Marie Walsh, the wife of the quiet, elderly-yet-dashing Lt. Walsh. She was a teeny little snippet of a woman, and looked odd sitting next to the tall Lady Irons. She was also the youngest of the party, her hair having only the lightest hues of silver at her temples and the finest of lines around her always smiling mouth. Lady Marie— she insisted on being called by her Christian name rather than her surname— was perpetually cheerful and sweet, with never a bad word to say about anyone or anything. Integra thought that she could even talk Alucard up to sainthood in her quiet Cumberland tones; her chief talent seemed to be minimizing people’s flaws.  Integra liked her very much, if only for her soft-spoken nature and gentle smile.

Lady Grey was to Lady Iron’s left, seated as though she had a rod up her spine. Integra wasn’t even sure what her given name was, having only heard her called Grey. She was a very pensive woman, always strict in religious edict and morality. She always thought doubly hard before speaking, especially when answering questions, and she was never seen without her hair being done up in tight, headache-inducing bun. Lady Katherine often joked when no one else was around that Lady Grey showered with her bun intact. Integra liked her intelligence, but she was always spouting morals as though she’d memorized them from some book and it often annoyed her.

Three women of the same medium build were crammed together on the settee; Lady Foxx on the right, Lady Summerland on the left, and Lady Winters shoved in-between like toppings on a finger sandwich. Lady Foxx was a rather droll creature that was always worried over her health; Integra couldn’t help but sarcastically think that she was oh so brave to face the germy world outside her own home as often as she did, and was secretly happy that she never found a reason to call on Hellsing manor. To tell truth, anyone could tell that her nervous disposition was really an inability to handle the daily hassles of life. Integra thought that having a tendency to hysterics must be a very boring lifestyle, since Lady Foxx was supposed to do everything to keep them from coming upon her. Thankfully, it didn’t take much to send her into a dead faint so she was never too put-upon.

Lady Summerland and Lady Winters were identical twins. Integra could tell them apart only by their smooth braided buns; they pulled their hair in opposite ways, so that the gray streaks of Lady Winters’s hair ran to the right and Lady Summerland’s to the left. They both had striking green eyes and their hair, before growing dull with age, must have been very beautiful with an ebony sheen. They were both quiet, amiable women who had a habit of finishing the other’s sentences and laughing in the same octave, which was both amusing and eerie until one got used to it.

Lady Montgomery sat in a chair to herself next to the settee. She was from France, and despite having lived on the island for more than thirty years she still spoke in such a thick accent that sometimes she had to repeat herself two or three times before anyone could understand her. Integra was always amused by her dark eyelashes, which were naturally long. They were pretty in their own way, but she had admittedly thought of a camel when she’d first saw them. She also never tired of hearing Lady Montgomery’s firsthand stories about the ‘Forces françaises de l’intérieur’, as she called the French resistance. 

Lady Campbell sat on the third sofa, which had been wedged between the arms of the other two and stood across from the chair and settee. She was the most boring of the wives, hardly speaking at all unless there was a complete lull in the conversation. Even her looks were boring, from her freckled face to her mousy brown hair and dull muddy eyes. Lady Winslow sat next to her, laughing at everything with an irritatingly airy laugh and holding her hand in front of her mouth as though afraid that her teeth might jump out and run away. On her other side sat Lady Herveaux, who was portly and had no more character than the hens sitting on the ottoman; she didn’t seem to have an original through in her head, instead only agreeing with everyone else. Integra supposed that, other than rounding out the Conference’s wives, she served no great purpose.

“Ugh! Filthy thing!” For a moment, she had no idea what Lady Irons meant and went ahead with her absentminded thoughts, wondering if Lady Herveaux might one day surprise them all by being some sort of criminal mastermind that hid in plain sight. It was only when everyone grew quiet and the sentiments were repeated that she looked up to see herself as the center of attention. “Filthy, filthy girl!”

“Excuse me?” Integra managed to ask, shocked into civility. What had she done? In the back of her mind, she knew that she needn’t have done anything to become the target of Lady Iron’s wrath, but she was still used to actually having to put forth an effort to be naughty before being singled out. Still, this polite question only made the woman even more vexed than before.

“Don’t you sit there and act innocent in the face of your misdeeds!” Lady Irons crowed with narrow eyes. “The proof is all over your fingers!” And with this, the folding fan snapped shut and pointed in the direction of the criminal digits. Integra looked down at her hands, trying to decide what was so wrong about them. Nothing seemed to be the matter, and she looked over at Lady Katherine in puzzlement.

“What’s the matter?” Lady Katherine asked for her, sounding as puzzled as Integra felt. Lady Irons scoffed, shaking her head.

“As though you’re blind, Kitty!” she fussed, using the woman’s nickname. “Just look at her filthy little fingers, covered in sugar! Where do you think you are, child?! The East End?!” It was true; she had the remnants of one of the sugared cakes on her fingers. But what was she supposed to do? They were made to eat with one’s hands, weren’t they? She was ready to defend herself with these words, but before she could open her mouth Lady Katherine was speaking for her again.

“Oh let her alone, Margie!” the plump woman clucked as she handed Integra another napkin. “Here, dear. Wipe your fingers off so that Lady Irons will be happy,” she added in an undertone, along with an eye roll for Integra’s benefit.

“Yes, let the poor dear be,” Lady Summerland agreed quietly. “She’s nothing but a child anyway. I say we should let her eat as she pleases.” She took a sip of her tea, oblivious of the scowl Integra sent her way. Even up here, they were looking down on her. What did she have to do to be seen as a proper lady, the same as them?

“I do it myself,” Lady Marie said, gracing Integra with one of her soft smiles. She held up one hand and wiggled the fingers. “What’s life for, if not to get a little messy when eating sweets? Or are you going to call me a dirty slum-heathen too?” she teased.

“Correcting children for their sinful faults is the job of every adult, no matter what their own slovenly habits are,” the woman replied tersely. She crossed her legs and looked down her nose at Lady Marie. “You certainly have never seen anything on my fingers,” she added.

“Well, no, I canna say that I have,” Lady Marie agreed after a moment’s pause. “But I still say that there’s nothing wrong with it. It’s certainly not sinful.”

“Certainly not!” Lady Katherine repeated in a loud tone. “Whatever put that notion into your mind, Margie?” She tsked as she shook her head.

“That doesn’t matter,” Lady Irons retorted coldly. “If Walter would take the time to train her properly, she’d not have gotten her fingers dirty in the first place.” The air changed and grew thick with anticipation; Lady Foxx paled and busied herself with her teacup, as if seeing something in the near future that Integra couldn’t. “But then again, I suppose the real training in etiquette should have gone to her father, and we can certainly call that a failure that never happened,” she scoffed. Her nose turned even higher. “Perhaps you ought to have forced yourself a little more, Kitty.” There was a longer pause, and the hair on Integra’s neck stood up. Lady Foxx’s teacup began to rattle.

“Perhaps I should’ve,” Lady Katherine responded in a near whisper, not unlike herself at all. Integra felt something in the air that set her on edge, and she knew that whatever Lady Irons had meant, it was far deeper than the outwardly impression that her father had never taught her any manners. Integra could feel that it wasn’t for her own benefit that Lady Katherine was in this state—it was something purely between the two women. “But I also,” she added in a voice calm with conviction, and yet so filled with outrage that it was near impossible to believe that she wasn’t screaming her head off, “I also know how to respect a dear friend’s wishes, no matter what the consequences ended up being.”

“Some people would find that in itself a fault,” Lady Irons replied in the same tone, calm and yet clipped. The other women were as still as the dead; Lady Marie alone looked as though she wanted to say something to diffuse the situation, but she must not have been able to think of anything worthy of saying aloud as she remained silent.

“Well, Marjorie,” Lady Katherine said as she took a sip of tea, “since you’re so keen on finding fault in everyone today, please enlighten me on how I might have shaped her up better than Walter ever could. After all, I eat with my fingers too.” It sounded like a challenge, and Integra could already tell that this was going to end up badly if Lady Irons took the bait.  The other woman licked her lips, uncrossing her legs and drawing herself up to her full height as she narrowed her eyes at them from across the coffee table.

“Her lack of table manners is only the tip of the iceberg, Kitty dearest.” At this, Lady Marie managed to cut her way in.

“Come now, Kitty, Margie, let’s not quarrel,” she said breathlessly, her wide brown eyes flitting from one tense figure to the other. “Integra is a fine young lady, and she’ll be a fine woman no matter who raised her. Arthur put good values in her and Walter, well… Walter’s a fine man now; Oxford took care of a great deal of his faults—”

“That bovver boy that fancies calling himself a butler is no more fit to care for a house than he is a child.” Lady Marie’s mouth closed with an audible sound, her expression one of pure shock. Lady Irons ignored her, fan now idly flapping through the air and blowing the gray curls from her face. “He’s the only thing she has for a moral compass; that’s the only reason I don’t completely blame the child. And as for your earlier input, Katherine, I assume that had you taken her as you wanted when she was born, she’d have at least looked decent.”

“What’s wrong with her looks?!” Lady Katherine protested, her voice rising to shouting level. Integra felt more taken aback than insulted, because secretly she was thinking the same thing. She looked down at her clothing, wondering if perhaps food had gotten on them as well. Her shirt was white, so any sugar would have been invisible, and her blue skirt was as spotless as when she had first arrived. Walter had, as always, ironed her clothing for her so there were no wrinkles. She honestly had no idea what Lady Irons meant. The woman in question turned on her with a critical eye, shaking her head with tight, bloodless lips.

“Really, just look at her,” Lady Irons sighed abjectly, as though she couldn’t stand the sight before her. “For one, her hair is all in her face and half-brushed, but even that could be looked past if it weren’t for those glasses.” She scoffed, nose twisting in disgust as she stared right into Integra’s eyes. “No girl—no girl with a mother, at least—would ever be permitted to wear such ridiculous, oversized frames. I sleep at night only because I believe that somewhere in the world, good, God-fearing men and women are keeping their children properly dressed and with glasses that actually fit them, much less help them to see.”

“That’s just absurd!” Lady Katherine spat. Lady Marie furrowed her brow at her sofa mate’s spiel, Lady Winters shook her head and Lady Campbell actually raised her eyes from her lap in a rare display, but none of the other women spoke up to agree with the lady of the house. Integra felt her cheeks burn and she tentatively reached up a hand to feel her frames, pushing them up her nose. Yes, they were a little large for her, but her father—she stopped her train of thought, swallowing hard. She had to keep her mind veered away from the deceased man; it still hurt to think of him, even though his death had been months ago. She wasn’t about to get teary-eyed in front of anyone, especially Lady Irons, who would probably take it as a favorable sign that her words had gone to heart.

“Well, now.” This was Lady Summerland again. She was staring down into her teacup, refusing to look up in the direction of the coffee table. Her sister looked astonished, blinking rapidly. Lady Katherine was staring at her as though she hadn’t been sure if she’d heard right. The woman took a sharp breath. “I don’t… suppose that… the frames of one’s spectacles constitute good breeding.” She swallowed quickly. Lady Foxx chewed her lip and Lady Winters took an unnecessarily long drink of her tea, nearly draining the cup. No one else piped up to defend Integra, so she decided to defend herself.

“I happen to like my glasses, Lady Irons,” she said as politely as she could muster. Instead of having a favorable effect, the sentence instead only increased the tension in the room. The other ladies either looked down at their laps or away; Lady Marie spared her a pitying glance before becoming interested in the doily on the table next to her. Lady Katherine’s tongue darted out to whet her lips, but even she didn’t look directly at Integra. Only the addressed woman stared at her, and with such a piercing glare that Integra thought twice about speaking again. Still, she was determined to finish her piece. “I don’t mind that they’re a little large for my face, even if other people think that they’re ridiculous.” Surely there’s nothing in that answer to constitute bad breeding. Yet she was underestimating her new opponent’s skill.

“Did no one ever teach you to hold your tongue to your elders?” the older woman snapped. “Well, I suppose they didn’t,” she added as an afterthought. “Seeing as they didn’t teach you anything else. But what can you expect?” she asked huffily, tapping Lady Grey. The woman jumped at being singled out, looking timidly at Lady Irons before sighing and staring back at her cup. She then looked through her lashes at Integra for a moment before lifting her head and staring at some fixed point just above Lady Katherine’s head, taking a dainty bite out of a biscuit.

“Spare the rod, spoil the child, or so they say,” she quoted cryptically. Integra wondered if that was meant for her or Lady Irons, but it seemed to pacify the latter.

“See? Take heed, girl.” She shook back her curls. “Then again, I have no choice but to blame genetics. We all know that Arthur was a drunkard and a reckless fool, even if he did do his job well enough that they didn’t throw him to the street. And when your family stems from those sorts of Germans, well—what can I say?” said with a cold laugh and a nod sharp enough that it looked like it might sever her head from her bony neck. “It didn’t help that he refused to marry a proper Englishwoman. Who knows what sort of blood came from that—I shan’t say it in this sort of company.”

Integra was silent, having to mentally take a moment to replay the words and process every slight about her family and upbringing one by one. A hot wash of unwarranted shame flooded and she grew angry at herself for flushing, knowing that her burning cheeks could be seen by everyone in the room, even if her hair ‘hung in her face’. Her confusion and embarrassment turned into anger and she thought of standing up and throwing her tea into the old woman’s face. What good would it have done, though? It would have only cemented the notion that she was a wicked, heathen girl and then she would be no better off than before. Thankfully, she wasn’t alone in the battle; her godmother fluffed like an angry bird seeking to shelter its chick beneath its wing.

“Marjorie Irons, I have never in all my life heard such an unprecedented speech! You sound just… silly!” she exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air and upsetting Integra’s teacup in the process. A drop of semi-warm liquid landed on her skirt and she frowned, hoping that Walter could get it out before it became a stain. This blue skirt was her favorite…. But there’d be time enough to think about that later, as Lady Katherine was still arguing. “… and we all know that you’ve got German roots too, so you shouldn’t even say anything about that either!”

“Please! Saying that my family and the van Helsing family are the same is like saying that a Penwood is the same as a Smith!” Lady Irons face was mottled in her anger. “You’d never see a von Carlson behaving in that manner! We were—are—a proud family, with a sense of ethics and honor instilled in us from our aristocracy alone! You didn’t see us dabbling in black magic and consorting with vam—” At this Lady Katherine gave such a start that the entire sofa moved, cushions and all.  Lady Foxx gave a little screech of alarm and there was a tinkling sound as the rim of her teacup cracked from the continuous shaking.

“Are you alright, darling?” Lady Winters asked her in a loud voice, as if trying to drown out the other woman.

“I’m just… a little nauseous,” Lady Foxx stammered, face ashen. The twins moved as far over as they could, one nearly sitting on the other’s lap in order to give her room.

“Take it to the lavatory if you must,” Lady Katherine insisted, waving a hand at her. “Not on my carpet.” She turned back to face the coffee table, but Integra saw the hand holding her cup was faintly trembling as well. Something clicked in her mind and it became clear as day what Lady Irons meant to say. So they knew as well…. “What were you saying, Margie!?” She tried to gather her emotion into an angry expression, but it was clear the upset had pushed the argument from her mind for the moment.

“Ah, I meant that you’d never see a von Carlson with such garish eyewear,” Lady Irons finished blandly, the fight seemingly gone from her as well. She looked embarrassed to have nearly let the something slip out. Integra put her cup on the coffee table, the china clinking almost inaudibly against the wood. She looked Lady Irons in the eye and smiled broadly, feeling proud at what was about to happen. For once, she knew something that the others did as well, without having to be instructed like a child.

“Were you about to say ‘consorting with vampires’, Lady Irons?” she asked sweetly, letting the sarcastic syrupiness roll from her tongue like the most potent of venoms. The room hushed every woman eyeing Integra with something akin to fear. Lady Irons narrowed her eyes, as if trying to see down into Integra’s soul and garner how much the girl knew. Lady Katherine had gone stiff as a board beside her, but now let out a peal of laughter.

“Vampires!?” she cackled, prompting the other women to laugh weakly as well. Only Lady Marie’s giggle seemed to be just as genuine. “Whatever made you think that, of all things? Has Walter been filling your head with fairy stories, dear?” Integra merely continued to smile, turning her knowing gaze to her godmother.

“No, I was just about to say that if Lady Irons needed one, she could use mine. Since her family didn’t consort with them. They’re really rather useful for taking care of unwanted trash,” she added confidentially. Her tone was now cold, an echo of the woman that she’d be in a few short years. “And mine is growing bored around the house, so I don’t think he’ll mind being released into the Irons’s home for a bit.”

The resounding silence was deafening. Integra expected shouts for her insolence, threats to tell Walter about her bad behavior, even a well-placed smack for her sheer cheek. But instead all the women looked at her with a strange light in their eyes. Lady Marie’s spoon missed her teacup, clicking the side of the saucer and chipping the edge before marring the floor with a perfectly round stain. It continued to rattle, the woman’s hand trembling as she looked from Integra to Lady Katherine and back, her cheeks losing an alarming amount of blood by the second. Her cheerful face had lost its glow, and it didn’t suit her in the slightest. In all their eyes was an old fear that was meant for something greater, something that was before Integra’s time.

“Y-Yours?” Lady Montgomery asked at last. With her breaking the silence, the questions poured forth.

“What do you mean?” This was Lady Grey, her mouth twisted in a grimace.

“Integra…” Lady Katherine inhaled slowly, one hand on her shoulder as she turned Integra around to look her in the eye. “Are you being serious? You’ve found—you’ve gotten a vampire?” She looked as though she were trying to keep calm in the face of death, rather than sitting in the parlor with tea and cakes.

“I have,” she answered proudly, rolling her shoulders back and puffing with a bit of her own ego. She, the youngest, and the ruler over a vampire when all of them couldn’t even imagine the possibility!

“Does Walter know about this vampire?” Lady Summerland asked with the utmost seriousness. “Have you told him?”

“Of course he knows!” Integra exclaimed, twisting in her seat to glare at the woman. “How could he not know?” There was another, shorter silence and then the room seemed to explode.

“O-oh! Oh goodness me! I—I’m having a panic attack!” Lady Foxx gasped to no one in particular, her face losing the little amount of blood it had. “I’m going to faint! This can’t be good for my health!” And with that, her prediction came true and she swooned. Lady Montgomery looked concerned, standing up and fanning the limp woman with a napkin.

“Un désastre, un désastre complet,” she muttered to herself as she frantically waved the makeshift fan over the waxen features. 

“Someone ought to march down there and make Walter explain himself!” Lady Winters demanded, fist striking her thigh defiantly. She didn’t, however, make to move from her seat. “He ought to explain!” she repeated when no one bothered to pay any attention to her. “How could he keep something so vital a secret from us all?”

“If it was indeed ‘us all’,” Lady Grey finally answered her. “I have no doubt that he probably told the men, and they all seemed it fit enough to keep it from us.” She huffed, shaking her head. Lady Foxx let out a breath that sounded as though her soul was finally escaping its mortal coils, and Lady Montgomery continued her fanning with renewed vigor, looking panicky herself.

“How?” Lady Marie whimpered, one hand on her temple. Tears pooled in her eyes, her natural reaction to stressful stimuli that actually bothered her to the point of concern. “How can he be back?” she asked. “Arthur said… he promised that he’d never come back!” she squeaked, burying her face in her hands and sobbing with squeaky little gasps. “He promised!” As Integra watched, Lady Irons actually put a comforting arm around her shoulder and allowed the small woman to lean on her.

“There there, stop making such a fool of yourself,” she sighed in her usual snappish way, but lacking much of the bite she might have gave under less shocking circumstance. “Calm down, Marie. It’s not as though—”

“I’ll never forget what I saw, in Berlin,” Lady Summerland cut her off. Her eyes were focused on the mantle, but there was a distant gleam in them that Integra recognized from the soldiers under her command. They wore the same look whenever they recalled what Walter often referred to as simply ‘bad times’. “Those men, and those… those telegraph poles….” She shuddered. “I’ll never forget it for as long as I live. That monster—” Her sister put her arms around her and squeezed, stroking the neatly parted hair.

“It’s alright, shh,” she murmured. “It won’t happen again, I’m sure of it. Things are different now.”

“You’re right,” said Lady Grey. “It ought to be worse now, for there’s no SS to waste its energies on.” Lady Montgomery cleared her throat, looking up from Lady Foxx for a minute. Her bright eyes locked onto Integra, sitting in the midst of the chaos with a look of confusion.

“Until zis ‘orrible mess can be sorted out,” she said firmly, above the ruckus of Lady Marie’s squeaking and Lady Winter’s comforting of her sister, “Ze little one can come to my ‘ouse and stay.”

“But my house is farther away from Hellsing manor,” Lady Grey offered. “She’s certainly welcome there; now that Louis has gone to his own house, there’s a spare guest room she can be put in.” 

“It won’t matter where she stays, if that creature gets a notion to go after her,” Lady Katherine butted in. “She could be sent to the Cape of Good Hope and it wouldn’t do any good at all; it would only cause more property damage. But if she did stay anywhere,” she concluded with a flinty gaze. “It would be with me.” Her face turned down to her young seatmate and she smiled kindly. “Don’t worry, dear. Aunt Kitty will protect you.” Integra stared blankly back up at her, battling with indignation and exasperation alike. Her face twisted purposely and she huffed before reaching up and adjusting her ‘unladylike’ glasses.

“Thank you, Lady Katharine, but that is not necessary. My vampire will not harm me." There was a hard look in the girl's eyes. "He protected me once already, from my Uncle, when he tried to kill me." Lady Katherine’s smile faded and the women shared another uncomfortable glance between them.

“My dear, I suppose he did kill your uncle, but sparing you was most likely just a whim, as much as I hate to say it aloud.” It was clear that for once, Lady Katherine was trying to tread a subject carefully, and not doing a very good job of it. “Your much safer if he’s locked away in some dark dungeon and left to ro— well, to the annals of history,” she laughed nervously.

“I’m afraid I have to disagree,” Integra replied, making an effort to be kind in return and assuage the older woman’s fears. “For one, he didn’t kill my uncle. I did that myself. And, you see, as head of the family, I—”

“How many times must you be told!? Don’t talk back to your elders, child!” Lady Irons hissed. “Especially on matters that you couldn’t even begin to understand!”

“Margie,” Lady Katherine chided, giving her peer an imploring look. “Let’s at least hear the child out.”

“She doesn’t even know what she’s begun, letting him loose!” Lady Irons retorted. “Who, pray tell, is keeping control of him?”

“I am!” Integra interjected, thoroughly confused. They acted as though the world itself were ending, just because she had a vampire now. Why couldn’t they understand that she had things under control? Nothing particularly bad had happened since she’d let him out of the basement, and that had been weeks ago! While a part of her was curious as to what had happened with the telegraph poles in Berlin, the rest of her was trying to decide on the best way to show the women that she was in charge. She doubted that bringing him here would solve anything—it would only make the women more afraid. He could look quite daunting, when in the wrong light.

 “We’ve got to speak with Walter,” Lady Marie finally said in a shaky voice, wiping at her cheeks with her handkerchief. Lady Winters nodded vehemently in agreement, her arms crossed over her chest, and Lady Grey reached for the silver bell on the coffee table. Lady Katherine reached forward with a speed that surprised Integra and laid her own hand over it, a pensive frown on her lips.

“Do you really believe that the men knew?” she asked Lady Grey in a quiet, very uncharacteristic tone. The woman shifted uncomfortably in her seat, face screwed up in concentrated thought. Finally she put a hand on her chin.

“I think that Walter would have deemed it necessary. I know he was a rowdy sort of youth, but I can’t believe that he’d actually hold back that sort of important information.”

“Well then.” The silver bell was left on the table and Lady Katherine’s eyes gleamed with a dark light. “Do you think you’re up for walking the ledge, Marie?” The red-faced woman stared deep into the hostess’s eyes, biting her lip, and then nodded. The women looked at each other, and then stood as one. “Come along, Integra dear,” she said absently as they all moved towards the window, skirts swooshing and heels clicking in the new, purposeful silence.

“Where are we going?” Integra asked, baffled as the women pooled near the windows. There was no balcony, not in the sitting room window anyway. No one answered, but Lady Summerland motioned her with a hand gesture and she rose from the sofa to join them. Lady Irons and Lady Grey opened the windows, letting in a gust of fresh breeze that ruffled the curtains and brought the lovely fragrance of roses.

“Take care,” Lady Grey said to Lady Marie. “You haven’t done this in a few years, my dear. Don’t take a tumble now.” Integra balked at the woman, who was down to her stocking feet and working on the stockings themselves. She yanked them off and stuffed them down into her shoes, her free hand gathering her longer skirts around her until they were above her knees. She looked up at them all and, despite the traces of tears still lingering on her cheeks and lashes, gave them all a bright, if not weak smile.

“I don’t plan to, Lady Grey.” Before Integra could blink, she was on the ledge of the window and peering out, holding onto the casement with one slender hand. She seemed to gage something and then swung around the casement and out of site. Integra pushed past the other women until she was Lady Katherine’s side, one hand on the ledge as she peered out after her.

“I hope it’s still there,” Lady Katherine muttered to herself, allowing Integra to press up beneath her chin in order to lean out the window. “It’s been years since I’ve even looked at that old thing.” Integra meant to ask what she meant, but she was more interested in watching Lady Marie’s tiny, childlike feet carefully navigate the thin ledge of the molding that skirted the length of the house. For a normal ladies foot, the ledge would be too narrow. Integra knew that she could probably cross it easily enough, with patience and good balance. But Lady Marie, despite her age, had naturally tiny feet. It seemed that she also apparently had perfect balance. She made it seem easy to cross over to a small balcony that was connected to one of the spare bedrooms, if Integra had to guess.

“Oh, she made it!” Lady Winters breathed happily. Lady Marie waved to them from her safer spot and then walked over to the wall, which was half-hidden behind a larger vertical line of molding. Afterwards, she kneeled, fiddled with something beyond the balcony, and then there was a deft click that rang through the air. All the women at the window froze for a moment, and Lady Marie froze as well before slowly straightening up and walking back across the balcony. She hopped back up on the ledge, but now something was clutched tightly in her hand.

“What does she have?” Integra asked Lady Katherine, who smiled back down at her.

“Well, you’re about to be initiated into a well-kept secret that has nothing to do with government… well, not in a way.”

“Yes, and you better keep your mouth shut about it,” Lady Winters warned. “If it gets out, we’ll know who to blame.”

“Oh, hush. Our darling Integra won’t tell a soul, will you?” Lady Katherine purred. Integra dutifully shook her head and then they all had to move back as Lady Marie jumped in off the ledge.

“My foot slipped in that last moment,” she admitted breathlessly. “It wasn’t as easy as when I was in my thirties.” She opened her clenched fist to show nothing more than a common two-way radio. “I still remembered how we used to set it up, though. And there wasn’t any feedback, so no one’s using the frequency.”

“Where was that at?” Integra asked, thoroughly puzzled. She wished that she could have seen around the vertical molding. It was all so strange! Lady Marie smiled at her.

“In a little dovecote. It’s nailed to the wall, but there haven’t been doves in… well, I daresay forty years.”

“We commandeered it for our own purposes,” Lady Summerland added. “After all, one has to keep on top of things.” She laughed softly. “All Lady Marie had to do was crack the window a smidgen and rest the other radio on the upper sill. A bit of glue holds the button down. We’ve been doing this for as long as meetings have been held here, haven’t we Kitty?”

“Still, wasn’t that window clicking loudly today?” Lady Grey said. “I thought for a moment that we were found out!” Lady Katherine put a finger to her lips and then without further ado, Lady Marie clicked the on switch. There was a static-filled pause, and then Sir Irons came through as clearly as though he were standing in the room with them.

“—can’t see what’s to be done about it, unless we send in some specialized forces.” The women leaned in, staring intently at the transceiver in Lady Marie’s hand. “Do we have money in the budget for that?”

“Can’t say that we do,” Sir Penwood sighed. “We’re strung out as it is, I’m afraid. Training troops and sending them to Russia is too much for any budget. We’ve got to somehow make do with what we have already.” 

“Saying it’s one thing, doing is another,” Sir Walsh interrupted them both. “Speaking for myself, I know that none of my men are strong enough to take on an entire town of Ghouls and a pair of vampires. How about you, Sir Grey?”

“I can’t say much for mine, either. I’m still training new ones; lost too many in the last big showdown.”

“Well,” Sir Irons huffed. “And you, Walter?”

“Our men could possibly handle the Ghouls, but unless the vampires are alone when we come for them, there’s no way. A pair of vampires—especially if they’re partnered, instead of just working together—would be far too advanced for our soldiers. If I may suggest, though: Alucard could be sent in to deal with the vampires while the men work in the town.” There was a pause, and Integra could hear every woman in the room hold her breath.

“Naturally, but what of the damage costs? We all know how he is.” Sir Irons sounded displeased.

“Compared to the costs of training fleets of new men and covering up the others’ deaths?” Walter was confident. “Miniscule.”

“I still say we ought to have locked him up the minute everyone was safe.” This sounded like Sir Summerland, speaking around his pipe. “It’s too dangerous.”

“It’s not our call to make,” Sir Irons said. “It’s Walter’s business to order the Hellsing household; Her Majesty said as much when we brought the matter to her, didn’t she?”

            “It’s Miss Integra’s business,” Walter corrected swiftly. “He obeys me because he wants to, but he obeys Miss Integra because he must. That’s all the difference in the world. In the end, it’s her decision whether to keep him out or lock him away, and I will stand by that decision, no matter what the outcome may be.” Integra said nothing, but deep within her a vein of compassion bubbled and swelled. Walter…. 

            “Well, in any case,” Sir Irons faltered, and Integra could hear the dismay written across his face. “Sir Penwood, ring the bell for the steward and tell him to get the cars ready. I don’t think there’s anything more we can decide on today. In conclusion, gentlemen: Sir Grey, I trust you to—”

            “That’s it, then.” There was a deft click and the radio was turned off. Integra nearly called out for it to be turned back on, afraid that there might be some last minute command that she’d miss. But the women’s curiosities were satisfied, and Lady Marie was already on the ledge and preparing to make the dangerous trip again to get the other radio off the window. “We ought to do it earlier next time, so we can hear more.”

            “Hear more of what?” Lady Irons huffed as she watched Lady Marie through the casement. “It’s been the same pointless war dribble for nearly twenty years now.”

            “She’s not wrong,” Lady Summerland sighed. “Still, I suppose we found out the answer.”

            “And so?”  Lady Montgomery tsked with a small shake of her head.

            “And so what?” Lady Katherine replied in the same tone. “That’s it.”

            “Well, I’m not going to take it so easily,” Lady Winters growled, her hands still fisted. “My husband has another thing coming if he thinks he can pull one on me. Why would he not even tell me?” she asked her sister.

            “Why, the same reason Laurie didn’t tell me,” Lady Summerland huffed, nails drumming on her crossed arms. “Probably thought we couldn’t handle it, as if—”

            “Really, as if!” her twin concluded irritably, shaking her head.

            “You’re right,” Lady Marie said as she climbed for the fourth time through the casement and sat upon it, pulling her stockings back out of her shoes. “It’s as if we preened ourselves through the war, fragile as china dolls and not teaching the troops self-defense courses.”  

            “Pah!” Lady Montgomery spat, nose wrinkling. “As if we couldn’t fight our way through the enemy lines!”

            “As though we didn’t carry our fathers’ secret messages back and forth between the Knights,” Lady Katherine rolled her eyes.

            “As if we weren’t in Germany at the same time!” Lady Irons scowled. “And in Berlin at that!”

            “Berlin, that’s exactly right,” Lady Herveaux agreed. Integra listened, wide-eyed, as the women forgot her presence. Weren’t these the women who had just panicked at the thought that Alucard was out and about? Why were they talking as if they were unafraid of anything? She’d heard Walter’s stories of WWII and the horrors of Ghoul armies, but… was that what these women meant? Perhaps it was the principle of the matter, she decided as they continued to talk over one another while closing the window, putting back the curtains, and then making their way towards the door. Lady Katherine paused and turned to her, offering an arm silently.

            “Integra? Aren’t you coming?”

            “Yes,” she said, coming close but not taking the proffered arm. It went around to the small of her back instead and she was guided out the door along with the crowd of women, who had gone oddly silent once they passed the threshold. It was the principle of the matter, she realized, once they had gone downstairs and met up with the men. Those women, the same ones that bickered over fashion and were now meeting their husband’s words with cold indifference, had put themselves in danger for a cause they believed in, just as if they were men. Whether fighting for Partisans, or delivering coded messages, they had risen to the challenge. And even if they were frightened at the thought of Alucard, they would have risen again as one to defend a new objective—herself—from the perceived threat. That their own husbands, who knew of their exploits, would leave them out in the cold for no reason but some paltry excuse of their own? It was rude, inexcusable, deplorable behavior.

            She looked at Walter, who had not been blameless in this affair, and a new idea dawned that had never before entered her head. Walter was a man. This was something that he wouldn’t understand, even if she tried to explain how she did understand without having been through the same thing herself, and furthermore—as a man, he’d never experience it the same way a woman would, if at all. Was this, then, what he meant when he spoke of things that he couldn’t teach her? She eyed him for a moment before turning away in a halfhearted snub of her own and following the women out to where the chauffeurs waited with the cars.

            “Hmm?” Walter tilted his head as he watched his young charge head to the cars. She’d never looked at him like that before, and he’d expected her to ask about the meeting, but… there she went, just like all the others. And that expression; it was strictly Katherine-esque in nature. It startled him, frankly.

            “It astounds me how little she resembles either of her parents.” Sir Irons adjusted his top hat as he watched the youngster climb into the car, this time in the backseat instead of the passenger side. “I wonder where her looks come from? Not from Arthur, to be sure.”

            “She is pretty,” Lt. Walsh chuckled as he lit a cigarette. “Feisty, too. Already she’s been asking Marie and me to teach her a few moves. I thought about giving her some judo lessons, eh, Walter?”

            “Well—”

            “She gets her attitude from Arthur,” Sir Penwood interjected with a sigh. “She demands more ridiculous things every quarter. New helicopter, fancy new missile system, enhanced weaponry….”

            “Just say no, man,” Sir Irons huffed. “I’ve looked at your records. Complain all you like, but you keep buying her the new toys as fast as she sends a request.”

            “Well, she is my goddaughter,” Sir Penwood mumbled to his shoes. “And when she gives you that one certain look, it’s hard to say no. It’s the same one Arthur always wore. It brings back memories….” He looked up to the ceiling. “And then there’s Kitty on the other side, whipping out the checkbook every time the child sneezes. New clothes, new cutlery, a party here, a party there, hair ribbons and every other gaudy thing that Integra doesn’t even really wear.”

            “Ought not to let the child hang around Kate and the others too much, old boy.” Walsh laughed harder, the sound bouncing around the foyer. “She’ll rub off on her.” This time it was Walter who let out a heartfelt sigh.

            “To be fair… that’s what I’m a little afraid of.”

[monsterbroth]

button sewing is going great I procrastinated a bunch and now it’s 5am!

[julek]

my kingdom for a kiss (upon your shoulder)

read on ao3 | rated T | 6.2K | no warnings | for @asweetprologue <3

The sun shines soft in Toussaint.

Geralt can’t remember whether it’s always been like that — if the golden tint that falls over the city as gently as wind-blown petals is genuine or just a product of his imagination. Spring isn’t in full bloom yet, timid flowers peeking at him from the side of the road, proud birds carrying twigs and feathers to their newly-made nests, the tree branches still cold after the last snow.

They’re not far from the main square, their pace steady and unhurried since they set out to Beauclair in the morning. The midday commotion fills Geralt’s senses, spices and bread and frantic conversations making him shake his head in discomfort — busy cities always take a while to grow used to; thankfully, he never stays long.

Next to him, Jaskier sneezes.

“This weather, I tell you—” he starts, but gets immediately cut off by another dainty, kitten-like sneeze. He wipes his nose on his sleeve, then makes a face at it. “Be the death of me.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “It’ll take more than pollen to take you, I fear.”

“It doesn’t stand a chance against me,” he says, and strikes a pose, like one of the heroes in the silly novels he insists on buying, but the puffy eyes and red nose dampens it a bit. He doesn’t seem deterred, though. “Besides, I wouldn’t let pollen, of all things, keep me from performing at tonight’s ball.”

Geralt hums, flicking a fly off Roach’s mane. They were in Spalla when Jaskier was approached by a passing servant and asked to partake in some baron Geralt couldn’t care enough to retain the name of’s early spring ball — naturally, Jaskier had jumped at the invitation, eager to be among the distinguished crowds that frequent such events, even more so after a long winter tucked away at Oxenfurt.

“By the way,” Jaskier says, picking an inexistent piece of lint off his doublet, aiming for casual even though he knows Geralt can hear the curious lilt to his voice, “will you be attending tonight?”

“I might not make it in time,” he says truthfully. He rubs his thumb over the contract he’s holding in his free hand, the sharp edges digging into his skin. “I will hunt this afternoon.”

Jaskier nods. “Well,” he says, his voice soft as he bumps his shoulder against Geralt’s. “You’re welcome there. I’ll vouch for you, you know.”

Geralt smiles at him solemnly — then bumps him back, laughing when the bard accidentally crashes into an old woman perusing the wares of a silver-tongued merchant.

“Geralt!” Jaskier says indignantly, smoothing out his doublet and shooting the woman a sideways glance that’s more annoyed than apologetic. “You can’t just push people.”

“Apologies,” Geralt says, not sounding sorry at all. “My balance seems to be off, lately. You know how it is.”

“With your old age, yes,” Jaskier says and pats his arm sympathetically. “I fear you’re showing signs of decay already.”

“Hmm?”

“Oh, yes.” Jaskier takes his arm and loops it through his, a steadying hand at his back. “Your gait is off— look, even Roach looks concerned for your wellbeing.”

Roach looks unfazed.

“And all the lines on your face!” Jaskier gasps in mock-horror. “My, Geralt, we should take you to a healer. Perhaps you’ve been cursed— There! Those dreadful frown lines you sport, old friend… Have you considered retirement? I hear there are great Witcher-friendly settlements in this area, and— hey!”

Geralt smirks as Jaskier rubs the side of his head where Geralt’s innocent and weary hand slapped it. He can see the worn-down sign of the inn he favors when they’re in the city a few steps ahead, can already taste the fresh ale on his mouth.

“Whoops,” he says, trying to school his features into something that isn’t a smug smile. “Seems I’m losing control of my limbs, too.”

+

The Rose and Thorn is as it has ever been. Clean wooden floorboards that creak as they walk in, the blossoming vine hanging over the kitchen door, the innkeeper’s old dog napping in a spot of sunlight pouring in through the window.

It’s good.

Geralt likes routine. He thrives on it. He likes familiar faces and comforting smells and the sound of pans and pots banging together as the cook murmurs a string of expletives that would be considered indecorous on a lady’s mouth. He likes knowing where he stands, likes the well-loved booths and the tankards that are cracked around the edges, the face of an unruly lion faded on the ceramic. He’s pleased with the way the innkeeper’s eyes crinkle with recognition as she nods at him and Jaskier, as she wordlessly takes his coin and points her head in direction of the room he always takes.

They move upstairs, Jaskier’s lutecase hitting the narrow walls as Geralt pushes the door open. The room is simple — two beds and a small table under the tall window, light pouring in through the thin linen curtains. He sets his bag on one of the beds — the closest to the door — and puts his sheathed swords next to it before allowing himself a moment to sit and wind down.

“I’d say lunch is in order, don’t you think?” Jaskier says after a while, even though his words are muffled by the pillow he’d thrown himself face-down onto and he doesn’t seem to be moving any time soon. “I’m aching for something other than apples and jerky, if I’m honest.”

Geralt’s stomach rumbles in agreement. “Too coarse for your fine palate, bard?” He teases.

“Never,” Jaskier says, lifting an accusatory finger at where he supposes Geralt is sitting. Then, because it isn’t as dramatic as it should’ve been, he rolls over, facing Geralt, his hair sticking up at odd places and his face flushed a pretty shade of pink. “I’m well used to all kinds of provisions, but the soul wishes for something a little bit more substantial every once in a while.”

“Hmm,” Geralt concedes. He laces up his left boot tighter than the right one and stands. “Let’s go, then, man of substance.”

Jaskier grins up at him, bright and easy, and leaps out of the bed so fast the wind gets knocked out of him.

Downstairs at the bar, there are steaming bowls of pottage being sent to the patrons that are starting to overflow the room, bread and cheese abundant at every table. It must have been a fruitful winter, Geralt reasons as he nods to the barmaid and gestures to the plates.

“Ale as well, Sir Witcher?” She says as she wipes her forehead, no trace of fear in her voice. She’s probably too busy for it.

“Two, please.”

He makes his way to the table where Jaskier’s already tearing a loaf of bread in two, tapping a rhythm with his fingers on the hard wood as he looks out the window at the passersby. There’s a neatly-made arrangement of wildflowers on the wall by his side, larkspur and thistle with a touch of baby’s breath, Geralt thinks.

“Here,” he says, passing the half-full tankard over to Jaskier and taking a sip of his own.

Jaskier hands him a piece of bread. “So, what are we slaying today?”

“The only thing you’ll be slaying today is your audience’s eardrums,” Geralt says, smirking at Jaskier’s huff of indignation. He takes a bite out of the bread. “There seems to be an archespore around the vineyards.”

“An— the—” Jaskier’s face does a complicated thing and Geralt wants to point out that he looks like a gaping trout before he says, “An archespore?! This mythical— magical— never before seen creature—”

“It’s been seen plenty of times,” Geralt points out.

“Not by me!” Jaskier thumps his fist on the table, defeated, and his ale sloshes dangerously. He wipes a hand down his face. “Ugh. And I can’t even fight you on it, because I’ve got, uh, what do they call it— Geralt, help me out here, what’s the word—”

“A compromise.”

Jaskier gags. “Yes. That. I shall honor my, uh, compromise to the arts and leave you alone and defenseless before such a legendary creature. Naught but two swords and the strength of” —he looks Geralt up and down appreciatively— “roughly twelve men built like bulls to keep yourself out of harm’s way.”

Geralt lifts his eyebrows, unimpressed, and leans back on his seat as a barmaid approaches them with a bowl in each hand. “Thank you,” he tells her, and digs in.

The stew is pleasantly hot and thick with spices and vegetables, the potatoes sweet and the meat tender, and he lets a pleased rumble escape his chest.

He doesn’t get to indulge in good meals very often — when he gets the opportunity to sit down at a proper table and have a proper plate placed in front of him, the food is usually sizable and filling, but never particularly appetizing. It’s mostly overcooked, tough meat — if he can afford it — and out-of-season vegetables that remind him of dried-out fields rather than a lavish banquet.

Jaskier is used to them, though. Or was — right before he was hit on the head with a chunk of stale bread and had the brilliant idea to trail after a Witcher, to trade comfortable beds and roasted pheasants for a hard bedroll spread on the forest floor and charred squirrel, at best. It still intrigues Geralt, watching Jaskier roll up his sleeves and dig into the pottage like it’s the finest meal he’s ever tasted, like it doesn’t pale in comparison to what he’ll be served tonight. Like he doesn’t see it — the immensity of the gap between Geralt’s world and his own.

There are moments of hesitation — moments when Geralt thinks Jaskier will wake up. When he thinks the bard will look around and shake his head in astonished confusion, and his blue eyes will widen comically like they do when he’s caught slipping treats to Roach, and he’ll see through the desperately-sewn seams of Geralt’s life. He’ll see that behind the so-called heroics and martyrdom there’s nothing more than a Witcher and a horse and a lonely road ahead.

But then, just when Geralt’s doubts start to creep into his hairline and show on his face, Jaskier will prove him wrong. Like now, as Jaskier lets his spoon fall into his empty bowl and leans back on his seat, sighing happily, nothing but contentment and warmth on his scent. As he watches through the window again, with a smile that dimples his cheek and sunlight crinkling his eyes.

Geralt feels something touch his leg. When he looks down, the innkeeper’s dog is resting his chin on Geralt’s thigh, his eyes big and pleading.

He picks up a hard bit of bread Jaskier had set aside earlier and carefully brings it up to the dog’s nose for inspection. After a few curious sniffs, the dog gently takes it out of Geralt’s hand, tail wagging excitedly. His fur is soft where Geralt smoothes it out with the flat of his palm, softer than Roach’s mane.

When he looks up, Jaskier’s eyes have abandoned the window, and he’s watching the two of them with a smile that’s half fond, half soft. Too tender.

Geralt’s never been looked at like that. With care. Like he’s something precious, something to be treasured.

It feels inadequate, and he pats the dog’s head to hide the almost imperceptible tremble of his hand. Jaskier’s smile reaches his eyes, and doesn’t waver.

It’s good.

+

The soft breeze wafting through the window as Geralt straps his swords to his back is tempting.

Jaskier yawns.

“You sure you don’t wanna get a nap in before you,” he yawns again, “go?”

He’s sprawled on his bed in a position that just can’t be comfortable, limbs long and bent at weird angles, pants unbuttoned and doublet resting on the back of a chair. His hair is ruffled and his cheeks are pink from the meal and the impending sleep that will follow.

“I’ve read, somewhere,” he continues, forcefully wrestling with the blankets that are firmly tucked into the bed, “ah, that napping increases, um— aha!” He wiggles under the covers. “It increases your strength, sharpens your” — a yawn — “mind, and whatnot.”

“Hmm.” Geralt adjusts his potion belt. “And how’s that worked out for you?”

Jaskier squints at him, managing to stay awake just to be annoyed. “See? You just continue proving my point! That,” he says, gesturing vaguely at Geralt with a half-covered hand, “would easily be fixed with one tiny nap!”

“Your naps are never tiny.”

“Well, no, because as a bard, I require more energy than a Witcher. Besides,” he says, closing his eyes, “I never seem to get enough sleep, you see, since I keep getting assaulted by this beast of a man who thinks dawn is already late.”

Geralt snorts and walks over to his bed. “Should put a contract out, then. A Witcher may come across it.”

Jaskier turns around, facing Geralt. “Oh, no, thank you. One Witcher is enough for me.” Geralt can hear the smile in his voice, though.

Checking he’s got everything he needs, and closing the open windows for good measure, Geralt turns to Jaskier. “I’m going. Stay here.”

This time, it’s Jaskier who has to snort. “Napping, remember?”

Geralt hums. “Don’t sleep through your performance,” he says, closing the door behind him, and the sounds of Jaskier tossing and turning while making indignant sounds makes him smirk.

The walk to the vineyard doesn’t take long. He passes the district alderman’s house on his way over, discusses the payment and whatever information he has to offer about the vineyard itself and the archespore sightings. The man’s face goes white when Geralt asks about any late violent crime.

The sun is still high in the sky when he gets to the heart of the vineyard, the earth uneven and freshly dug up. The victims’ bodies aren’t there anymore, he knows, but the archespore can’t be too far away from him. He draws out his sword and walks deeper into the field, watching the ripe grapevine sway with the wind.

There’s a vine in particular that calls his attention, thinner and bare, no grapes clinging to it. Just as he gets closer to it, it disappears under the ground. Geralt crouches and backs away, waiting to see it come back up — except when it does, it’s not just a lonely vine anymore.

The archespore stands tall and imposing, growling at Geralt as he signs Igni at it and aims for its trunk — he only gets one good blow before it buries itself under the earth. He waits again, looking for the green-brown color, and it shoots back up with renewed force, surrounding Geralt with acid-filled pods.

He casts a quick Quen and gets closer to it, choosing Aard this time as Igni causes it to relocate, and seizes the way it trembles minutely to get behind it and run his sword through its flesh. The creature growls, its jaw-shaped leaves curling around Geralt’s limbs. He struggles and manages to cast Igni at it, freeing himself as the plant relocates itself. When it sprouts back up, one of its pods blows up next to him, making him fall to the ground as the creature towers over him, its screeches deafening.

The archespore opens its forked mouth and screeches louder this time, acid shooting through its pores before Geralt can shield himself. The acid burns his skin where it reaches it, but the creature seems satisfied enough that it misses the opportunity to pin him to the ground. He reaches for his sword and lunges, casting Aard and tearing its leaves and damaging its thick stem.

This time, when it goes underground, Geralt has a feral smile on his face as he takes his Golden Oriole and upends it in his mouth. The venom stops burning for a second, and, when the archespore comes back up, its tendrils reaching for Geralt, he ducks and rolls, positioning himself behind it. The archespore screeches one final time as Geralt runs his sword from its head down to its core before it collapses to the ground, lifeless body still twitching. Geralt throws the severed head far enough that it won’t be able to reattach itself and slices up the remaining pods, their venom oozing sluggishly onto the torn-up ground.

He makes his way back to the city, the head of the archespore dripping slightly from its bag. The sun is setting, painting the walls golden against the pink sky, the shadows cast over the buildings helping the buzzing in his brain. He takes the less-traveled roads to avoid the commotion of the streets, but it seems the city is already mellowed out.

He thinks of Jaskier.

The first star of the night is twinkling against the pink-blue sky, the moon translucent. The baron’s residence is distant, surrounded by a stretch of the city’s walls, but Geralt imagines it’s close, close enough that Jaskier’s voice can carry through the night — that his soft melodies can reach them all.

He thinks of Jaskier, dressed up in his finest clothes that he had especially tailored — because I’ve filled out in the winter, Geralt! — drinking sweet wine from the vineyard he’s just left behind, mingling with the nobles and regaling them with honeyed tales of the Witcher’s heroism. The Witcher who is currently covered in muck and sticky with dried acid, carrying a severed head across the streets of Beauclair.

But Jaskier would disagree. He’d see a knight in shining armor, coming home triumphant after saving a family’s livelihood, the scars of the ferocious battle showing on his face. A defeated beast and a courageous warrior. A tale worth telling.

After dispatching the head and collecting his coin — what they’d agreed on, thankfully — Geralt heads back to the inn. The humming in his veins has simmered down, leaving behind a hint of exhaustion that clings to his bones and makes itself known. He calls for a bath, ignoring the innkeeper’s knowing look — she’s seen him trudge inside wearing worse.

Once he’s in his room, he takes his time unbuckling and sets his armor aside, a filthy pile that he’ll have to tend to eventually. After, he thinks, and sinks into the steaming tub. The room’s windows are open despite him closing them before leaving, tacit proof of Jaskier’s aversion for closed spaces and feeling oppressed, Witcher, and his distinct lack of self-preservation. Geralt’s chastised him enough about being easy prey, but there’s something in the way the bard moves that makes him want to protect, rather than prevent — he’d rather be the one to free Jaskier from his cage than be the one to lock him there in the first place. Not that Jaskier would ever let himself be locked away — he’s feisty enough on his own — but something about him screams freedom.

Geralt can’t take it away — wouldn’t ever want to. So he lets the cool air enter the room.

His bed is neatly made, pillows fluffed and sheets crisp. Next to it is Jaskier’s — somehow, pillows are on the floor and the sheets are turned inside out, twisted like a serpent around the blanket. His side of the room looks like it’s been a victim of a cruel whirlwind — clothes and accessories are strung about the room, picked up only to be frowned at and then put back down.

It’s tempting enough; to crawl under the covers and blow out the candles and get a half-decent night of sleep. Maybe get something to eat from the bar downstairs. Maybe drink some ale. But—

I’ll vouch for you, you know.

He knows.

+

It’s a beautiful night, in truth.

The ball is being hosted in the halfmoon-shaped garden, the cool spring breeze dancing around the guests as they dance themselves, carried away. Moonlight and candlelight alike wash over the cobblestone, a few delicate and intricate paper lanterns placed over a wooden railing casting gentle shadows on the whole scene. There are flowers all around — on tall vases in every corner and on the small centerpieces at every table, on the open hand of every statue and weaved into delicate crowns for everyone to wear.

It isn’t like anything Geralt’s seen before. He’s been to many balls — begrudgingly — but never one in which everyone carries themselves so freely, where raucous laughter is allowed if not mandatory, where not one person sits alone at their table, instead gathered around savoring the food, where there are chairs but no one sitting on them because they’re so busy prancing around the yard, marveling at the flowers and the outfits and the beauty of the night. Where everyone seems to be there because they want to be — because they belong.

He’s standing by a pillar, not hidden but not in plain sight, either. He tightens his jacket around himself, half to fend off the chill of the night air and half to hide the stain on the chemise underneath — a dangerous encounter with a drunk Jaskier and a goblet of wine. His leather band is on his wrist tonight, his silver hair tickling the spot behind his ear and catching on the high collar of his shirt. People are still coming in through the garden gates, the path to the grounds lit by small candles by each side of it, couples strolling hand-in-hand across the grounds and children running around, their flower crowns hanging off their heads.

There’s no music yet, just conversation carrying the night away. He can hear Jaskier’s heartbeat somewhere in the gardens, but hasn’t seen him yet — perhaps he’s encountered one of his old dalliances and is catching up, as he’s often done before.

Geralt moves to the balcony with the stone railing, the one looking out to the lake. The waves are calm tonight, gently rippling back and forth, shimmering under the stars. He leans his elbows on the railing, feeling very small as he looks down.

Heights used to scare him when he was a child. It’s one of the only things he can remember. His house sat on a small hill, and every night, after his mother went to sleep, he would tiptoe across the kitchen and open the window, and he would look down and feel terror beat inside his chest, gripping his heart like a vine.

Now, as he looks down, he can see the scrape of the stones jutting out of the earth, the clear beach beneath him. He can see the boats resting on the shore and the stars reflecting on the water. Looking down, he just feels at ease.

The sound of children protesting catches his attention. When he looks back to the courtyard, he can see two small children — siblings, he presumes — looking at their mother with very exaggerated frowns on their tiny faces.

“You mustn’t use your sister’s dress as a cleaning rag, Petyr,” she says to the boy as she tries to wipe down the girl’s gown.

“But the floors here needed cleaning!” Petyr responds, petulant. “You told us things should be squeaky-clean.”

His mother is about to reply when suddenly a voice cuts in. “And your mother is right, of course,” says Jaskier, winking at her and meeting her smile of relief with one of his own. “But this is a party! You’re meant to have fun, you and your sister! Don’t you like to dance?”

Petyr and his sister shake their heads. “We don’t know how to,” she admits.

Jaskier’s grin is wide. “Well, then you must be born singers!” At that, the girl smiles.

“Mama says our singing sounds more like a dying wyvern’s last breath,” she says simply, and it makes Jaskier laugh, “but we like to sing anyway.”

“And you should! Singing is the way our soul gets to have a laugh,” he says knowingly, and slowly takes his lute out of his case. ���I don’t suppose you know what this is?”

The children’s eyes light up. “A lute!”

Jaskier laughs. “That’s right!” He holds it out to them. “Here, try a strum.”

The children look at each other, then at the lute like it’s something precious. Geralt knows it is. “You go first, Fiona,” the boy whispers to his sister.

Fiona approaches the lute carefully, and holds out her little hand. Jaskier takes it on his own, then gently, very gently, he runs her hand through the strings. It’s a simple chord, and Jaskier’s holding the note, but Fiona looks blown away. “Wow,” she whispers. “It’s so… pretty.”

Geralt can see the way Jaskier’s mouth quirks up and his eyes go soft at the corners. It tugs at his heartstrings.

“Now,” Jaskier says, “Do you want to try, Petyr?”

The boy nods, coming forward. He knows what to do, having watched his sister, so he simply lifts his hand and strums. Jaskier’s changed the chord, a lower one now.

“Wonderful!” Jaskier exclaims, and applauds the both of them, making their cheeks flush. “Naturals, the both of you.”

Petyr’s hand is still on the lute, feeling the strings and reaching the pegs. “And what do these do?” He says just as he turns one of them, the string deflating slightly.

Geralt wants to laugh at Jaskier’s pained grimace as he tightens the string back as he explains to Petyr that he should leave those to the adults, but suddenly he feels a pool of warmth in his stomach, an ache in his chest he hasn’t felt before — as if all the spring’s air has been stolen from him.

He watches Jaskier play a silly little ditty for the children to dance with their very amused mother, and he can’t look away. Can’t stop staring at the way Jaskier’s eyes crinkle with joy and his face is full of laugh lines and his own flower crown threatens to fall down, small yellow petals gathering at his feet.

And the thing is — he knows Jaskier. He knows he’s kind, and thoughtful, and painfully honest. He knows he feels everyone’s pain as his own, everyone’s joy as his own.

Everyone’s love as his own.

He knows that he’ll play silly made-up songs for bored children just as he knows he’ll gather herbs for Geralt’s potions without being asked to, just as he’ll buy treats for Roach, just as he’ll carefully avoid the fork on the road to Blaviken.

He sees it, now — the way his face is lit up but not from candlelight but from within, because he’s so in love with the world that he can barely stand it.

And he’s seen him before — has watched his furrowed brow illuminated by wavering candles as he writes well past dusk, has seen the curl of his mouth and the freckles on his nose and the scar that goes through his left eyebrow and yet—

Yet it feels like he’s seeing him for the first time.

There’s a smudge of ink on Jaskier’s cheek. There always is. There always has been.

Geralt’s never wanted to wipe it off.

He wants to wipe it off, wants to tuck his hair back behind his ear and kiss the spot where his jaw meets his neck. He wants to hold him close to his chest tight enough that maybe he’ll crawl into his heart and never leave.

It should scare him. It should feel like standing at the top of a hill and looking down.

It doesn’t.

Jaskier walks into the stage, a space of elevated marble he supposes a statue had been resident of. It suits him, the small pedestal — the way the golden thread of his dark green doublet glitters when moonlight catches it makes something ethereal of him, the few fallen flowers of his crown tangled on his hair — now tousled and matted with sweat — making something beautiful of him.

“Yes, yes, I’ve returned with more!” He exclaims at the whistles and cheers from the crowd, who’ve undoubtedly fallen in love with his first set. “We’re changing things up a bit now— How would you feel about something softer for a change?”

People cheer again, and Jaskier’s face breaks into a blinding grin. “Perfect! Now,” he looks around, “I want you to find the people you love. Your spouse, your lover, your friend, your sister, your child— everyone and anyone your heart beats for.”

The crowd starts gathering around in different groups, and Geralt smiles at how mismatched they are — tiny children and their grandparents, groups of single maidens hugging each other tightly, couples tenderly embracing each other.

Jaskier’s smile is softer, this time. “There,” he whispers. “Because love is something to share— This song I’m sharing with you.”

And then he’s gone — all his stage-borne facade falls away as he starts to play. His fingers are plucking a gentle, easy melody, and he’s humming along. People start slowly swaying to the sound of his voice, their eyes bright and shiny with mirth and love. Then, very softly, his voice barely above a whisper, he sings,

“Wise men say

Only fools rush in

But I can’t help

Falling in love with you…”

It’s incredibly gentle, and Geralt feels drawn to it immediately. He watches as Jaskier sways with the music, eyes closed and brow furrowed, completely lost on it. There are buttercups on his hair and love in his mouth and Geralt suddenly wants to reach for him, put out his hand only for Jaskier to hold.

Jaskier opens his eyes as the last verse comes in. “Take my hand,” he sings, and he does a brave thing and looks into Geralt’s eyes. “Take my whole life, too.”

He would.

“For I can’t help,” he says with a smile, and looks out to the public. “Falling in love with you.”

The song ends, but Jaskier keeps playing the chord progression softly. The crowd isn’t there anymore — they’re all somewhere else, holding their beloved in tender arms and swaying to the tune of their love. As Jaskier’s playing slowly fades out, there is no applause, no enthusiastic cheering nor plea for an encore.

They all know.

Geralt’s looking out to the waves when Jaskier joins him by the railing.

“Hey,” he whispers.

Geralt turns to face him. “Hey,” he whispers back.

Jaskier’s smile is soft as he takes him in. “You came.”

“I did,” Geralt says, voice low. “Was told someone would be waiting for me.”

“And here I am.”

The waves crash against the rocks.

“That was a new one,” Geralt murmurs, looking at the scar on his knuckle. “The song.”

“It was,” Jaskier replies simply.

Geralt looks at him. “I liked it.” It’s no big compliment, but Jaskier seems to understand him all the same.

He always does.

“I’m glad,” he says. “I like it too.”

He leans his elbows on the railing, their shoulders almost touching. Jaskier’s cheek is still smudged with ink.

“You have…” Geralt says, gesturing to his own face, and Jaskier frowns at him. Geralt shakes his head. He licks his thumb and reaches, Jaskier’s skin soft as he swipes the ink away, his mouth slightly parted.

“There,” he whispers, but his hand doesn’t leave Jaskier’s cheek. “Do they really say it?”

Jaskier frowns, confused. Their shoulders are touching. “Who?”

Geralt reaches for Jaskier’s flower crown and looks at him, a silent request. Jaskier nods. Geralt takes it in his hands and gently tucks the loose stems back together, the way he’d seen girls do it in the town square. He doesn’t lose a single petal.

“The wise men,” he says, placing the crown on top of Jaskier’s head, where it belongs. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

Jaskier takes them in his. “It is foolish to rush in unprepared. You taught me that.”

“Am I wise, then?”

Jaskier laughs, shakes his head. “I never said that.”

Geralt doesn’t know what to say, so he stays quiet, watching Jaskier’s rings as they glint in the moonlight, watching Jaskier’s fingers as they play with his.

“I love you, you know,” Jaskier murmurs, looking at their joined hands.

“I know.”

“You’re my best friend.”

Geralt looks at him. “I know.”

He needs the weight of his swords strapped at his back. He wants to be brave.

He looks down.

“I love you,” he says. “I can’t help it.”

Jaskier smiles. “Well, now you’re just being mean— plagiarizing my song right in front of me.”

“Jask.” It sounds like a prayer. Geralt squeezes his hands, amber meeting cornflower blue. “You know what I mean, when I say—”

“I know what you mean,” Jaskier says. “I know.”

They drink each other in, and Geralt knows this is the first time they’re seeing each other. Gently, he places one hand on the small of Jaskier’s back, the other on his nape, and brings their foreheads together.

Jaskier’s hands find their way to Geralt’s waist. Nobody’s ever held him like that. With care. Like he’s something precious, something to be treasured.

His nose grazes Jaskier’s cheek and he whispers, “Can I kiss you?”

And Jaskier’s smiling when he says, “I wish you would.”

So he does. Soft lips against chapped ones, lute-calloused hands against scarred ones. Jaskier kisses him back tenderly, unhurried, and it’s honey-sweet like the wine he can taste on Jaskier’s mouth, like the love he can feel on his scent.

When they pull apart — only because they have to — Geralt circles Jaskier in his arms, pressing small kisses to his cheeks, his jaw, his nose, his forehead. It makes him laugh.

“Tickles,” he says, and there’s a smile in his voice. “Your beard.”

Geralt presses a final, lingering kiss to his mouth. “Sorry,” he whispers against his lips.

The party has carried on without them, as it is wont to do. There’s a harp player on the stage now, plucking a soft melody from its strings.

Jaskier’s eyes are bright when he looks up at him. It feels right, to be holding him like this, to drown in his warmth and press love into his hands like it’s all he can do — and it is. All he can do is watch into Jaskier’s eyes and try not to get lost in them and stop a smitten smile from curling on his lips.

He’s helpless, he knows. It doesn’t scare him anymore.

“Home?” Jaskier murmurs against his cheek.

The inn, he means. “Aren’t you playing?”

Jaskier’s mouth curls into a mischievous smile, one of Geralt’s favorites. “They’ll survive without me, I reckon.”

Geralt narrows his eyes. “Jaskier—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” he protests, rolling his eyes. “We need the coin. Ugh— one would think the guy confessing his undying love—”

“Now, undying is—”

“His undying love for me would change things, would buy me some indulgence— not at all!” He buries his face in Geralt’s neck, letting out a long-suffering groan. “Why must you be so responsible all the time?”

There are many reasons. Looking at Jaskier’s flushed face and capricious frown, Geralt can’t remember any of them. “Go,” he says softly, nodding at the stage. “For me.”

Jaskier groans louder. “That,” he says, poking Geralt’s chest, “is a very unfair card to play.”

“And why’s that?”

Jaskier tangles their fingers together. “Because you know I would do anything for you.”

Geralt’s face softens. He knows. “Go. I’ll wait for you.”

Defeated, Jaskier looks at the stage, then at Geralt, pouting. “Won’t you at least kiss me farewell? I’ve a long journey ahead.”

It’s Geralt’s turn to roll his eyes — still, he reels Jaskier in and presses a chaste kiss to his lips.

“Great start!” Jaskier says cheerfully. “Now, like you mean it.”

“Insufferable,” Geralt murmurs, but he gives in. The kiss is deep and slow, and somehow full of promise. He can feel Jaskier sigh happily against his lips, his scent gone sweet and warm as Geralt’s hands find Jaskier’s sides.

They part, begrudgingly. Jaskier’s cheeks are deep pink and his flower crown sits askew on his head once again, so Geralt fixes it for him.

“We should get one for you,” the bard says, watching him.

“Hmm.” Geralt presses a final kiss to his lips. “Go.”

“I’m getting you one,” Jaskier says stubbornly, ignoring Geralt’s wish, and Geralt loves him too much. “Just wait here.”

He lets Jaskier go, and watches as he runs over to the stand where a young woman is weaving tulips and baby’s breath together into a crown. He watches as he excitedly gestures at it and cradles it in his tender hands, a look of genuine joy on his face. He watches as he turns around, his lips stretched into a too-wide grin as he waves at Geralt, pointing at the crown.

He watches as he walks toward him.

He waits for him to fit into his open arms. He waits for him to place the crown on top of his head and adjust it once, twice, before it’s deemed perfect. He waits for him to kiss his cheek and groan about having to return to his duty as entertainment for the evening.

He waits for him as he plays.

“I love you,” he tells him later, when they’re both tucked in bed and their fancy clothes have been folded and their legs are tangled together.

Jaskier grins. “Say it again.”

Geralt can’t hide the smile that curves his lips — he doesn’t want to. “I love you,” he says, and kisses his cheek. “I love you,” his forehead, “I love you,” his eyelids. “I love you,” his mouth.

He says it so much the words sound foreign in his mouth. He says it until they belong in his mouth again.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says after a while, candlelight framing the tenderness in his eyes. “It’s been good.”

Geralt smiles.

It has.

[glimmerglanger]

Snippet for Home (On the Range): I'm curious about any past relationships Cody and Ben have had, and so if you feel up to it, I'd love to watch them have the conversation about past loves that always has to happen eventually. :D

:D GOOD MORNING! I almost said this was the first of the follow-ups for "Home (On the Range)" but, in fact, there've been two already aha. This is the first one set AFTER the fic, though only by a week or so.

This is a (not that) little Codywan snippet. Established relationship and it got VERY SPICY. Grown-up conversations ensue.

~~~~

The temperatures had dipped well into chilly, at least overnight, when Cody suggested they head out deep into the ranch one evening. “You can see every star up there,” he said, pulling Ben into a kiss. “Thought it might be nice. And we’ll want to do it before it gets any colder.”

Ben wondered if the suggestion had anything to do with the astronomy lessons he’d been prepping for class, even as he hummed agreement. They piled blankets into the bed of Cody’s truck, along a sleeping bag and a few thermoses full of something warm.

It was dark by the time they pulled up onto the ridge of a hill, deep inside the borders of the ranch. Cody turned the lights off, nothing but the rumble of the engine breaking the stillness of the night, and said, “It’ll take a bit for our eyes to adjust. Half an hour, maybe.”

“Oh, really?” Ben said, hooking a finger into the collar of Cody’s shirt and pulling him over, murmuring, against his mouth, “whatever shall we do to fill the time?”

Cody huffed a laugh, mouth welcoming and warm, swearing briefly when Ben added, after a beat, “You know, I’m not sure there’s any way I can fit into your lap over there.”

Cody’s eyes caught the light of the stars outside, just a little, as he rasped back, “Good thing we’ve got the entire bed of the truck, then.” And he popped open his door, allowing in the cooler outside air, even as he turned off the truck.

The air felt nippy on Ben’s face as they climbed up into the bed of the truck, but it wasn’t so bad, really. They’d spread out the sleeping bag along the bed, keeping away the chill of the metal, and there were plenty of blankets.

And, well.

Kissing Cody always warmed him up, anyway. Ben thought about pulling his close, the stars as yet unseen stretching overhead and the hills rolling all around them, the Tetons watching, sentinels in the distance.

Cody swore when his phone buzzed, pulling it out of his pocket and taking a step away from the truck as Ben finished sorting the blankets, considering that he’d never had sex in the back of a truck before. It seemed a nice idea, making love out under the endless sky.

He grimaced when he recalled that he’d left his wallet back at the house, condoms along with it, though he’d slid a packet of lube into his front pocket. He frowned, swinging over the side of the truck to see if Cody had brought his wallet, plucking it from his pocket as he said, “--Rex, I swear to God, if you try to come out here right now--”

He winked when Cody looked over at him, waving the wallet, and listening to Rex laugh, his voice distant and distorted through the phone.

Ben left them to it, climbing back up into the truck, flipping Cody’s wallet open, pleased to find a familiar little foil square tucked inside. He drew it out, planning to set it aside for use in a bit, when they needed it, and frowned.

It felt...odd.

He tilted it around - noting the brand - and peered at it in the light provided by the moon and the stars. He blinked, grabbed his own phone, and turned it on to get enough light to read it properly, sure that he’d misread the expiration date, because--

“Something wrong?” Cody asked, the truck dipping slightly as he stepped up onto the bed, apparently done with Rex.

“Well,” Ben said, putting down his phone and turning the condom in his fingers. “Aside from the fact that this condom expired five years ago, not really.”

Cody paused, still standing, looking down at him. “Oh,” he said, as Ben turned the little packet again and then, on a whim, tore it open. He’d never actually seen one expire before.

“Hm,” he said, wrinkling his nose. Apparently, they were not one of the things that stayed good, even long, long after they expired. Any moisture had long since disappeared. The condom itself looked like a dessicated snake skin, or something like it. “I don’t think this’ll work,” he added. “Though we could try rehydrating it, I suppose, I--”

“Let’s not do experiments on the condom,” Cody said, taking it out of his fingers and tucking it into a pocket. “Should we go back to the house? Get another one?” He sank down, close by, and Ben considered it, but--

“I’m sure we’ll find some way to entertain ourselves,” he said, looped an arm around Cody’s shoulders, and pulled him close.

He’d gotten familiar with the best ways to take off Cody’s clothes, unbuttoning his flannel shirt and pushing it off his shoulders, tugging his undershirt out of his waistband. Cody pulled the blankets up around them, the warmth from his skin translating into Ben’s body as Ben shimmied out of his jeans, pulling his own shirt over his head.

The moonlight shone off of Cody’s skin, caught in the dark curls of his hair. Their breath steamed the air - the temperature had really plunged with the fall of night - but Ben didn’t feel cold, not as they tangled close together, trading kisses that set a fire in his veins, not with Cody putting off heat like a furnace, warm hands all over Ben’s skin.

And Ben had become rather fond of the idea of getting fucked under the stars, in the brief time he’d had to consider it. Just because it wasn’t going to happen the way he’d initially assumed didn’t mean it wouldn’t happen at all.

“Here,” he rasped, rolling onto his side, grabbing for the jeans and the lube in his pocket, pulling it out, “Here, like this, ah, Cody.”

Cody’s weight felt good against his back, warm and solid, Cody’s teeth scraping along the curve of his shoulder as he settled, taking the packet of lube from Ben’s fingers without any of the hesitation he’d displayed the first few times they were intimate with one another.

“Like this?” Cody rumbled, right against his shoulder, and Ben heard the wet movement of Cody slicking up his own cock, felt the smear of the rest of the lube over the back of his thighs and--

Exhaled, hard, when Cody ground against him, overheated flesh sliding together. Probably, they were making more of a mess than they should have done, out in the middle of some field, out in - in such an exposed place, but--

It was hard to care, with Cody sucking a kiss into his neck and grinding against him, panting out, “Spread your legs, just a little,” and when Ben listened, slotting his cock right between Ben’s thighs, rocking them together.

If there were anyone around, Ben hated to think what would have been overheard, the two of them swearing and gasping and groaning. He knew he cried out, loudly, when Cody slid a hand over his hip, gripping his cock and stroking him, so sure and so steady and--

Well.

The sleeping bag was going to need a wash when they got back home.

So was Ben, in all honesty.

He laughed, hoarsely, when Cody pulled away from him, leaving his inner thighs smeared with come. It was quite warm, at first, but Ben knew that wouldn’t last. “See,” he said, sprawling onto his side, thighs held apart, groping for something to wipe up with, “a condom would have prevented this mess.”

“Sorry about that,” Cody said, and then, “here, use my shirt.”

And then he used it himself, wiping up the mess all over Ben’s legs and cock. He even smeared away the mess on the sleeping bag, as best he could. Ben watched him - he was easier to see, Ben’s eyes must have adjusted, and said, “Why did you have an expired condom in your wallet, anyway?”

Cody balled his shirt up, the mess tucked away inside, and shrugged. He tossed it into one corner of the bed of the truck. “It’s just the one I’ve always had. I never really checked the date on it.”

Ben blinked, turning that over in his head, even as Cody settled close to him, naked under the blankets. Ben said, as Cody curled an arm around him. “The one you’ve always - you - what does that mean?”

Cody shrugged, stubble rasping against Ben’s shoulder, while Ben wondered if Cody had really avoided using a condom before, because that didn’t sound like him at all, and--

“I got it, ah, years ago. When I was - when I thought I might need it. But then I didn’t. I kept it, just in case. But…” He trailed off, shrugging again.

Ben blinked up at the clear, shining stars, and then rolled to face Cody, gut doing something strange. “Wait. Did you never--”

“I did stuff,” Cody said, still staring up at the stars. “A few times with, uh, with a guy I really liked. He competed, too. We were friends for a while. And then one day I just wanted to kiss him, so I did. And we, well. Fooled around, I guess. But then I beat him, pretty soundly, and he didn’t want to anymore.”

Ben blinked, processing that. He’d known that, sooner or later, they’d end up having a talk about their pasts. That kind of thing happened. “He didn’t want to anymore?” he asked, trying to get his mind around anyone not wanting Cody anymore, he was--

“Yeah, I guess.” Cody sighed, tucked his arm behind his head, and stared starward. “And I’d already bought the string of condoms, even though we’d only needed two. But then it was over, so. And I put one in my wallet.”

Ben watched his expression carefully. He didn’t seem upset. Just...relating the story. “And then you never used it,” Ben said, quietly.

“Never needed it,” Cody said, shrugging against the sleeping bag. “I’ve been busy since then. And didn’t have anyone I particularly wanted to use it with.”

“Oh,” Ben said, the cold air nipping at his exposed skin, but ever so warm under the blankets.

“What about you?” Cody asked, before he could wrangle another thought together. “Yours aren’t ever expired.”

“Ah, no,” Ben said, and then shrugged, settling against Cody’s side. “I’ve always been very careful to use them.” He felt his ears heat.

Cody hummed, curled an arm tighter around him, and said, “I know you’ve been with more people’n me, Ben. It doesn’t bother me. Hell, I’m glad one of us knows what we’re doing.”

Ben exhaled a little, snuggling in closer against the cold. It had, probably, been foolish to worry, to brace for disapproval. He traced patterns on Cody’s chest under the blanket and said, “I had no idea that you didn’t, ah, know what you were doing.”

Cody snorted, rolling onto his side, brushing a kiss to Ben’s cheek and then his mouth, fingers tracing down his spine. His expression, what Ben could see of it, looked a bit smug. “I learn fast,” he said, tone warm and low. “Especially when I get hands-on instruction.”

“I see that.” Ben crooked his mouth, brushing Cody’s hair back from his face. He figured, feeling soft and content, that if they were going to discuss their histories, he might as well finish it all, and went on, “I haven’t had many long relationships. Just...brief flings. A longer thing with a girl, right before I started college. And Luminara and I tried to make something work, once. But we’re much better friends than lovers.”

Cody nodded, said, “I never was very interested in girls.”

“Mm, I gathered.” He leaned in for another kiss, shivering when Cody brushed his callused fingers a little lower. He rasped, gut tightening, “Don’t tease.”

“Sorry,” Cody murmured, nipping his bottom lip. “And sorry we don’t have all the supplies we need.” Ben hummed, not overly concerned by the lack, not when they could trade sweet, lazy kisses, occasionally glancing at the stars, until Cody went on, “You know. We could - well. We’re together. Just the two of us.”

Ben turned away from his contemplation of a constellation he couldn’t name, nodding, and Cody went on, “We could get tested. I mean. I don’t think I could have caught anything, to be honest. And if I had, I think I’d have noticed in the last couple of years. And you’ve been careful, you said. But better to check. And then…”

He shrugged, and Ben considered it. He’d never slept with anyone skin on skin. Qui-Gon had been exceedingly clear about all the possible consequences of skipping out on protection. Even with Satine, young and giddy half the time, he’d always been careful.

But - he didn’t plan to share his bed with anyone else, he considered, staring across at Cody in the dark, under the brilliant light of the stars and the moon. He didn’t want to kiss anyone else. Or pull anyone else close in the night.

His heart ached in his chest, sweetly, and he said, “And then we wouldn’t need supplies to have sex in the back of your truck?”

“Mm,” Cody said, rolling closer to him, one elbow braced by his head, leaning down to kiss him, “Or to make love under the stars, either.”

Ben shivered, curled an arm around him, and felt his stomach swoop, imagining that, imagining them skin to skin everywhere. He said, his voice gone to a rasp, “That sounds very nice,” and Cody smiled against his mouth, kissing him again.

[silhouetteofacedar]

Fox Mulder, Closet Romantic Ch. 5: Dana's Work Friend

Previous Chapter - AO3 - MSR, rated E

Friday, April 3rd, 1998. Scully comes into the office in a flurry of coat and red hair. She doesn’t greet him, just drops her briefcase on the desk and sinks into her seat across from him.

“Mulder, I have a favor to ask of you, and you’re probably going to hate it, so just bear in mind that I have exhausted all my other options,” she says, somewhat breathless.

“You’re really selling it,” he deadpans. “What is it?” he asks, settling into his chair and leaning his elbows on the desk.

“You remember Mark,” she prompts, and he nods. Ugh. If only he could forget.

“Well, it turns out that Mark is extremely - almost agonizingly - social, despite having a demanding job and a young child to raise.”

“Sounds awful,” Mulder comments.

“Hence my current predicament. He’s invited me and my friends out for drinks tonight, so his friends can meet me and I can meet his and he can meet mine… “ she rambles before refocusing herself. “He’s not aware that I’ve lost contact with most of my friends. You’re kind of the only one left.”

Mulder had suspected as much, but confirmation of her increasing social isolation is like a punch in the throat. “Are you sure there’s no one else?” he asks softly, not wanting to rub salt into any wounds.

She shakes her head, lips pressed together. “Unless the Lone Gunmen count as my friends,” she replies. “Which in this case is somehow worse than having none at all,” she muses, some humor in her voice.

“Good point,” he chuckles. “Sure, count me in.”

“Thank you,” she says sincerely, and he melts all over again. He’d do anything for her. Even if it means meeting Mark. Ugh.

“It’s worth mentioning,” Mulder says after a moment, “If you don’t want to go, you can always just not go.”

“Shockingly, I have thought of that,” she says dryly, opening her briefcase and pulling out a folder. “But I think it would be good for me to meet people and hold conversations that aren’t related to criminal or paranormal activity. Might be good for you, too,” she adds, glancing up at him.

He pulls a stack of files out of his inbox on the desk. “I’ll stick to ‘ghosties and ghoulies and long-leggedy beasties and things that go bump in the night’,” he says.

“‘Good Lord, deliver us',” Scully replies, finishing the old prayer.

Mulder looks up at her and finds her smiling at him, and his whole body flushes with heat and adoration.

“Let’s elope,” he says, and she rolls her eyes fondly before burying her nose in her work.

I’m not kidding, he yells inside the prison of his own thick skull.

After work he and Scully drive straight to the bar together, a yuppie place in Foggy Bottom near George Washington University Hospital.

“Have you ever been through their ER?” Scully asks, scanning the street for parking. “I imagine you’ve been through enough hospitals to warrant a map on the wall with little pins stuck in it.”

“I can’t possibly remember them all at this point,” he says absently, tugging at his seatbelt uncomfortably. Why is he nervous? He’s just here to show Scully’s man friend that she’s not entirely a basement-dwelling hermit.

And Mulder’s the best she could do? God, maybe she really does need to get out more.

She parks, and he feeds the meter while she touches up her lipstick in the rearview mirror. She looks sweet and and rosy, flushed with nerves and traffic, and he could so easily scoop her up and kiss her-

“Alright,” she says, climbing out of the car and closing the driver’s side door a little harder than necessary. She smooths her hair down. “I’m ready for battle.”

“I’m prepared to fall on my sword,” he assures her, guiding her onto the sidewalk with a hand on her lower back before realizing he probably shouldn’t touch her so familiarly when her… friend might see.

“It’ll be fine,” she says over her shoulder as she grasps the bar door’s handle. “Just behave,” she hisses, and they enter.

The onslaught is immediate.

“Dana!” a voice calls out through the bustling bar, and Mulder sees a man waving them over. He’s got neatly styled dishwater blond hair, broad shoulders, and dimples at the corners of his mouth as he smiles at them. Not bad, Mulder thinks, unsure of how to feel about this new information.

He barely has time to process it before they’re enveloped in a tight swarm of strangers. The blond man, presumably Mark, loops an arm around Scully’s shoulders and gives her a side-hug.

“So glad you could make it, Dana,” he says, and proceeds to go around the circle of people and rattle off names Mulder has no reason to remember. Instead, he watches Scully, the way she greets each person as they’re introduced. She’s cool and calm, smiling politely, shaking hands and saying ‘nice to meet you’ to each of the five - no, six - people in the group.

“I’ll grab you two some drinks,” Mark says, glancing at Mulder. “What’s your poison?”

“Shiner,” Mulder says.

“Same for me,” Scully says. “I’m going to freshen up-”

“Sure,” Mark says, giving her shoulders a squeeze. “Two Shiner Bocks coming up.”

That’s how Mulder and this exuberant, Golden Retriever of a man end up sitting at the bar together, nursing sweaty beers and waiting for Scully to return from the bathroom.

“So you’re a work friend of Dana’s?” Mark asks over the noise of the bar.

Mulder was about to set his drink down, but he reconsiders and takes another swig. “In a manner of speaking,” he replies.

Dr. Mark Whatever-the-fuck seems confused. “I don’t follow,” he says.

“I’m her partner,” Mulder says flatly. Since 1993. I’ve seen her naked, cradled her injured body my arms, saved her goddamn life. Have you?

“Oh!” Mark says, clearly making mental connections. “Oh. Sorry, I just- it’s nice to meet you… Fox?”

“Just Mulder’s fine,” he corrects him.

Mark laughs. “Sorry for the confusion on my end; I think Dana only said your name once and I went and assumed Fox Mulder was a woman. And you know what they say about assuming,” he adds with a nudge.

Once. Only once? Maybe that shouldn’t surprise him, but it does. Whenever he meets someone new in Scully’s life they always throw out the usual ‘I’ve heard a lot about you’ line, so he knows she talks about him to others. But not to this guy. Why not to this guy?

Mercifully, Scully returns from the restroom. Mark hands her her beer. “Thanks,” she says softly, giving him a small smile with her lips closed tightly, which strikes Mulder as odd. He knows she’s somewhat self-conscious about smiling with her teeth, but something he sees in her face doesn’t feel quite right.

Of course it doesn’t feel right to you, he thinks. She’s smiling at some other guy.

They’re swept along in a current of conversation, scrambled introductions, and drink orders. He’s introduced to a handful of people he’ll selectively erase from his eidetic memory, standing across from Scully in their little circle instead of by her side. He doesn’t like it. Another man has his hand on her back, although respectfully keeping it between her shoulder blades. Any lower and Mulder would have to excuse himself to have a panic attack in the alley behind the bar. Or throw up.

He’s glad Mark’s friends aren’t particularly interested in making conversation with him; he’s tired and ready to go home. Luckily, the Doctor himself calls the night early, at half-past eight.

“I promised the little one I’d be home to tuck her in,” he explains, and Mulder’s stomach turns from the purity and sweetness of it. “She gets to stay up a little later on Fridays.” He gives Scully another half of a hug and says his goodbyes.

The group disperses pretty quickly after Mark leaves, and Mulder and Scully are left alone outside the bar.

“So, you met Mark,” Scully says simply.

“I did, yeah.” He can sense that she wants him to say something more. “He seems... nice,” Mulder adds.

Scully nods. “Yeah, he’s nice.”

Mulder’s beginning to think ‘nice’ is the only word anyone’s capable of using to describe this guy.

“I’ll bet Bill’s gonna love him,” he comments, hoping he doesn’t sound as bitter as he feels.

Scully shakes her head, smiling. “I knew there had to be a flaw in him somewhere,” she jokes.

Mulder surprises himself with a huffed laugh. This moment with her is strangely precious, despite the circumstances. He doesn’t know how many moments like this he has left, if he’s being honest.

“I’m happy for you,” he says tenderly, and maybe if he says it enough it’ll be true. She deserves this, he reminds himself. It’s become almost a mantra, a lead weight that keeps him from drifting away.

“Are you?” she asks, catching him off guard. “I caught you staring holes into him more than once.”

“I wasn’t,” Mulder says defensively. “This is just my face.”

She gives him a look that clearly says ‘I call bullshit’, and he folds. “He didn’t know who I was,” he says, and it sounds monumentally stupid out loud. “He though Fox Mulder was a woman.”

“I-I don’t know why he would have thought that,” Scully says, pensive. “I never implied-”

“Fox is an unusual name,” Mulder interrupts. “It’s an honest mistake if you just hear it without any context.”

Scully looks down at her feet. “I’m sorry about that,” she says softly. “About all of this. I owe you one.”

Mulder reaches out and squeezes her shoulder, and it seems to have a grounding effect on both of them. “I’ll put it on your tab,” he says.

“Do you want me to drive you back to work?” she asks. They’d left his car in the garage at the Hoover building.

Mulder shakes his head. “You’re almost home,” he says. “I’ll get a cab.”

He ends up walking instead.

The night air cleanses his senses as he makes the half-hour trek back to the Bureau. Their time in the bar had felt sluggish and hazy, despite the fact that he only had a beer and a half. He spend the entire evening focused on Scully, the only sharp image amidst the blur of patrons.

Mark hadn’t kissed Scully goodbye, and Mulder’s relief at not having to witness it was overshadowed by a morbid curiosity. She and Mark had been dating for three weeks; he’s not sure how often they’ve actually gone out, due to the doctor’s shift schedule, but he assumes they’ve seen each other a few times at mass in addition to whatever outings they’ve gone on in the evenings. That was ample time to get to know each other physically on some level, wasn’t it? A peck on the cheek at least.

Mulder’s biased; he’s touch-starved and in love with her. He spends most of his nights on his couch in the dark, touching himself and thinking about Scully. Kissing her, taking her clothes off, tasting her; his mental catalogue of scenarios is robust and well-used. If given half the chance to love her…

Maybe that’s it, he thinks somberly, stepping over sidewalk cracks. Maybe chances are taken, not given.

That’s not how he wants to love her. He wants her to choose him all on her own, and yet he never let her know he was a choice. And now there’s Mark.

But Mark doesn’t kiss her.

[catflorist]

Warm (ao3/ffn) catflorist written for the beginnings with sasusaku zine 

Falling snow made Konoha quiet, but this corner of the village was always quiet. Sasuke exited the Uchiha compound with a travel pack hanging heavy on his shoulder. On this evening, with hours until the beginning of the new year, the emptiness of his clan’s district gnawed at him more than usual.

In a different life, he would be fire-jumping with his clan.

Before the new year, the Uchiha clan gathered and lit fires in the streets. They jumped together over the flames. With each leap, the fire fed on their sickness, weakness, and bad luck. It offered health and good luck in return.

Sasuke was not an animated child, but during this ceremony, he would jump high and wild like the others. There was a sense of invulnerability when arriving on the other side of the flame unscathed, then a burning drive to leap again. His feet were loud on the ground when he landed, because he didn't know yet how to move like a shinobi. Every year, he swore he would jump as high as Itachi, though he never could.

No fires were burning in the Uchiha district now, and no children were leaping. The gates to the compound creaked as Sasuke pulled them shut. He slipped into the tangle of Konoha’s winding streets.

Halfway to his apartment, pink hair flashed in the beam of a street lamp. Sakura turned the corner, arms crowded with grocery bags, and strode towards the crosswalk. 

Sasuke halted. She hadn’t spotted him yet. 

“Sakura ka…” he called. He could not say hello when he greeted her, only, Ah, it’s Sakura, like she was a phenomenon to remark upon.

Sakura turned her head. 

“Sasuke-kun,” she replied, eyes brightening. As her gaze flicked to the bag over his shoulder, her smile faltered. “Are you going again?”

Sasuke frowned, pulling on the strap of the offending bag. He had only recently returned to the village. Did she think he was leaving so soon? 

“I was visiting...” He turned his head in the direction of the old Uchiha district. “Gathering some things.”

“I see,” she murmured. “Then...do you have plans this evening? I’m going to make toshikoshi soba.” She shifted an arm, revealing the green onions and package of soba noodles peeking out of one grocery bag. “It’ll be too much for one person.” Her cheeks were pink, but maybe it was the cold. 

Sasuke usually preferred to be alone. Since returning to the village in the fall, he had his routine. It was not very different from his routine while traveling. In the mornings he trained. He cooked meals in silence and gazed at the view of the forest. In the evenings he tried not to sleep too deeply, his protocol to stave off the nightmares.

The only difference was that if Naruto pounded on the door enough, he might be convinced to spar. If Sakura was around, she healed his injuries. “Try to be more careful next time,” she would say with a crinkle between her eyebrows, which is what happened when she wanted to say more, but didn't want to push him.

She wore that same look now, gripping her bags tighter in case he said yes, eyes already down in case he refused. Snowflakes rested and melted on her eyelashes.

After sorting through his father and Itachi’s belongings, on a night when the compound should have been alive with fire, being alone wasn’t as appealing as usual.

“All right,” he heard himself saying.

.

.

Sakura had barely seen Sasuke since he had returned to the village. Now he was seated in her kitchen, tasting the toshikoshi soba she had made following her mother’s recipe. If she wanted, she could bump her knee against his under her small table.

“Your apartment...” Sasuke began. His voice was quiet, the same timbre as the hum of her radiator. 

“I don’t spend a lot of time here,” she interjected, palms itching. Her apartment was small and unadorned. She had cobbled furniture together courtesy of her parents, Ino, and a spare office in the Hokage tower. Half the time, she sneezed when she walked in the door, because she never found a moment to sweep the dust.

Sasuke’s shoulder rose and fell. “No, it’s not that.” He raised the bowl to his lips, taking a long sip. “It looks like it’s yours.”

Before she could wonder how he concluded this, Sasuke lowered the bowl to the table, a little too gently. Something about the movement told Sakura to pay attention.

“I was gathering clothes. Mine are worn from traveling.” He swirled noodles slowly in his broth. “I don’t have another way to wear our crest. What I found wasn’t in great condition.”

Sakura would never fully grasp the lonely responsibilities Sasuke bore as the last of his clan. If he did not wear the crest, there was no one else who would. He had to choose, every day, to be an Uchiha. Otherwise they would disappear. 

“If you need…” Sakura swallowed. “I can help. I know how to sew.” 

The sink dripped, once, twice. Sakura’s mouth opened, an apology bubbling to her lips, when Sasuke left the kitchen. He returned to his chair and spread the contents of his bag on the table: carefully folded articles of clothing, uchiwa fans decorating each item.

Sakura stroked a loose thread, where the fabric of the Uchiha crest was lifting away from the back of a dark haori. “They're not in bad condition,” she said. “They just need some attention.” 

“This was my father’s,” Sasuke said, fingertips grazing a deep blue yukata. He nodded towards the article in Sakura’s hands. “Itachi’s.”

Sakura touched her knee to Sasuke’s, soft enough to pass as an accident. He could easily move away, if he wanted to. He didn’t.

“There was a certain stitch we used to sew on crests,” he said. “But I was young. I never learned.” 

Sakura inspected the stitching pattern on the haori. It was not too different from a surgical stitch she knew. She unearthed her sewing materials from a kitchen drawer and started the careful work of re-attaching the crest.

When the task was done, Sakura lifted her head. Sasuke’s chair was empty, and the table was clear of dishes.

“Sasuke-kun?” she called. 

A soft grunt sounded from behind. Sasuke was leaning over the counter, next to a clean sink and a neat stack of dishes. He set aside a bottle of oil.

She frowned. “What are you doing?” 

Sasuke turned, gripping her old cast iron skillet. Its surface appeared to possess more luster, and less rust, than usual. 

“Your cast iron was rusting,” he said in disapproval. “I’m re-seasoning it.” He lit the oven and placed the pan inside with a clank. “It’ll need an hour.”

“You’ve made yourself at home,” Sakura said.

A faint smile raised the corners of Sasuke’s lips.

Sakura smoothed over the mended crest of Itachi’s haori. “How is this?”

Sasuke reclaimed his seat and leaned in. Their shoulders brushed. After a beat, he nodded. “Good.”

Sakura’s cheeks warmed, unexpectedly. “Being a trained surgeon doesn’t hurt.” 

The smile returned, closer to a smirk this time. He discovered her kettle, brewed tea, and set two cups on the table. Outside the window, night deepened, approaching midnight. 

Sakura slipped back into concentration. Tomorrow she would start off the new year with an early shift at the hospital. Instead of going to bed, she added a yukata to her growing pile of mended clothing. Sasuke remained a quiet presence beside her, sipping tea, making no move to leave.

Maybe, she thought, looping thread through cloth, we’ll do this again. 

Sasuke peered at her face. “What are you thinking about?”

“Hm? Oh...nothing. Smells bad.” The scent of oil pushed past its smoking point was filling her kitchen. “What are you thinking about?”

“The new year,” he said, tracing the lip of his teacup. “Old traditions.”

“Traditions?” she prompted.

Sasuke stood and slid his left hand into an oven mitt. “My clan...we used to do fire-jumping before the new year.”

“That seems very beautiful,” Sakura said, voice hushed. “I know fire is important to your clan.”

“Yes, it is.” 

“Why is that?”

Sasuke removed the pan from the oven. A dark, glassy finish replaced rust and dullness, every imperfection transformed under the oven’s fire. His eyes lowered. “It’s cleansing.”

Sakura stared down at the image of the uchiwa, symbolically fanning the flames of the Uchiha clan. Halfway through a stitch, she had an idea.

.

.

Fire-jumping was an exchange of energy, mutual agreement between human and flame. Both the Uchiha and the flames entered the new year warmer and stronger than before. 

It was a long time since Sasuke had done anything resembling tradition. He had not even celebrated his birthday since first leaving the village, out of the habit of prioritizing his quest for revenge over himself. Tradition was hard when only one person remained to keep it fed. And there was so much he didn’t know, that he had never thought to ask.

He wondered if he could manage to explain this to Sakura. 

Sakura’s eyes were fierce. She finished a stitch, barely looking, and disappeared into her bedroom.

The scent of lavender filled the air. Sakura paused in the hallway with a lit candle. 

“You can do it here, if you want,” she said, holding out the flame like an offering.

.

.

“Why aren’t you jumping, nii-san?” Sasuke asked, tugging once on Itachi’s sleeve. 

The streets were crowded tonight, loud with chatter, music, and crackling flames. The main avenue of the Uchiha district was dotted with fires every few paces, so people could jump down the length of the entire street. Sasuke’s chest was swelling with pride. This year, he had used his ever-strengthening katon to help otou-san light the fires.

Itachi crouched to Sasuke’s eye level. His face was softer than normal in the starlight and the warmth of the flames. “Maybe later,” he said, with a small smile, and a customary two-fingered tap.

As Sasuke frowned in disappointment, Itachi peered down an unlit alley. “I don’t know if the fire will help this year. I might have too much for it to take away.”

His brother’s statement was odd––casual, yet tinged with something Sasuke couldn’t understand. But the strangeness slipped from his mind once he rejoined the rest of his clan, the excitement of the ceremony taking hold of again.

Sasuke spent the next new year alone.

.

.

Sasuke was fourteen, footsteps echoing through the corridors of Orochimaru’s lair. Time had little meaning this deep in the earth, but reading the dates on Kabuto’s newest specimens had recalibrated him. The new year was days away.

Dim torches lined the walls. The fire beckoned him. Sasuke reached out a hand, considering. 

Itachi’s strange words, uttered a lifetime ago, rang in his mind. Sasuke understood what he meant, all of a sudden. The fire promised to cleanse him, to take the hurt away. But like Itachi, he was carrying too much.

He turned his back to the flickering torchlight and slunk into the cold dim of his chamber.

.

.

The day Sasuke returned to Konoha, the forest was under autumn’s spell. Between mossy tree trunks and golden leaves, he caught his first glimpse of the village, bright beneath departing clouds. 

“Okaeri!” Naruto shouted, a speck in the distance bounding through Konoha’s wide gates. Beside him, Kakashi raised a hand in greeting.

Sasuke crossed the treeline, and the steps of his journey quietly ran out. He halted before his old mentor and teammate, the village walls high over his head.

“Taidama,” he said. “What day is it?”

“The equinox,” Kakashi answered. 

Sasuke’s gaze swept across his surroundings. The village streets were damp with afternoon rain. Wet leaves clumped together beneath his sandals. No one else was waiting for him. 

Kakashi and Naruto exchanged a look.

“Sakura’s in the middle of surgery,” Naruto said.

“Hm,” Sasuke replied. 

It was a short walk to his old townhouse apartment. Kakashi presented him the key he had safeguarded, Naruto ordered him to come to dinner later that week, and then he was alone on the stoop. A stray cat emerged from beneath the stairs, interested in Sasuke’s appearance.

Sasuke palmed the key in his hand, facing the door. He was not sure what he would find in the apartment he had vacated when he was thirteen. Did he make the bed before he left? Would he find his old clothes still folded in the drawers?

There was a blur in the air like falling blossoms. Sakura was standing on the sidewalk, mouth parted, exhaling a deep breath. Her boots were splattered with mud and what looked like blood. She wore a sweater thrown on top of scrubs, a crumpled surgery cap in her fist.

“Sakura ka,” he said.

She straightened. “Okaeri, Sasuke-kun.”

He had wondered what it would be like to look at her again. Now he learned it was the same. The exact same.

.

.

Sasuke was seated in Sakura’s kitchen, his eyes unfocused. He saw a clan, together, jumping over fire to bring in the new year. His clan was gone, yet he was warm, and alive, and Sakura was looking at him over the candle’s fire.

He must have been silent for too long, because Sakura’s hand drifted down. “I’m sorry,” she said, voice wavering. “I know it’s not the same––it’s nothing at all how it should be…”

Sasuke rose to his feet and caught her hand. “It will work fine.”

It was not the same. But a flame was a flame. It promised to take his bad luck away, if he so allowed.

Sakura set the candle on the ground, casting the walls of her narrow hallway in a whirl of light and shadow. 

Sasuke closed his eyes and leapt. He leapt again, over and over Sakura’s small candle. Light footed, he didn't make a sound. 

When he opened his eyes, Sakura was leaning against the wall, head bowed. 

“Sakura. Your turn.”

Sakura’s brow furrowed. “It’s not my tradition.”

“I want you to,” he said, moving aside to create space.

Sakura took a breath, preparing herself. She bounded over the candle, twirling and twisting freely in the air. Watching her, Sasuke turned over a thought in his mind that he no longer wanted to ignore. 

With a final leap, she landed close to him. She leaned up on her toes, balanced perfectly between standing and falling, eyes shining from the joy of the movement. Sasuke steadied her elbow, even though she didn't need him to. It was a reflex, like dragging up a blanket in the middle of a cold night, or sighing after drinking water. He could not help but catch her.

It was not the same. There was the scent of lavender, a pile of clothing with freshly sewn Uchiha crests, and somehow, Sakura’s fingers wound together with his.

“You’re an Uchiha now,” he told her. Perhaps it was too blunt to say it this way, but it was true. Anyone who fire-jumped was an Uchiha. If he was the last, then he could shape his traditions, and choose who to do them with.

Besides, they always knew each other well. They only needed some time to know each other well again.

Sakura squeezed his hand, her calloused palm pressed to his. “We can do this again next year. Whatever you like.”

“I would like that,” he agreed.

The candle flickered. It was the start of another year without his clan. But he and Naruto would spar together tomorrow morning. He would feed the stray cats, oil the Uchiha gates, and wear the crest of his clan on his back. Sakura might reach for his hand again. Lately he wasn’t feeling so heavy. 

.

.

As years passed, the tradition changed. It was not a celebration the way it used to be. It was a moment for mourning, remembering. It also felt like beginning.

One year, he leapt over the flame holding his daughter. She wasn’t yet a year old, but her eyes already reflected the fire, like the eyes of any Uchiha. Sakura followed close behind. Everywhere around them was the comfort of warmth and good luck.

Sasuke was no longer alone. He hadn’t been alone in a long time.

.

.

.

.

notes: the fire jumping tradition mentioned in this story is inspired by chaharshanbeh soori, an iranian tradition my family and i celebrate as part of norooz (our new year, which occurs in the spring). i was not with my family this year, so i also jumped over a candle in the hallway of my apartment. it's been a long year. i'm sending my love to all of you!

[mandolovian]

behind the console

pairing: din djarin/the mandalorian x reader

warnings: none! lots of fluff! (sleep what’s sleep)

word count: 1.7k

A month or so after you had joined the Mandalorian on the Razor Crest, the baby had taken a very strong liking to your dangling earring. Just the left one - the one he would chew idly on whenever you carried him in your arms. The Mandalorian had long since stopped trying to get him to stop, and instead watched with a curiously tilted helmet as the baby slowly fell asleep, the earring firmly held between his teeth.

It only took a few days for the baby to slowly slip the earring out of your piercing, and his big plaintive eyes made it extraordinarily difficult to ask for it back (to which the Mandalorian chastised you later - ‘You need to hold your ground! Who knows how many earrings you’ll lose like this.’)

The baby’s little ball was long forgotten, and had slipped down the console to rest against the glass of the cockpit windshield. You leaned over the controls to pick it up, intent on screwing it back onto the gear shift, but the Mandalorian’s gloved hand wrapped around your wrist, holding you back.

(and you try your best to control your breathing, to lower your heart rate, but there was no way he missed the way your pulse rose at the touch.)

‘It’s okay,’ he murmured as he shifted his gaze back at the stars. You held your arm against your chest, rubbing a little absentmindedly at your wrist. Behind you, the baby snuffled a little in his sleep. 

‘You don’t want it back on the gear shift?’ you asked, and didn’t receive a response in return. 

Taking that as an affirmative, you let the small ball roll against the console, and left the cockpit for the night. 

---

You were surprised that it lasted as long as it did. 

An unfortunate combination of a Twi’lek with impressive combat skills and Mando’s flamethrower had resulted in his fleece cape being burned beyond repair. With the ship safely in hyperspace and stoically on autopilot, Mando sat on a crate on the hull to sort through the damage of the day. 

It was rare to see him without much of his armour. Hunched over, the fabric of his simple shirt stretched over shoulder blades, and his sleeves were dutifully folded up to his elbows. A sigh escaped the reaches of his helmet, quietened by the static, and he turned the scraps of the cape over in his hands.

‘Nothing you can do?’ you asked as you climbed down the ladder, and he just sighed again in response. He inclined his helmet in invitation, and you took the cape from his hands. There truly wasn’t much left - the remaining salvageable fabric was scarcely bigger than the length of your forearm, and the edges had somehow been melted down. You frowned at the fabric, and Mando let out a dry laugh at your pout.

‘A lot of my weapons were damaged,’ he said. He tipped his helmet side to side, stretching the cords of his neck with a soft groan. ‘We might have to stop for supplies sooner than I thought. Could you put in the coordinates for Dantooine?’

You rested your hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. Mando hummed, and you suppressed the urge to press your fingers harder against the muscles, just to hear him groan again. 

‘Of course,’ you whispered.

Later, when Mando joined you in the cockpit, you kept your eyes firmly on your datapad. You definitely didn’t see him running his fingers over the fabric of his cape, nearly folded into a small square, tied with scrap of ribbon, pressed between the edge of the console and the windshield. 

---

‘Have you ever been here before?’ Din asked, his boots making soft crunching noises against the sand. 

‘Never,’ you said. ‘Well, definitely never here, on this planet. But I’ve also never seen water like this before.’

The beach was lined with activity - little marquees of pop-up markets, and vendors selling the most eclectic of goods. Here, a young girl sat at a wicker table under a blue tarp, painstakingly applying paint to the face of a toddler squealing with glee. In another stall, several hangers displayed scarves in a dizzying array of colours, and a portly woman, wearing several scarves herself, was arguing passionately with a customer. 

You shifted the baby against your hip, and he cooed at the sites of the sea. ‘See there, adi’ika?’ you said, pointing towards the glittering reflection of the horizon. ‘Water!’

The baby looked at your hand, and waved his own in an imitation of your pointing. He giggled, tapped your cheek with his waving hand, and babbled against your shoulder.

You laughed a little. ‘That isn’t how you say water,’ you teased gently, pinching his cheek, ‘but we’ll get there eventually.’

It was peaceful. A momentary reprieve from the nomadic lifestyle of planet hopping, and you allowed yourself to idly daydream of a small beachside cottage and quietly furnished it in your mind - a front garden with rows upon rows of vegetables. A sunroom with a loth-cat lounging lazily on a wicker couch. A bed, half-covered in plump pillows and patchwork blankets. 

A framed crayon drawing in the front doorway. Maybe a pair of boots outside the front door. 

Din lowered himself to sit cross-legged next to you on the sand, leaning back on his hands behind him. He tutted at the baby, who was puttering around happily in the shallows, squealing in delight at every small wave. 

‘It’ll be difficult to get him back on the ship,’ Din said quietly. He nudged your shoulder with his, urging you to lean back, and you do just that, resting your bodyweight a little against his. 

‘He’ll tire himself out,’ you replied gently.

It was an odd appearance, and you knew that. You, dressed in one of Din’s old tunics, leaning against a fully-armoured Mandalorian on a lively beach, watching a little green baby wrinkle his nose at accidentally swallowing salt water, and you were loathe to think of what the beachgoers thought of the combination. 

‘I found some sea glass,’ said Din, and he held out his hand for you. Three small pebbles sat on his palm, light blue and translucent, faded by the wind and the sea. The light of the suns flickered off the surface of the glass, and they knocked against each other with soft clinks. 

He found some sea glass. You couldn’t really explain why your eyes became watery.

Din kept his visor trained on the baby, who was now sitting in the water. ‘We can put them behind the console,’ he continued, not noticing your sniffles. ‘I think we still have space there.’

---

Ground protocol had been activated, and good thing too, because the dust storm on Er’Kit was all but tipping the Crest over. The hollow low whistling of the wind was not the most comforting and, given that the power had somehow been knocked out, you only had the dim emergency runner lights to keep you company. 

The side ramp of the Crest opened slowly - manually, you gathered, given the creaky clunks of the hydraulics. You sat in the pilot's seat and stared ahead into the sheets of dust battering the windshield, counting the heavy footfalls in the hull. Eight to get from the doorway to the ladder, and four up the ladder. 

He sounded tired. 

The smooth beskar helmet pressed against the top of your head, and you heard the soft rustles of gloves being removed before Din wrapped his arms around your chest. You leaned down and pressed a kiss against his forearm.

‘Sand is stupid,’ Din mumbled, and you hummed in agreement. ‘Anyone who lives on Er’Kit is stupid. Whatever made the wires on the Crest so friable is stupid.’

You let Din grumble a little more, rubbing his forearm absentmindedly. 

‘As soon as we get enough credits, we’re buying a house.’

That brought attention sharply back into focus. You spun yourself in the chair out of Din’s grip, frowning at the visor. ‘A house?’ you said incredulously. 

Din took off his helmet with a soft grunt, frowning when a steady stream of sand fell out of it when he tipped it over. He had already removed the rest of his beskar, leaving behind a man in dusty blacks. He was so beautiful, you thought, admiring the lines adorning the corners of his eyes, and the way his hair had flattened against his scalp. You stood to face him, reaching up to brush your fingers through his hair, returning volume to it. Din shut his eyes at the action, and leaned forward to press his forehead to yours. 

‘A house,’ he said. ‘One with the garden that you want. And all the loth-cats you want. You don’t have to spend another day on a ship if you don’t want to, and especially not on a desert planet like this.’

He leaned back to look at you, and pressed a sandy kiss to the corner of your lip. ‘If anything, we’re running out of space for our trinkets.’

The walls of the cockpit were covered in paper artworks of shaky crayon handprints - some five-fingered, some three. Small beaded bracelets hung from almost every control on the console, and a little clay pot of dried flowers sat right in the middle of the console. 

To the right of the pilots seat, your earring hung off the unscrewed gear shift - the metal hook bent into a loop so it wouldn’t slip off. The baby held the other firmly in his little hand while he slept in his pod. 

‘We do need more space, don’t we,’ you said finally, and Din kissed you slowly in response. You could feel his smile against your lips, and you tugged gently at his curls. 

‘Nowhere with sand, though.’

‘Of course not.’

[tsuumu]

beautiful stranger.

oikawa x reader

a short piece in which oikawa tooru approaches you on a idyllic evening. it’s a little awkward though, since you’re trying to die.

word count: 3.3k

tw: indirect and direct implications of suicide.

your warm hands stay gripped onto the metal rails in front of you, applying enough force to watch your knuckles turn white. you find yourself doing it over and over until your fingers numb from the continued pressure. alone, you’re mulling over mundane affairs. you’d rather not be thinking about them but find this loop all too easy to fall into.

the shadow of the railing casts over a large canal, its water sifting freely, far beneath you. it laps over itself, slithers of fish break the transparent surface as they swim. some of their scales rise to kiss the sunlight in opaque relfections.

thin layers of petals scatter the ground beneath your feet that have slipped from overhead trees and continue to flutter down freely. glowers of dying sunlight seep through the shapes of them as they fall.

in this moment, autumn is alive.

it’s really lovely right now.

you’re here, all caught up in chasing that feeling of peace. safety in an open space. you have to cope with that fact that tranquility never comes easily for you.

there’s nothing that should be leaving you as deeply unsettled as you are. you’ve learnt to largely ignore feeling so overwhelmed, though it stirs and resurfaces times you wish it wouldn’t.

what’s bugging you is that you can’t quite get a grasp on your own life.

for starters, everything lacks coherent meaning. to you, there’s something constantly missing every single day. nothing purchasable, nothing attainable through hard-work and any level of perseverance. truly, it affects you so much so that even just standing here, feet glued to the very spot that is undeniably ‘lovely’, brings you nothing but unimaginable sadness.

earlier, you brushed it away as an off day but you know that’s not true. you’ve been feeling like this all the time.

it is, therefore, not at all abnormal to wonder: can a person have such thing as an off life?

you really don’t like to think about things like this too much. once you begin to muse over deep naysay you find yourself snowballing.

solutions are painfully unobtainable and it’s generally as productive as chasing pavements.

do i really enjoy being alone? or am i obsessed with the sensation loneliness brings?

“you know, if you stare long enough, you might end up wanting to jump in.”

at once, your vision snaps up, taken aback by the additional voice. you hadn’t realised that during your mindless lamenting, another person had quietly joined you by the evening canal-side.

fair skinned, dark eyed, chocolate curls brushed neatly over his features and cowlicks that bob against the light gusts of wind.

a boy offers you a smile, before shifting his feet towards the empty space to your left. you can’t seem to process him, staring at the empty spot he’d been in seconds earlier.

you’re not supposed to be here right now.

“i was totally kidding by the way.” he adds. “that was really dark, sorry.”

you’re silent in return, eyes casting back onto the running stream. the water is shallow and the fall long, so jumping in would certainly prove fatal. you know all of this too well. it’d disturb the fish who are just here to live, though, it’ll only be for a moment. they won’t know any better.

you don’t really know what to say. it’s troubling that he’s here and hearing it out loud disturbs you, like a direct call out. at no point were you prepared for any kind of conversation prior.

the two of you stand there in complete silence. it’s not particularly awkward, you just don’t know why he’s approached you so easily, talking to you like he’s known you well enough to make outlandish jokes.

asking directly for his intentions seems rude, so you’ll put up with it until he leaves.

“do you always come here?” the stranger pipes up once more, though his focus doesn’t leave the water. you breathe in deeply.

“sometimes.”

“oh, i see.”

his palms lay flat and he pushes gently off of the rails, only to fall back onto them with all his weight. he does it again, repeating the process over and over at a steady pace. you stay hunched over, keeping your distance. he doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest though, clearly absorbed in his surroundings.

“it’s like a set out of a movie, this place. seems like somewhere i’d ask my girlfriend to marry me.”

your tongue rolls around in your mouth.

yes. you think. his girlfriend would most likely be thrilled-over the top-squealing if he did. that’s entirely his business.

you really don’t care to hear of other people’s romantic endeavours.

is it out of jealousy? you don’t know. maybe.

this conversation is meaningless. you wish he’d go away sooner so you could have this time to yourself.

also, jealousy is an ugly word. you hate it.

he stops his movement with a exhale of air, tilting his head back to blink up at the warm sky. the last touches daylight mingle with the oncoming darkness, creating a deep tinge of orangey-yellow.

“when’s your birthday?”

‎a petal lands on the bridge of your hand, sticking to your skin.

“do you want my social security number?” you deject.

“what? no!”

“are you sure? really, i’ll give it to you.”

“no!”

“then why are you asking for my personal information?”

‎

he falls silent for a moment, before mumbling out a small: “just wondering.”

a tinge of guilt creeps over you at his apologetic tone. you admit, your answers thus far must make you seem like a completely unapproachable asswipe. you’re not at all. you just aren’t all that sure how to make small talk with strangers when you’re trying to part with the world by dinner time.

it feels like an unexpected guest at your very lonesome party.

“it’s (insert birth month).” you fold.

he purses his lips, face contorting a little.

“i see.”

he doesn’t continue down that path after your response. the both of you return to a mutual silence, staring into the portrait scenery ahead. the stream fills the soundscape pleasantly. fallen leaves have gathered at the base of your shoes, brushing over the tip gently with the turn of the wind. you observe them quietly.

“can i ask you another question?”

he seems a tad more timid now.

he definitely thinks you’re the type to blow up and give him an earful about minding his own business, doesn’t he?

you’d never raise your voice. in general, but also because it’d break the comfort of the scenery the world has so generously given you.

“sure.”

“do you believe in soulmates?”

‎the question is a little random but not impossible to answer by any means.

“no.”

“what?”

“i said not really.”

“you said no.”

“that’s the same thing.”

“...fair enough.”

‎he exhales out, sounding a little disheartened by your curt response. perhaps to him, you were a tough nut to crack; an ambiguity for him to understand. were all people like that? you weren’t playing hard to get, in fact, you’d answered every single enquiry he has had to offer. his efforts are amusing, though.

you raise a brow at him.

“i’m sorry, was that the wrong answer?”

for a moment, he doesn’t reply, stuffing his hands into his pockets, gazing down at the head of his shoe. pivoting his ankle, he draws small circles with the tip of his foot into the ground, into the dead leaves.

“not at all.”

“your expression says otherwise.”

“um, it was just a bit bleak, i guess.”

you let your arms droop way over the railing, fingers wading through the autumn air. you’d never really taken the concepts of soulmates to heart. it was romantic bullshit put out by somebody looking for a fantasy to indulge in. out of seven billion people, there could hardly be a singular person made for you. people aren’t born for other people. if that were the case, it wouldn’t be a rose-tinted fantasy. it would be suffocating. where’s the freedom in love?

“most people always answer like you these days anyway.”

“oh, sorry.”

he looks up at you, tilting his head.

“no, don’t be.”

back to a default mute, left with nothing but the faint chitter of overhead swallows and the odd rumble of cars passing by.

“tooru.” he states, after a while.

“what?”

“tooru. my name is tooru.”

“oh, okay.”

“oikawa tooru.”

‎your fingertips have become flushed. maybe you’d pressed a little too hard on that cold surface earlier. now that all your blood has come rushing back, the tingling sensation feels foreign.

his name slips of the tongue rather easily, don’t you think?

“nice to meet you, oikawa tooru.”

“it is nice, isn’t it?”

for the first time, your gazes meet properly and you offer him a crooked smile.

“i suppose so.”

off the side of the canal, almost right under the bridge, a small cluster of ducks have gathered. adult ducks tend to be considerably larger than its offspring —as is factual with any animal— so it’s easy for you to tell that there’s only one parent there, along with three of its ducklings.

people like to come to the canal to feed the ducks bread, though you’d heard somewhere that it’s actually quite bad for them.

you wonder. do ducks care particularly if one of its ducklings die? will it do something with the body, cry out, hurt?

or is grief exceptionally human?

“i don’t actually have a girlfriend, by the way.”

he sifts out his phone, tapping the screen and sliding it open. you watch him turn it to its side, before leaning over to take a picture of the depths below. you just watch.

“oh, okay.”

he doesn’t elaborate, focused intently on his current task. your attention returns to the shape of the birds, bobbing up and down rhythmically.

there’s only so much you can say about the canal. yeah, it’s beautiful. you don’t have the right vocabulary to describe the way it makes you feel. honestly, it feels abysmal to even try. you’re convinced though, that you’re in love with the way the water moves. you’ve always appriciated it whenever you walk past, told yourself jokingly that you could die there if you had to.

funny, that.

beautiful things tend to hurt in an unbearably amplified manner.

“say, tooru?”

“yeah?”

“if i climbed over the railing right now, would you stop me?”

you’re both fixated on the paddling now. his phone is back in his pocket, elbows propped up. he hums, taking his time to think over your question.

“most likely.”

your fingers meet one another and the tingling spreads to your palms.

“i’m thinking of jumping, actually.”

“oh.”

“yeah.”

“my joke earlier...”

“yeah.”

his fingers drum rhythmically on the slender poles under the rail top.

“then i’d jump right in with you.”

the corners of his mouth tug slightly at your perplexity, supressing a chortle. he’s not laughing at you, though. it’s more a gesture of understanding. this tooru doesn’t know you at all, yet he gets it. he gets it all too well.

you get that he gets it.

tooru clears his throat. “bad day?”

“that’s an understatement.”

“well, you’re not a bad person for feeling the way you do.”

by now, the ducks have swam away, you can make out the general shape of them, melding into the distant, mute colours of the bankside. the sky look minutes away from being set alight. time has never been your friend, you see.

“i feel crazy for trying.” you’re rather blunt about it.

“fair enough.”

“…is that all?”

“well, do you want me to tell you that you’re not crazy?”

you lull into silence.

“i don’t know.”

with that, you shift to angle yourself so that he’s in your immediate peripheral, the thought of gawking at him seems ridiculous but you want to look at him. you find it hard to do it up front for some reason.

“i’m no suicide expert, but it’d probably be lonely doing something like that by yourself. wouldn’t it be comforting to know someone’s falling with you?”

your fingers run absently across the jagged surface of the rails, the old paint has been chipped away at, after all its years of protecting. in all it’s history, had anyone else hitched themselves over this very rail?

were they asking for the same answers as you?

god. that’s awful. you don’t want to think about that.

you catch each others’ eyes for a second but you resign quickly, focusing as hard as you can on the flecks of black on your thumb.

“that would be selfish of me.”

“not if i’m offering.”

you scramble to look anywhere else, abruptly turning. you’re facing away from the canal, stomach fluttering a little as you fall onto the rail’s length.

in all your time by yourself, you’d never been given an irrefutable reason to ‘be’. it’d always been a live-for-the-day type of experience. if a day is good, you’re utterly blissed out by it, totally in love with life. if it’s bad, you have little reason to go on. nothing particularly interests you enough to dedicate your days persuing it. fame seems tedious, looks are temporary, a six figure career sounds like emotional jail-time, or a slow, schedule-filled trek to death. whichever description sounds more sufferable.

you see, in essence, we all get off at the same bus stop. some journeys are simply shorter than others.

“you’re guilt-tripping me out of it.”

“i’m not!”

you’ve never stopped to ask yourself what it is you want.

death interests you, you suppose. though, you don’t see the reason to wait around and pretend to ignore it until one day it drags you kicking and screaming.

“oikawa tooru, don’t you have better things to be doing than offering to jump off bridges with strangers?”

that coy smile tugs at his lips once more. nothing you say seems to phase him. it’s like he knows you. he’s thinking: yeah, this isn’t anything out of the ordinary for them.

“should i? you look at that water like it’s someone you hate. or love. maybe both. i got curious.”

“curious?”

“yes. and quite frankly, you’ve left me curious. practically starving. you haven’t even told me your name.”

“my name doesn’t matter.”

“boo. that’s not true at all.”

his tongue pokes out, tugging at the corner of his eye. you shake your head, genuinely unable to hide your amusement, turning to him properly this time.

and really, it’s like the canal side and oikawa tooru were made from the same stardust. he blends right into the picture, as effortlessly pretty as the rest of it.

the strands of hair out of place, a little disheveled from the breeze. the scarf buried into his nose, glasses a little misty from the heat of his own breath but when they clear, you see his eyes all too well.

you’d like to tuck those strands into place, they’re bothering you just a little.

“(y/n).”

your brows furrow a little.

really, this could all very well be some sort of fantastical dream. as nice as it all is, it feels painfully unreal. boys don’t look like that on autumn evenings or offer to die with you.

that’s it.

tooru must be a figment of your imagination.

no. wrong. not a dream.

this is a corner of your mind you haven’t ventured into yet, psychologically, some kind of safety net. a sliced off piece of reality you’ve come to hide in because you’ve utterly lost your mind. he is nothing but a part of you that makes you feel at ease as you come to terms with your self-destruction.

god, that bothers you more. you are crazy.

your hand extends, reaches out all on its own.

you just want to know if he’s real.

oikawa tooru glances down for a moment, he’s probably wondering about you, what’s left you in such a state. though, he’s happy to slide his palm against yours, latching onto it. he shakes once, twice. a little more. tightens his hold a bit.

the weight of his fingers as they brush lightly against your palm is fantastical. he’s so warm. you can feel it spread through you from the pads of your fingers.

he’s very real.

tooru has rather pretty hands.

the contact makes you feel kind of delirious, a produce of being utterly touch-starved. just a simple touch. you’re embarrassed to say it but it takes everything inside of you not to start weeping or hold on frantically in case he does disappear, do something bizzare that’ll scare him away forever.

hey, tooru. are you made of honey?

“well, (y/n), i’m offering you my life right now.”

the sun has set foot on the horizon, plunging in ever so slightly. as a child, the thought of night scared you, feeling largely betrayed by the sun’s farewell. now, it’s a unique kind of comfort to see the moon. it’s as lonely as those who lay their eyes upon it.

“i don’t want it.”

his fingers slip downwards against the dips of your palm.

“you don’t?”

“no, i mean... i don’t want death. not right now..”

you don’t even want to think about it anymore. funny, how things like that work. you were so sure of it. today was the day. your dark rendezvous. weren’t you itching for it?

this bastard.

this man you’ve never met. he clasps onto your hand once and suddenly he stops your nauseating rollercoaster of thoughts and leaves you wondering if, actually, you’d like to see the canal-side again tomorrow, or in fifty years.

who are you really, oikawa tooru?

“no?”

“yeah.”

“then what do you want to do?”

“stay right here, i think.”

your fingers curl, maintaining your hold on him. you should be shy or awkward about this whole ordeal but so you’re desperate for that warmth to continue.

you both stand there, facing one another, hands extended. it’s a little robotic looking. you’re pretty stiff but very sure this is what feels right.

to you, existence is based solely on feeling your way through stages of life. that sickeningly sweet innocence of youth. childhood memories that to you, are dwindled husks of gold, valuable in some aspects but almost meaningless in others. to laugh or to cry allows an individual to create a deep-set connection to the environment around them. it is no longer passing scenery but a moment in your life you once lived through.

that’s beautiful, isn’t it?

unfortunately, emotion provides both a living fantasy and the potential for agony. life is not sweet, nor innocent. it is what you make of it.

it is what your mind is forced to make of it.

and as much as one wishes they were as coddled and loved as they were children, life beyond those years is lonely, difficult and more than you were ever capable of.

were you weak? perhaps.

but maybe people aren’t built for life. we’re all weak.

and realistically, if you are unable to clamber over one obstacle after another -established by those before you- you’re doomed to fall behind.

that will hurt. you will hurt unforgivably because self-worth is no longer a beautiful gift of internal discovery and love but another way to be measured and downsized externally. a practice that leads to hatred. a desire to die.

that’s really where it all began for you. a romantic, a poet at heart, living inside your own, kinder world. that is until reality knocked on your door, invited itself in, just to set the entire thing on fire and leave you as vulnerable as the day you were born.

you aren’t allowed to hide. it comes looking for you eventually.

your stance on life hasn’t changed, afterall, you’ve spent nights mourning over how much it can hurt to live. to fall asleep exhausted with yourself, only to wake up and do it all over again. what you do know, however, is that droning, lonely feeling isn’t there right now. that ongoing, battering ruckus inside your head has ceased. tooru, the strange magician, has left you thoughtless and a little dumb.

you like being this stupid. for once, there’s nothing intrusive prodding the inside of your head.

it’s frightfully quiet, actually. you don’t know what you’re feeling right now. how much time has passed since he’d made that awful joke?

his gaze is on your lingering contact, before lightly pulling you closer, twisting his wrist down so you’re holding hands. your gaze moves to the bankside. you feel comforted. maybe it isn’t death, maybe all you want is a hand to hold.

probably not. that is a stupid, sappy thought. you’re still fanatic about ending your life.

you were so close to doing it, without even really understanding what you were doing. the canal scenery is overpowering, numbing, if you will. without oikawa tooru, you may well have kissed those fishs’ fluorescent scales with your own two lips, as cold as ice with some unfortunate early-morning runner discovering you by twilight.

“we can do that.” he hesitates. “if i’m honest, i would have been pretty scared to jump.”

“yet you still offered?”

tooru hums merrily in confirmation.

“why?”

“because you’re cute.”

you can’t believe your own ears.

“what? seriously?”

“yeah. originally, i wanted your number but things took a small turn.”

you burst out in gutteral laughter, free hand back onto the railing for support. for a moment, you look at him, shaking your head in utter amazement.

“you’re a piece of work, tooru, you know?”

“yeah, i know.”

he smiles back at you. the shadows cast by the setting sun only make him all the more enigmatic.

now that you think about it, you can’t figure this guy out at all. it’s like staring at a wordless piece of paper and trying to find something legible.

“how do you know i won’t come back and repeat all of this tomorrow?”

tooru tilts his head ever so slightly, observing you. his eyes flutter down to your lips, speaking like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“because you told me your name.”

“what does that have to do with anything?”

“well, now that i know that, you’re no longer just a beautiful stranger.”

you understood now. he hadn’t just offered you his life, he’d offered you him. by living on, you’d accepted graciously. he knows that if you visit the canal side again, you’ll only remember this moment.

a bad moment that he, in all his glory, turned into a good one. the day you two first met.

oh, clever boy. he saved you.

though you must say, oikawa tooru, you’re very much mistaken.

you are the beautiful stranger.

a tear runs down your cheek, a little warmer than you could’ve expected.

one turns into two, slipping more and more. eventually, you’re standing over the canal, hand in hand with oikawa tooru, sobbing quietly as the water runs peacefully below the both of you.

[onecanonlife]

In which Tommy travels back in time and tries to prevent a nightmare from happening to everyone he knows. Everyone else, meanwhile, is highly concerned.

(fic masterpost w/ ao3 links)

(next part)

(word count: 2,086)

--------------------

Part One: Tubbo

Tubbo wakes from a dream of fire and smoke to find Tommy shaking him.

It takes a few seconds for his brain to puzzle through that fact, sleep-addled as he feels, and he blinks blearily. In that time, Tommy doesn’t stop shaking his shoulder, rather roughly in his opinion, and that’s about when he realizes that Tommy is speaking, too.

“Tubbo, Tubbo, wake up, Tubbo, you’ve got to wake up, you need to wake up, Tubbo—”

The words fall from his lips like a litany, like a prayer, and Tubbo is definitely still half-asleep, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out something is wrong. Because Tommy doesn’t do this, doesn’t sound like this, not even when he has a nightmare and slips into his or Wilbur’s bed for the night. Then, he never admits that he’s seeking comfort, just says some bullshit about shitty air conditioning or people nearby being too loud, and Tubbo never calls him on it. He doesn’t know if Wilbur does, but he doubts it. It they called him on it, he would stop coming; Tommy’s particular about that, about anything that could threaten his self-set image as a big manly man.

Which makes this odd. And more than a little concerning. Tommy sounds all wet and choked, like he’s crying, and Tubbo’s first thought is that maybe someone has died.

So he sits up, swiping at his eyes to try to bring some focus into them. Tommy jerks back from him, as if surprised by the motion.

“‘M awake, Tommy,” he says. “What’s the matter? Are you alright?”

Stupid question, really, because clearly Tommy is not alright. His room is dim, making Tommy barely more than a vague silhouette in front of him, but even in the darkness he can see the way he’s holding himself all tensely, and the expression on his face is not a happy one, even if Tubbo can’t make out particulars.

For a long second, Tommy is completely quiet. It sort of makes Tubbo wonder if he’s still asleep, and just gone from one nightmare to another. Because Tommy’s never so quiet. Never ever.

“Tubbo?” he finally says, voice trembling, wavering. “Are you okay?”

… What?

“Tommy,” he says. “Tommy, that’s what I just asked you. Course I’m alright. I was sleeping. You woke me up.”

“Right, yeah, sorry,” Tommy says, and he sounds way more distraught than the situation warrants. And then, to Tubbo’s horror, he sniffles. Actually sniffles. Like he’s crying. Actually crying.

Oh, gods, someone really has died.

“It’s just,” Tommy continues, before he can think of a way to ask whether they’ve got a funeral to attend, “it’s just, Tubbo. You’re good? You’re really alright? You’re here?”

There is definitely something very strange going on here. But he’s so very tired, and thinking feels like wading through molasses, and he can’t get his brain to cooperate with him enough to formulate a proper theory. Also, he hasn’t ruled out the idea that he’s still asleep, in which case he’ll wake up tomorrow unnerved but otherwise alright, and he’ll be able to put the whole thing out of sight, out of mind. Because Tommy will be normal. Everything will be normal. As normal as it can be during a revolution.

“Not sure where else I’d be,” he says. “It’s nighttime. So I should be in here, shouldn’t I? Sleeping? Not like there’s anything else to be doing. You know Wilbur doesn’t like us taking the night patrols.” He squints, wishing he could see his face better. As things are, he can’t tell what Tommy’s eyes are doing, which is unfortunate, because Tommy’s eyes are very expressive. “Did you—you keep asking if I’m okay. Did you have a nightmare?”

It’s breaking an unspoken rule, asking outright like that, but he’s not sure what else to do. He fully expects Tommy to deny him flat. But instead, Tommy draws in a shuddering breath, and laughs a little, a quiet, broken thing, and Tubbo is one hundred percent alarmed now. Or at least, as alarmed as his stupid tired brain will let him be.

“Sure,” Tommy says. “Yeah, we’ll call it that. A big, stupid nightmare. Oh, Prime, Tubbo, it just went on and on and didn’t end and I couldn’t wake up.”

Tubbo’s got absolutely no clue what to do with this.

“Well, you’re awake now, aren’t you?” he asks lamely. Tommy laughs again, that same broken laugh.

“Fuck if I know,” he says. “Maybe I just traded one nightmare for another. Except—no, no, you’re here, you’re here, so it has to be better, right? This is better. Fuck, this is just—I wish I knew what they—” About halfway through this, he starts muttering to himself, as if he’s forgotten Tubbo is there at all. So Tubbo just sits there awkwardly, trying to figure out what the fuck Tommy’s talking about, when Tommy abruptly stops.

“How’s Wilbur, these days?” he demands.

“Um?” he replies. “Fine, I guess? I suppose he’s very stressed, but he’s doing his best. We are at war, you know. Tommy, you just saw him a few hours ago, why are you asking me that?” An idea occurs to him. “Do you want to go get him? He stays up real late, he might still be up. Maybe he can—”

“No!” Tommy exclaims, and his vehemence takes him aback. And when he continues, his voice is softer, but there’s a note of some emotion that his sleepy brain can’t parse out. “No, Tubbo, I can’t go to Wilbur with this. Not even—no. Not even now. Can’t risk it.”

“Tommy, you are genuinely starting to freak me out a little.”

Tommy straight-up flinches a bit, which was not his intention at all, but since when is Tommy so easily injured by words? Where is the bravado? The insults? The over-the-top loudness? Sure, it’s fuck off o’clock in the morning, and he’s rolling with the nightmare idea because it’s the only possibility that makes even a lick of sense, but still.

“I’m sorry,” Tommy says, and there is the weirdness again, because Tommy almost never apologizes for anything, not by using the word itself, and now he’s done it twice in the span of ten minutes. “I didn’t mean to—I guess it just really unsettled me, yeah? I didn’t mean to disturb you, Tubbo.”

The words themselves are fine, but the way he says them is—wrong. Wrong in a way he can’t put a finger on, but definitely wrong, and he feels the need to backtrack a bit.

“No, I mean, it’s fine, Tommy,” he says. “I’m just a bit worried about you, is all.”

Instead of going off on him about how he doesn’t need anyone’s worry, thank you very much, Tommy heaves a gusty sigh.

“You’re a good friend, Tubbo,” he says. “The very best one I have. You do know that, don’t you?”

And Tubbo blinks, because—yes, he knows. He knows that Tommy cares about him a whole lot, and that he cares about Tommy a whole lot in turn. But it’s mostly another one of those unspoken things. Tommy shows his love by calling him names and roping him into chaos. Not by stating it plain.

“I know. You’re my best friend too,” he says. “Tommy, are you sure you’re okay?”

In response, Tommy wraps him up in a hug. It’s so unexpected that he freezes up for a good three seconds before managing to return it.

“I could live without you, Tubs,” Tommy mumbles into his shoulder, the words barely distinguishable. “It’s so fucking hard, but I can do it. But I don’t want to. I don’t ever want you to not be with me, okay? So you have to remember that. You have to, you have to stay alive. Because I know I’m myself without you, but myself is hard to be when you’re not there.”

“I’m not,” he starts, and his throat has gone dry, so he has to swallow and start again. “I’m not going anywhere, big man, I promise.”

His heart is racing, galloping a hundred meters per second. He doesn’t understand where this has all come from; would a nightmare make him react like this? A nightmare is still the only reasonable explanation, but his surety in the explanation has begun to slip through his fingers. Nightmares are terrible, but nightmares are not reality, and the way Tommy is talking, it’s like he’s lived it. Like he’s lived in a world where Tubbo himself… wasn’t there any longer, and it doesn’t make any sense at all.

Another thought occurs to him, this one far more horrible, and maybe nobody’s died yet, but what if someone’s going to? What if Tommy—?

“You’re not, are you? Going anywhere?”

“Not planning on it,” Tommy says, though there is a peculiar emptiness in his tone that doesn’t help Tubbo to believe him at all. And after a moment, Tommy pulls away.

“I know you’ll do your best,” he says, voice firmer now. “That’s alright. I’ll do my best too. It’s gonna be so fucking best, it’ll set a new record, that’s how much best I’ll be doing. I think I know what I need to do now.”

He feels wrongfooted, like the conversation’s been snatched out from under him, turned on its head once again. Why couldn’t Tommy have picked a more reasonable time to have—whatever this is? Like late afternoon? Late afternoon’s a good time for talking.

“What’s that?” he asks.

Tommy snorts. “A whole fucking lot, that’s what,” he says. “I’ll tell you later, how’s that? You can go back to sleep now.”

And that—that stings, just a little. Because Tommy makes plans, and then Tommy tells him about the plans so they can enact them together. That’s how this works. That’s how this always works. Except now, Tommy’s got some kind of plan that he’s not telling him about, and Tubbo’s not so sleepy that it doesn’t hurt, just a bit, to be left out of the loop. Especially when Tommy’s acting so strangely. Especially when Tubbo’s not sure he should be making any plans at all.

And now Tommy’s getting up. Off the bed. He’s moving to the door, his figure dark and covered in shadows, and Tubbo feels an inexplicable sense of panic.

“Why can’t you tell me?” he blurts out.

Tommy pauses. Turns his head back to look at him. Tubbo still can’t make out his eyes.

“Go back to sleep, Tubbo,” he repeats, and then he slips out into the corridor and vanishes. His footsteps retreat, and then there is nothing. Tubbo is left alone, sitting up in bed with all the lights off, the moon barely a suggestion outside his window. If he looked outside, he would find the peace of the night undisturbed, and that feels wrong, somehow, that the wider world will not reflect the talk he’s just had.

The world does not revolve around TommyInnit, he knows. But sometimes he feels like it should. And something, somehow, is fundamentally different.

He considers going to get Wilbur. But Tommy’s voice fills his ears again, and he almost flinches at the phantom of his panic. Perhaps it means he should go get Wilbur after all; anything that Tommy so desperately doesn’t want Wilbur to know is sure to have some sort of repercussions. But then, perhaps it truly is nothing, a nightmare that shook him more than usual, and Tommy will be so angry if he goes to Wilbur with something like that. Tommy looks up to the man like a brother, they both do, but for Tommy, that means a determination to always seem capable in front of him, to never show a sign of weakness, even though Tubbo knows very well that Wilbur would do just about anything for Tommy’s sake.

No getting Wilbur, then. And if he’s not going to get Wilbur, there’s really nothing left to do. So he slides back under his covers, lies down, and tries to go back to sleep, to put the whole thing out of his head until the morning.

It doesn’t quite work. And when he does finally slip back into dreams, his nightmares return. There is no fire, no smoke, but there is Tommy, disembodied and faceless, his voice as desperate as any soldier trying to seek home.

He tosses and turns until the sky turns pink and the birds begin to sing.

[league-of-thots]

Quarantine Fun

Pairing: Hawks x reader

Warnings: sensory deprivation, ropes and bondage,

Word Count: 3.6k

A/N: This was part of another lovely server collab that i was so fucking excited to be a part of!! I FINALLY got to yoink my favourite boy hawks and was fucking pumped to write for him so I hope you all enjoy! The masterlist with the rest of the fucking LOVELY writers is right here: COLLAB LIST

It was day three of the quarantine when you finally reached the end of your tether, and as a loud crash came from the other room in your shared apartment, you heard a small tinkling of glass shattering. You feel your pulse beating through your temples in pent up anger and frustration.

         “Keigo Takami I swear to GOD! What did you do?!” You throw your phone down on the couch beside you as you angrily speed over to see what your boyfriend had done now in his boredom. You enter the other room and see him sheepishly grin up at you from the floor where he’d somehow managed to end up tied in an awkward position and had knocked into the table, sending a photograph off of it and thus the shattering you’d heard.

         “What the fuck?!” you exclaim, grabbing a broom and dustpan to clean away the dangerous glass pieces. “Why are you tied up? How did you even get in that position?” You knew you boyfriend was a man of many talents, but his best talent by far was the ability to get himself into stupidly strange and unnecessary situations.

         He just laughs at your questions and as you return with the broom and pan, he’s practically howling on the floor at your expressions. Well, as much as he can with his chest restricted by ropes and hands behind his back, legs at an awkward angle on the floor.

         “I’m glad you’re finding this funny.” You harrumph and ignore him, starting to sweep up the glass pieces that make more delicate sounds as you work.

         “Aw, babes, don’t be like that!” he gets out as his laughter starts to die down. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean to bother you; I’m just going stir crazy in here!”

         “I can see that,” you scowl a bit, the confines of your apartment, and the stress of the whole situation starting to really make you grouchy. Luckily, it was a rather small photo, so there wasn’t too much glass for you to clean up. Your boyfriend was now sitting where he’d fallen, trying to cheer you up while you worked, managing to wheedle a couple smiles and chuckles from you, as he always does.

         After you finish throwing out the shards, you go back towards him, and stand in front of him with your hands on your hips. He’s trying to get the ropes undone, but with the angle he was in, and how they’d tightened when he’d fallen in a heap, was making no progress. It was amusing to see, and he looked so cute with the pout on his face and the sharp ruffles of annoyance through his wings.

         “So, are you going to tell me what you were trying to accomplish with, ah- all of this?” you gesture towards his entire body, looped with rope and patterns. You have an idea of what he was doing, but still unsure as to why. To your surprise your usually unrufflable boyfriend flushes slightly under your attention and mumbles something out. You give him a pointed look so as to say ‘Speak up’ and he clears his throat.

         “Well, I was bored, and I know you’re stressed so I was thinking of fun ways that we could fix both of our issues, if you catch my drift.”

         “… So you did it on yourself?”

         “Just to practice! I hadn’t done sexy rope tying before, only y’know, actual hog tying of villains and stuff.”

         “If you refer to this as sexy rope tying ever again, I won’t have sex with you for a month Keigo.” He lets out a protested squawk at that, saying it wasn’t that bad.

         “I am stuck though, so ah- babes if you would help me out of these, I really would appreciate it.” He gave you a pleading look and you can’t help but laugh a little at him, rolling your eyes and going to untie him. He reaches up to give you a quick kiss when his hands are free, they’re quick pecks, but energetic as he starts kissing all around your face with your head in his hands. You can’t help but giggle as he distracts you from your mood and worries.

         “What exactly were you planning on doing with me though, Keigo? Your whole body is somehow almost all tied up.” You couldn’t even fathom how he’d managed it, maybe with his feathers? Were they that nimble? He stands up moving behind you to massage your shoulders gently.

         “Well I was reading up on things and saw something about how sensory deprivation in small doses can made people less stressed and anxious. I was thinking it might be an interesting idea to try out, especially because you’re on edge.”

         “You’re just horny because you have so much extra energy with the quarantine being in effect.” You say sharply, though you’re touched by your boyfriend’s idea. He was pretty great to you.

         “I’m not going to deny that either.” You can practically feel his smirk from behind you. “How can you blame me though when there’s such a hot woman in front of me 24/7 because of this quarantine?” he smacks your ass and you let out a shocked noise, not having expected it.

         You lightly swat his hands away, but he slouches on top of you, clinging to you and cooing into your ear.

         “The one good thing about this quarantine, is that at least we can finally spend some time together. Even if I drive you up the walls sometimes.” He hums, his fingers starting to tease the waistband of your shorts. “I wish it was less of a complete break, and more of a less busy work schedule, but beggars can’t be choosers.” His hands have gone down your sleep shorts now and started teasing your folds, never quite going where you want them too. He starts kissing your neck, nipping at it and licking it over, humming with happiness. Even though the quarantine was a lot of stress for everyone, you were happy to see Keigo finally getting the rest he needed, the bags under his eyes had started to disappear and he had more life to him.

         You whine as he continues his teasing, knowing he loves making and watching you squirm. You’ll let him for now, letting him have his fun because you know by the end of your night, you’ll be screaming his name in bliss.

         “So, do you trust me enough to let me try some things, Y/N? I’m really thinking it’ll be fun and let us blow off some of the stress and boredom.”

         “You already bought everything for it, didn’t you?” You’re palming his slowly hardening member behind your ass.

         “If you said yes, I wouldn’t have wanted to wait at all, can you blame me? I think you’re going to look so fucking hot all tied up and completely in the dark about what’s going to happen to you next.” A groan slips out of you at his words, his fingers finally giving you some relief as they finally breached your wet folds.

         “God, yes, I’m so excited to see what you have ready for me Keigo. You know I trust you more than anyone else, so bring it on.”

         “You remember the safe word though?”

         “Of course.”

         “Good, then we can get started love-dove.” You groan at the pun but you don’t really have time to say anything as he whips you up into the air, laughing, carefree for once. He catches you, kissing you as you giggle at his playful energy, it’s been so long since you’d seen it from him.

         You lose track of how long the two of you stand in the hallway, you in his arms and his hands on your ass. He bites at your lips, begging to be let inside in his own way, and you respond as you always do, opening your mouth for him and nipping back, making it interesting for him.

         He slowly starts walking down the hall with you in his arms, still keeping his lips connected with yours as he kicks open the bedroom door. Pulling back he smirks a little and tosses you back on the bed, his eyes glinting with glee and barely contained lust.

         “Clothes off babes, I want to see those pretty tits of yours.” You follow his instructions, practically sliding out of your clothes as if you’d somehow turned into liquid. His watchful eyes never move off of you body as he stands at the foot of the bed, arms crossed. He licks his lips and catches your eyes after that with a smirk as he quickly worms out of his own clothes. You notice that he’s already half hard, but seems to be completely ignoring it as he heads over towards the closet where he must have hidden his new toys.

         You feel excitement running through your veins, as you hear shuffling of fabrics and the unzipping of a bag. Keigo was right, this would be a fucking terrific way to end the boredom that the quarantine had brought. Although you’d never admit that out loud of course, he didn’t have to know the extent of how much and how easily he affected you.

         He comes back with a grin as big as the sun itself which is at odds with all the things you can see him carrying, and you feel your eyes widen. That seems to amuse him as he sets the goodies at the foot of the bed and crawls up towards you. His eyes are bright and they take your breath away, you truly understand how his gaze makes people feel as if they were being hunted, the way he’s looking at you now makes you lose your breath, makes you feel as if he’s about to devour your entire being.

         He cages you in with his wings, but rather than fear, all you can feel is arousal as he surrounds you, breath heavy despite the lack of action from either of you.

         “You have no idea, no fucking idea, how good you look like this.” His hands move to play with your pebbled nipples as he straddles you, leaning down to capture your mouth with his. You let out a small cry that’s easily swallowed by him as he pinches your nipple. You lightly punch him in the side.

         “The fuck Keigo? That hurt,” you pout up at him as he snickers.

         “I’m sorry its just, god everything was getting so serious babe, this is to blow off steam you know?”

         “There are better ways to do that then pinching my tit you ass.” But at this point you’re grinning too, pecking him on the lips. “Are we going to get started yet Keigo? I want you inside me.” His mouth parts, eyes wide as you say that.

         “Fuck, are you trying to make me rush through all of the special things I had planned for you babes? Patience Y/N, good things come to those who wait after all.”

         “Yeah, yeah birdman. I want to see what you have already.”

         “Yes ma’am.” He gives a little salute before backing off, going through the togs he’d bought just for you. “I’m going to start slow, ok? It can be shocking if you’re just getting started with this type of thing.” You nod your head in acceptance and he brings out a rather thick blind fold. He trails his fingers up your body, feather light touches that have you shuddering, as he brings his hands up to your face.

         The fabric is cool on your face, and slightly heavier than you expected it to be, and it obscures all of your vision, even every bit of light that had been showering the room.

         “It’s ok?”

         “Yes, you worry-wart. Keep going please.”

         “Good. God you look so fucking beautiful right now.” You can practically hear the expression he gets on his face when he thinks you can’t see him; all his features soften and are etched with love. Part of you wishes you could see it, but part of you is eagerly waiting for what he has next.

         You hear the rustling of the sheets as he moves, feel the mattress dip as his weight crosses it, and without words he starts tying you up, first your wrists enveloped by a silky-smooth cloth, then they’re brought to your ankles. As he ties them you groan as you feel the cool air hitting your damp cunt, he hasn’t even really touched you yet and still you’re so aroused and ready for him to take you. Even though you know you’re likely going to have to wait a bit as he explores the new options that he has presented to him.

         His lips make his way to yours as he sweetly kisses you. “You’re muttering again dove, are you sure you’re ok?”

         “Yes, I’m just so fucking horny I want you inside me already.”

         “Well I think I can help you a little bit with that in one minute, just one more thing for you ok? You’re being such a good girl for me.” You whimper a bit at that, with the position you’re tied in, you can’t put any friction onto your aching cunt and it feels like torture.

         You feel a heavy set of what feels like headphones, though you can’t be certain without seeing them, cover your ears, the last thing you can hear is Keigo whispering he loves you until all the outside sound is blocked from you. All you can hear now is the thundering sound of blood in your ears and you shiver in anticipation, tied up and unmoving, unable to see or hear, waiting for your lover to fucking touch you already.

         Goosebumps rise on your skin as Keigo starts slowly stroking your hipbones, his touch still light but you’re so taken by it because all you can do right now is feel. You whimper as a feather comes up to play with your breasts, the touch almost ticklish but in your aroused state, it only serves to make you more sensitive as you mewl out for him to touch you more.

         He listens, as his fingers come to your sensitive areas and you moan loudly in relief as two of his fingers enter your heat up to the first knuckle, his lips starting to kiss and suckle bruises into your sensitive skin. You think you’re being really loud but you can’t tell, the moans and noises you’re making seem magnified because they’re all that you can hear. You feel Keigo muttering words onto your skin but you can’t tell what he’s saying, all you know is that he’s stopped moving his fingers and it’s driving you insane to have something in your heat but not providing any form of relief from his teasing.

         “Keigo, please move!” you plead with him, desperately trying to move your bound body to provide some sense of friction, some sense of deeper penetration as you wail in frustration as he keeps himself deadly still.

         Your breaths are heaving as your legs begin to shake with the strain of holding them up because of the bondage. As soon as you think he’s going to leave you there waiting for a long time, he suddenly thrusts deep into your cunt and you clench around him with a surprised shout. It doesn’t take long for him to build you up to that edge, your body so needy and responsive to his touch, as you praise him, tell him how good it feels. It’s so easy to get lost in the sensation of him pounding his fingers into you as he frantically starts rubbing your clit. You feel yourself clench around him, and he shifts the angle of his fingers a little bit to hit your sweet spot.

         You swear you see lightning in the darkness of your blindfold, your back arching up sharply as you come undone around his fingers with a lewd moan. He keeps pushing in, helping you ride yourself through it, but doesn’t stop. The sensations feel so much more potent than usual, and you try to squirm away from the added stimulation but you can’t. You whimper as he once again brings a feather up to play with your tits as he adds a third and then fourth finger into you.

         You can practically hear his teasing, “but baby, you asked me to touch you, you said you wanted me inside you. That’s all I’m doing babes.” Even in your head he’s smug and deliciously torturous and you cry out again as you feel the tips of his fingers crashing into that spot deep within you, over and over and over again. You’re tightening up once more, hanging onto the feeling of being finger fucked when its all you can focus on, all that you can actually feel happening.

         You can feel yourself about to cum when suddenly you’re empty. “NO! Keigo you fucking bastard! I was so close!” You shout out to him, even though you know you won’t hear a response. You feel tears welling up in your eyes at the desperation you feel in your groin, you were so fucking close.

         Seeing this must stir something in your boyfriend though, because soon enough you feel the weeping head of his cock at your entrance. You wiggle as much as you can, your body ready and waiting for him. With no warning, he sheaths himself inside you completely, and you blissfully feel full again, the curve of his cock pressing into you just right, the vein on the right side scraping your walls amazingly.

         You can feel drool dripping down the side of your face as he pounds into you relentlessly, unable to form any completed thought much less coherent words. You can hear yourself mumbling and groaning out mixtures of praises and his name repeated like a chant. You feel his body shuddering against yours, the excitement and arousal you feel mirrored by him as he leans down and bites at your collarbones, marking you again and again as his, only his.

         You feel yourself clench down on his cock, your release sneaking up on you as his rhythm starts to become more irregular.

His pace gets quicker, your mouth dropped open in a silent scream as he frantically pounds into you with almost manic energy. You can feel him shuddering and you know he’s approaching his own end. You clench down on his dick, squeezing him to get him to release inside of you and he comes down with a final bite on the inside of your shoulder. You feel the warm liquid fill you inside, and it feels amazing, and good god how much of it there is. He must have been loving every second of teasing you and every second of pleasing your body.

         He pulls out slowly, kissing softly at the bite that you can feel pulsing and oozing a bit of blood. It feels so much emptier than it usually does, and you can’t help but whimper, you wouldn’t mind him just staying sheathed within you. You feel him murmuring against your skin, and you can feel the love from him in the care he takes with your shaking body, slowly bringing you back from your high and bringing you back into a world where you have all your senses back.

         He starts by cleaning up the mess between your thighs, the touch of the towel rough but relieving to you, the cum already cooling down and starting to stick uncomfortably on your skin. After that’s complete, he begins to untie the nots, with a gentleness so at odds from how hard he’d been pounding into you beforehand. He strokes your skin as he undoes the bondage, kissing your skin and making sure that he hadn’t cut off any blood flow, that you were perfectly safe.

         God how you much you loved him.

         After he was finished with that, he brings you into his arms, having you sit on his lap as he strokes your back. You squeeze his torso and stay pliant in his arms, feeling absolutely pampered and safe. There’s no better feeling than that, you think. He was right though, you do feel completely relaxed, some of the stress leaving your body.

         He lifts off one side of the noise cancelling muffs, and everything sounds so much louder, despite not having your hearing taken for very long.

         “You alright dove? You didn’t use the safe word, but you seemed pretty far gone for a moment.”

         You hum. “It felt amazing Keigo, but good lord, you’re such a tease you know that?”

         He chuckles softly at that. “I’m sorry but you look and feel so good when you’re all flustered and riled up. I love it.” All his motions are slow now, relaxed as he slowly gives you back all the senses you’d been missing; the other side of the muff coming off when he thinks you’ve had ample time to recover.

         When your blindfold comes off, you see his wrecked hair and red cheeks and you’re so grateful for the time you’ve gotten to spend with him during these trying times.

         You softly kiss him. “Bath time?”

         “Of course, Y/N. Let’s get us both cleaned up then love.” The two of you get up, holding hands, and you don’t let go even in the large bathtub until you actually have to, to get cleaned up.

         For the first time in a while, the two of you are both spent, relaxed and completely happy, and if there’s any better feeling in the world; you’d probably never find it.

[olivinesea]

Play it Right

a/n: I’m back! We’re in the single digit countdown to the end of this godforsaken school year aghhhh. So excited I can’t even tell you. Here’s some Hotch being sad but trying to be a good dad. ~3.3k

Hotch & Sean take Jack out for his birthday.

Memories of childhood were hard to come by, often only wisps of faded colors that he couldn’t completely resolve into images. There were light drenched afternoons with disembodied fingers pulling up blades of grass. Other partial scenes where dirt stained knees crawled into dark spaces where the world was cool and damp, following a trail of ants as they slowly dismantled some lifeless form. There was the sickened twist of fascination that accompanied the discovery, watching the way it was transformed from something into nothing with only the help of a few thousand tiny insects. Individually inconsequential in size, collectively a force of nature unstoppable as they reduced the abandoned shell into a small drift of feathers. The pale structure stirred and blown away easily by the air displaced when he reached down to take a single one. He dreamed about the ants coming to him, taking him away piece by piece until there was nothing left but traces of bone dust, dispersed by a midnight breeze. For any other child this would have been a nightmare but to him it was a promise. A promise of order and structure, an indication that time did in fact move forward and wasn’t trapped within stagnated pools hiding in the dim recesses of closets. That it wasn’t a continuous loop of threats and tears, of lies worn so smooth they slipped out of mouths unaware. It won’t happen again. He loves you. I love you.

It was far better to let his memories of childhood be lost. Easy enough to do with no one else who had been present at the time around to reinforce them with retelling. No one else to share with over a drink, bouncing stories back and forth, refreshing the dilapidated structures with a new coat of detail. As he let them dissolve they became defanged, passive enough to believe they were not even about him but possibly a story he’d once read and allowed to mingle with his reality. He had always been told he had a vivid imagination, maybe he could allow that to be true retroactively. It didn’t matter anymore anyway. He was still here and none of them were.

Except Sean.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose impatiently. They’d been waiting for Sean for at least half an hour. His brother, never punctual, was cutting it close once again. They were supposed to be taking Jack to the Mets game. Originally conceived by Sean, the idea was floated as a birthday gift for Jack’s tenth birthday—double digits, a big deal for any kid. Somehow this “gift” had become something Hotch had organized entirely, buying the tickets, getting Jack and himself to New York, filling in the rest of the weekend with kid-friendly activities. He’d made it so easy for Sean, all he had to do was show up and he wasn’t even getting that part right. He glanced at his watch again, resisting the urge to double check the time printed on the tickets. It was a baseball game, it wouldn’t be the end of the world if they missed the beginning.

He looked at Jack, sitting on the bench, fiddling with the laces of his glove. The glove was a hand-me-down of sorts. He had found it while helping clean out their parents’ house after their mother passed away. Sean swore it wasn’t his but it couldn’t be Hotch’s either, it was for someone right-handed. Plus, he couldn’t pull up any memories connected to it. He’d never been a team sport kind of kid. Too silent, too reserved to fit in with the loud boys who jostled each other playfully and banded together with unnecessary vitriol for the opposing teams. Hotch never understood team rivalries. Of all the many sources of hatred he’d learned, going to a different school didn’t make the list. It didn’t make any sense to create tension, to whip up emotions that had no basis. He knew enough of hate not to go looking for it where it didn’t need to exist.

Rather than argue with Sean about it, he’d taken the glove home and held on to it until Jack was big enough to use it. He wasn’t exactly sure why but he made up a story for it, weaving a collection of happy moments to accompany the time-softened leather. He told Jack the stories he felt he should have had, the kinds of stories fathers should tell their sons. He hadn’t bothered to do this when Jack was younger, hadn’t worried about his son’s perception of the past. But as Jack got older, as life took more and more away from him before he’d even had a chance to be aware of what he had, Hotch felt the need to give him pieces of a family history. He felt they should be stories that would make him feel normal, if that were at all possible with a life like this. Like he was any other kid with parents who were once kids themselves, chasing the same simple joys. He thought it might be comforting, I’ve known happiness and so can you.

Hotch would do anything to make Jack happy and even though it often made him crazy, this meant including Sean in their lives. His relationship with Sean had always been tense. There were several years after Haley’s death, after his absence in the aftermath, when things were beyond strained. Hotch, once he had surfaced enough to feel things, had burned with a white hot anger, tempting him to sever their tie permanently. It was an anger he didn’t trust himself with, strong enough to break through his control without a second’s notice. So he didn’t call, didn’t make the effort he knew was required to pull his brother back into his orbit. He never spoke of it of course but Jessica noticed. She heard Jack asking about his uncle, saw the muscle in Hotch’s jaw jump as he ground his teeth together to keep from saying something he shouldn’t. When she felt enough time had passed, she started to push him in little ways to reach out, to reconnect.

So he’d ended up here, once again, waiting for Sean, unsure if he’d even manage to remember his nephew’s birthday. Hotch was internally cursing his younger brother and considering leaving on the next train with or without him when the younger man appeared. He looked a little disheveled, hair sticking up in odd places, the shirt under his leather jacket not altogether clean. But he was smiling and calling their names, sweeping first Jack and then Hotch into a hug, almost certainly intending to irritate his brother with the uninvited contact. Hotch could smell the beer on his breath and gave him a sharp look. Sean shrugged it off and turned his attention to Jack.

“Alright kid, are you ready for this?” he ruffled the boy’s sandy blond hair as he asked. Jack grinned up at him, nodding his head a little too vigorously. Sean never failed to charm.

Hotch frowned at them. “Come on, let’s get going. We’re cutting it a little close.”

Sean scoffed and made a face at Jack, mimicking Hotch’s serious features, only to stick his tongue out and make Jack giggle. “Relax, it’ll be fine.” He punched Hotch’s shoulder, earning another glare, but they all started walking toward the platform. Hotch followed just half a step behind, keeping a close eye on Jack in the thickening crowd. He watched Sean weave confidently through people, happily becoming the lead adventurer. Hotch, who had regretted this from the moment he’d agreed, felt his stomach twisting on itself, anticipating what kind of unnecessary chaos Sean would lead them into today.

They made it to the ballpark without too much difficulty. With some shuffling, they arranged themselves in the hard stadium seats, Jack between the two men. This checked two boxes for Hotch—in the middle Jack was both protected and protecting him from being too close to his brother. If Sean had been a little tipsy when he’d shown up he could now be considered fully inebriated. He hadn’t stopped drinking beer since they got there. Hotch, already on edge, was exasperated by this behavior. However, his pointed glares got him nothing but a grin and a lifted glass waved in his direction.

Jack didn’t notice, just happy to see his Uncle Sean who was always so fun and wild. He was the only family of his dad’s that he had ever met so there was something extra special about this man, so different from his dad but somehow his nearest relative. Jack was chattering to him about kid things, filling Sean in on all the art projects and field trips and other critical moments of his life. He proudly showed off the glove, talking about how his dad told him of Sean’s skill as a baseball player and how he said he used to go watch his games and cheer him on.

Sean almost spit out beer he laughed so hard at this information. “You’re kidding. Is that the kind of BS your dad is feeding you?” He looked over at Hotch, who might have been trying to literally kill him with the look he was directing his way. “That damn glove was never mine and you know it Aaron.”

Unrelenting in his disapproval, Hotch shrugged slightly, “Maybe I have some of the details mixed up.”

“Details?” He looked back at Jack, “That glove was your dad’s and for some stupid reason he tried to throw it away one day and your grandpa kicked the shit out of him for it.”

“Sean!”

“What?” Sean was an expert at faking innocence. Jack was wide eyed, looking between the two adults, not understanding what was happening.

“Can I speak with you?” Hotch’s words were clipped, gritting them out between clenched teeth.

“Oooh Agent Hotchner, yessir,” Sean sat up straight, faking a snap to attention but the effect was lost as he swayed slightly. Hotch pressed lips together and grabbed Sean by the jacket shoulder, pulling him to his feet and pushing him out into the aisle.

“What are you thinking? Why would you say something like that?” Hotch tried not to raise his voice but he was barely succeeding.

“You think it’s better for him to believe in some bullshit you made up?” Sean spat back at him.

“Why not? I’m protecting him. He’s lived through enough, he deserves to have some happy stories.”

“So you lie to him,” Sean said, voice flat.

“It’s not lying.”

Sean wasn’t playing anymore, he was angry, every bit as angry as Hotch. His face was flushed from alcohol and emotion. He looked directly at Hotch, making sure his words sank in. “It is lying, just like you lied to me.”

“I never lied to you,” Hotch protested but the words barely made it out of his mouth.

Sean laughed meanly. “You lied to me every fucking day in that house Aaron. I saw everything, heard everything only for you to turn around and tell me it was all fine, that our dad was a good man.” He paused for a moment, looking down at his clenched fists. “I thought I was fucking crazy.”

“I just wanted to protect you.”

“Bullshit. You were being selfish, just like you are now. You think you can just change the facts and no one will know, that it won’t affect anyone else. I have bad news for you: we don’t all just exist in this world you made up in your head. Jack is a real person, I am a real person. Refusing to admit what was happening didn’t make it any less real, it just meant that I was alone with it. Just a little kid alone trying to understand why someone who was supposed to take care of me would hurt my brother and why, why my brother would lie about it. Did you think I was stupid?”

Hotch didn’t know how to respond, stunned by the bitterness of Sean’s words.

“I’m not going to sit around while you lie to someone else about our shitty father. What’s even the point of protecting him anymore?”

Hotch frowned, “I wanted you to have a normal life, a normal relationship with him. He liked you. I thought if I could keep that side of him away, you could have the kind of father I saw other kids have. I thought I could give you that.”

“You’re an arrogant bastard. Always have been.”

“Please, Sean,” he tried to find more words, some way to make Sean understand. He’d only ever wanted to keep him safe.  

“I won’t lie about this Aaron and you shouldn’t either, Jack’s going to learn everything someday, whether you like it or not. Do you want him to be able to come to you? Or do you want him to be afraid, afraid he can’t trust you to tell him the truth?”

Hotch hung his head. “I’m sorry Sean. I didn’t realize—”

Sean cut him off, “I’m done with this.” Clumsily he pulled something out of his pocket. “Here, give this to Jack, tell him I said happy birthday.”

Hotch wanted to ask him to stay but he’d already turned, walking up the stairs, grabbing the railing every once in a while to correct his balance. Hotch looked at the coin in his hand, a Kennedy half-dollar, remembered giving it to Sean on his tenth birthday. It was the same coin his father had given him when he turned 10, just before Sean was born. He remembered the time of his mother’s pregnancy as being particularly bad. His father had been careful with her, solicitous even, trying to ensure that this baby, this wanted baby, would make it safely into the world. But his temper hadn’t gone anywhere, he simply focused it all on Aaron. He'd had to miss a lot of school that fall.

But then, for no reason discernible to him, his father’s mood had shifted a couple months before the baby was due. He started coming home early, bringing gifts for both of them. Some were even wrapped (by the shop clerk no doubt, but wrapped). The glove had been one of these gifts. It hadn’t fit him right but he had said thank you and hoped he could keep this version of his dad around as long as possible. It lasted until Sean was about six months old. The first night his dad came home drunk and angry, yelling at his mom who just stood there holding Sean, too petrified to move away. Seeing that, the frailty and futility in his mother’s stance, he knew that he had to get in between them. He knew then he would do anything he could to protect his baby brother. Sean was the most perfect thing he had ever seen and he intended to keep it that way. He’d done what he could but all he really knew how to do was lie. It was all he’d ever been taught.

The glove became a nightmare that repeatedly came back to haunt him. His dad would go through fits of wanting to be a “normal family.” He would drag them out to the lake for picnics, would insist Aaron play catch with him in the yard. But he was never coordinated enough and it would always end with his dad frustrated and cursing him. When he was thirteen he started to experience overwhelming fits of anger. They came on suddenly, could be set off by anything. His vision would blur and he would feel a desperate need to lash out against the brutally indifferent world around him. During one of these fits, he threw the glove in the garbage, sick of being humiliated by it. Then, the emotion gone as quickly as it appeared, he promptly forgot about it.

Unfortunately, being an angry adolescent did not lead to the smartest decisions. His father found it in the trash and immediately went looking for his ungrateful son. He’d found him with Sean building tiny forts out of sticks in the back yard. Aaron hadn’t even had a chance to remember that he’d thrown the thing away before it was being used to leave marks on his exposed skin. Hotch wondered that Sean could even remember it, he had been so young. He wondered, too, how he could have forgotten, the sting of his failure to protect his brother from that knowledge making itself clearly felt now.

The coin, however, had been a treasured gift, inspiring him to begin a collection that he hid carefully in the back of a drawer. Something he could pull out and remind himself that there had been good moments. That he hadn’t just imagined them. Looking at his coins offered rare moments of peace in the continuous turbulence of the Hotchner household. When he was twenty and Sean only ten, Aaron had felt guilty for not being around as much. The kid had recently lost his father and was living with a quickly deteriorating mother. So he gave Sean the original half-dollar, hoping that his little brother would be able to find the same comfort in it, maybe even develop his own interest in the hobby. Unsurprisingly, coin collecting never caught on with Sean. He was too loud, too rough to spend hours inside, inspecting tiny characters and noticing slight variations in markings. Hotch had assumed Sean had lost the coin years ago, had even felt a little sad thinking about it being lost. Sean was many things but he never failed to surprise Hotch. He shook his head, clearing the lingering thoughts, needing to focus on what he was going to say to Jack. He turned to walk back to their seats.

Jack watched his approach over his shoulder, “Where’s Uncle Sean?”

“He wasn’t feeling well, he said to wish you happy birthday.”

“You made him leave,” Jack’s small face was contorted into an accusing scowl.

Hotch shook his head, ready to commit to this stretching of the truth but he stopped himself. “He was upset,” he started then paused. He really didn’t want to explain this story.

“Why?”

Hotch rubbed the coin with his thumb, “Well, he didn’t like the story I told you about the glove.”

“Why not?”

“It isn’t the truth and he thought that it was wrong of me to lie.”

Jack was quiet, thinking about this. Hotch waited patiently for him to process. “What’s the true story?”

He hesitated, “It’s not a very nice story Jack.”

“But it’s the truth?”

Hotch nodded, the muscles around his lungs constricting too tightly to speak. Jack looked too serious for a ten year old. “Then that’s the story I want to hear.”

A mix of emotion spread through him, partly anger at Sean for forcing his hand, but also pride in his son’s strength. He sighed, “And I’ll tell you, but not today ok buddy? Today is about you and about good memories.”

“Ok Dad but you have to promise.”

Hotch smiled, “I promise. Here, Uncle Sean wanted me to give you this, it’s your birthday gift.”

Jack took the offered object and looked closely, trying to figure out what it was. The metal was aged making the words hard to read through the patina. “It’s…old?”

Hotch laughed. “It is very old, you’re right.”

“What is it?”

“Well, do you want to hear the story of where it came from?”

“Only if it’s true,” Jack replied, a little smile revealing that he was teasing his dad. When had he gotten so mature?

“Of course, nothing but from now on,” Hotch held up his hand in mock solemnity. Without warning, Jack leaned over and wrapped his small arms as far as they would go around Hotch, pressing his face into his chest. Hotch hugged him back, thankful that despite everything, every stupid mistake and unforgivable failure, he had managed to get this one thing right.

[chidoroki]

..You already know what I’m gonna ramble on about, right? What’s got us manga readers feeling a little bit like this? Yeah.. I have words.

Yes, I’ll be chatting about possible future spoilers, so scroll past now if you wish, but if you frequently check the usual tpn tags anywhere today (or over the next few days), I’m sure you’ve become quite familiar with this guy already, so.. here we go.

Let me start off by saying that I was beyond excited when we first found out we were getting a second season to this series. Having read the manga, I had high hopes that the anime would do so well, given the first couple arcs that follow the escape from Grace Field. From the very beginning, most of us figured it would touch upon the demon forest, the B06-32 shelter, Goldy Pond and quite possibly Cuvitidala. Of course, that was before we learned that this season had an episode count of 11 and would include some anime-only scenes, so we started to have some doubts. The new opening threw us through a loop as well, as a bunch of us speculated exactly how much this season was going to cover in terms of story and what chapter it would end off on. I was still a bit skeptical, but I put some belief in thinking we might be able to at least reach Goldy Pond. The more I thought about how many chapters this season could adapt, I remembered that Fire Force (another shonen series that has its fair share between action scenes alongside some calm, lighthearted ones) managed to fit 90 chapters into it’s first season, which was a total 24eps. I then thought it was possible for TPN’s second season to reach ch96, or maybe even ch101, since the total ep count for both s1&s2 would be 23. The upcoming arcs (GP especially) are undoubtedly more fast paced than the entire first season, which was very dialogue heavy, so naturally these action scenes would take up less time and require fewer episodes to show off. I won’t bash the second season for leaving certain scenes out and/or changing them (as the first season did this as well, albeit less noticeable), but the obvious ones come to mind. The full snakes of alvapinera scene? It was good to see the escapees overcome their first outside world obstacle on their own, sure, but overall it isn’t too important. Isabella’s scene at the gate with Grandma Sarah? Disappointing yes, but I figured they could always include that sometime later in a future episode.. at least, that’s what I’m hoping for. I can forgive the anime for those changes at the moment.. but after what episode 3 decided to pull? Oh no.. now they’ve done it!

I’m sorry.. but who exactly thought this change was a good idea? The anime-onlys must think we’re going crazy right now but c’mon, CLOVERWORKS! Are y’all for real right now?? Yeah they never even announced his voice actor beforehand like they did with Sonju & Mujika before their debut, but damn it! Also, don’t take my word for this, as I only just heard and not completely sure about the credibility, but apparently after ep4, the rest of the season will be like.. original? And I’m not sure how to feel about that if it’s true? I’ll take whatever content we get because yes, I love this series to pieces and want it to last as long as possible, but after waiting almost a full two years to see these wonderful kids animated again.. I just wanna continue on with the story we all know and love, darn it. I know Shirai is overlooking this season and giving his approval or whatever too, so that’s comforting at least.. but still, I just wish we knew this a little sooner, rather than have us find out this way by cutting out one of the most anticipated characters of this entire series! (for the time being anyways.)

Yeah we didn’t see him this episode, but he’s around.. somewhere. No one else is around to write on the walls like that, let alone get into the shelter without a pen. (i also noticed it doesn’t say “poachers” anywhere, so that’s a bit odd too..)

I just hope that whenever our man does show up, whether it be this season or not, that it follows the manga because his introduction is fantastic and his interactions with the kids are so amusing. Honestly, he’s too important to cut out entirely. The same goes for the Goldy Pond arc, which I saw some others worried about too. It’s at Goldy Pond (ch73) where Emma and another man, who we’re also anxious to meet, both find out about how to cross over to the human world via the four premium farms, the supporters, and project lambda7214.

I also saw some people concerned about Mujika’s goodbye to Emma this episode and how upon giving her the necklace, our demon friend didn’t hint at The Seven Walls at all, which is why Goldy Pond suddenly becomes that more important for us to see because it’s also there where the place is mentioned, not only by the many secret files from the pen’s cap, but from Minvera himself (ch72).

Come on now, Goldy Pond arc also does wonder for Emma’s character and appearance. It’s here where we see just how serious she is about changing the world and saving everyone she possibly can. Even if she has to fight crazy, killing poachers, she’ll do it. (also one of those poachers becomes very helpful much later in the story, so there, yet another reason we can’t skip this arc.) Though this all gets me wondering if GP will still get blown up on Jan 29th.. oh season two, you raise so many questions.

Now, could this season completely change some of those scenes even further? Of course, they’ve already done so with other bits of information. Ray figuring out the demon’s weakness in ch62 during the trip to Goldy Pond? Sonju already explained it.

The letter from Minvera that we learn about in ch56 which was originally hidden in one of the manuscripts from the shelter’s archive room? Conveniently pinned to the wall in plain sight!

I didn’t notice this when I first watched the episode but remembered just now while skimming through the manga yet again, but the episode didn’t have Gilda list off the coordinates to Goldy Pond that Minerva noted in his letter.

So how will the duo find their way there? Well, you already know.. and since GP is such an important arc, that’s another reason I believe our beloved man will show up.... eventually.

Going back to the changes now, but it’s Dominic who reveals the secret room behind the piano instead of our favorite father figure.

Although this room, which is supposed to be a full stocked armory, is completely bare..

Like.. hello? Where are all the weapons?? Are they gonna make these kids go out and raid a bunch of the other fake/dummy shelters for weapons or something? which.. actually sounds interesting and fun now that I think about it.

I also noticed that the conversation about the mass-production farms Sonju mentioned back in ch50 was also cut, but I can see the anime easily adapting it into a future episode somewhere, since said farms are mentioned again in ch56, courtesy of the shelter’s many books.

For now it just seems.. I don’t know, a bit easier? like I recently spoke about how Ray had to figure out how the pen worked in terms of coordinates and yet the anime just had the pen show a simple map, then Sonju flat out told them how to efficiently kill a demon, and the phone that allows them to contact the supporters? Oh, they found that instantly, whereas geezer had no idea such a room even existed in those 13 years he lived at the shelter..

Have I spoke too much by now? Probably. None of the changes bother me too much, aside from the geezer’s obvious absence, but I’m still looking forward to the rest of this season, as I’m sure it’ll give more spotlight to some of the other kids aside from Emma and Ray. Season one just did so well with sticking to the manga that I guess we all got caught way off guard, huh?

[demetriandelibinaryboyfriends]

Do you think that Hawk going violet will happen in a big emotional time? Like he's feeling like he's still a Cobra and gets confused and wants to leave Miyagi-fang (?) but something happens and he realizes that he's not a Cobra.

YESSSS this would be great!!!

Like I’m imagining Hawk feeling pretty conflicted because it’s been several weeks and STILL no one in the dojo really seems to like or trust him aside from Demetri and Miguel. Like even Mitch and Bert are wary of him, having seen firsthand how far under Kreese’s influence he ended up falling--and perhaps they’re a little jealous too, since he got to stay in Cobra Kai while they were both booted out. Johnny is glad to have Hawk back in his class, but he still can’t help but be a little angry with him for choosing Kreese over him initially--he knows HE’S the one who toughened Hawk up, not Kreese, and he can’t help but remember how readily Hawk dismissed him at first.

Maybe word gets out about Hawk trashing the Miyagi-Do dojo the previous summer--perhaps Miguel confides in Sam about it, and Sam, in a moment of hotheaded weakness, storms out into the dojo courtyard and confronts Hawk. I dunno if she would be mean enough to yell at him in front of everyone, but people almost certainly overhear regardless--and when it gets back to Daniel, ohhh boy. Hawk and Daniel were warming up to one another, and Daniel was even trying to help Hawk through some of his anger issues--but once he finds out that Hawk stole Mr. Miyagi’s medal of honor, all bets are off. (At least for now--Daniel has a way of coming around. But Hawk sure as hell doesn’t know that.)

After the whispers about what Hawk did the previous summer start spreading around the dojo, people avoid him even more. People look at him like he’s even more of a monster. Daniel doesn’t interact with him any more than is absolutely necessary. Hawk apologizes, of course--tries to channel as much emotion into it as he can so people know it’s genuine. But no one seems to believe him, and he can’t help but be confused about what else he’s supposed to do. Apologies for him have always been a one-and-done deal, and he’s not sure why everyone else isn’t accepting it like Demetri was. He doesn’t know what else to do to communicate he’s serious.

Demetri and Miguel both vouch for him, of course. Demetri especially--he’s used to getting across what Eli’s trying to communicate, attuned from years of practically being Eli’s voice. Demetri never wants to leave Hawk’s side, standing centimeters apart from him at karate practice and swinging a protective arm around him to squeeze his shoulder whenever people shoot Hawk suspicious looks. Despite his friends’ efforts, Hawk is miserable--he feels like he’s under the worst kind of microscope, and no matter what he does, no one is going to trust him.

He feels guilty about it, but he finds himself longing for his Cobra Kai days. How he was respected, feared, celebrated for his strength and his fighting skills and his ruthlessness. Now, it feels like everyone flinches at them--even Miguel and Demetri, on occasion. He just isn’t admired--just isn’t appreciated--like he used to be, no matter how much Demetri tries to reassure him. “I know they’ll trust you eventually. It’ll just take time!”

Hawk isn’t sure they’re ever going to trust him.

Sometimes he wonders if he should go back to Cobra Kai, regain the fame and the prowess and the fear of everyone who dared to cross him. He’d take Miguel and Demetri, of course--he can’t bear to be pitted against either of them ever again. But a bit of intensive training on the side for both of them, and he’s sure they could make it in Kreese’s Cobra Kai. They’re both incredibly skilled fighters, and the thought of the three of them becoming the three most intimidating fighters in the Valley is oddly cathartic to Hawk. The three most pathetic losers in the school, risen to great heights to be terrifying warriors who people were scared to so much as breathe wrong around. Demetri will come, Hawk is sure--Demetri would follow him anywhere, as long as he gets Hawk’s word that Hawk will never turn on him again. And Miguel...well, it might take some convincing to get him to leave the LaRusso girl, but if Demetri comes, Miguel will surely want to be with his two best friends more than his annoying girlfriend.

Hawk is walking home one day from karate training (a training that Demetri never showed up to--a bit odd, but Hawk figures he must have just called out because he had a lot of AP homework), thinking about how best to try and loop Miguel and Demetri into extra training, when his phone rings. He picks up, and it’s Miguel--panicked, hyperventilating, voice cracking like he’s been crying, rushing words out through raspy breaths. He’s hard to understand, talking fast with his voice choked with sobs, but Hawk makes out something about “Demetri” and “an ambush near the park.”

Hawk is at the location in minutes, sprinting there at top speed despite running never being his forte (Demetri was always the faster one between them). Demetri is lying motionless on the cement, passed out with his flannel slowly soaking through with blood. Hawk runs to him in a hysteria, screaming and crying and begging for him to be okay.

While Miguel calls an ambulance, Hawk is frantically looking over Demetri, trying to figure out where all that blood is coming from. No amount of punches and kicks could draw out that amount of blood. Then he lifts up Demetri’s shirt, and lets out a strangled whimper.

The Cobras are fighting with knives now, apparently. And someone--probably Kyler--carved “COBRA KAI NEVER DIES” across Demetri’s back.

And Hawk can’t stop crying because he knows this is his fault. There’s only one reason the Cobras would target Demetri--he was the reason for their latest deserter, and they knew that.

Or maybe he had simply been someone from a rival dojo in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe the Cobras were just those kinds of people.

Because it was never strength and power that Kreese cared about--it was war. Using dojo rivalries as an excuse to get away with hurting people because he enjoyed it. Because them being on the “opposite side” made it seem justified, somewhere in his twisted mind.

The doctors have to practically drag Eli out of Demetri’s hospital room. Luckily they’re able to at least reassure Eli that Demetri is going to be okay--it’s the only way to get him to leave. There are more knife wounds that he didn’t see at first, but they didn’t hit anything vital--thank god. Demetri’s lost a fair bit of blood, but he’ll be all right.

The text scrawled across his back most likely won’t scar, if Demetri cares for the wound properly. And that’s enough for Eli--he knows how meticulous Demetri is. He’ll get through it.

Still, the red stains on Demetri’s shirt and the dark cuts slicing through his skin are seared in Eli’s mind as he drives home. When he gets in the shower that night, he thinks of the words carved into Demetri’s back and his lips curl up in a snarl. He grabs a bottle of bleach, emptying the entire contents onto his limp scarlet hair.

Hawk bleaches and bleaches until the shower is a mess and the entire bathroom smells of cleaning products and every trace of the distinctive Cobra Kai red is completely annihilated. Cobra Kai never dies? Bullshit--they’re dead to him.

His eyes trail to a bottle of hair dye on the top shelf of the shower rack, and he grins. He’s been toying with the idea for a while now, but now...he’s never been more certain in his life. With the red gone, and Cobra Kai truly behind him...it’s time.

When Demetri wakes up in the hospital the next day. The first thing he sees is a jagged purple shape clouding his vision--hair, he realizes. “Who are you?” he mumbles.

“Come on, Deme, how many people do you know with a goddamn mohawk?” a familiar voice says.

His eyes focus to find Eli smirking at him, hair up in deep violet spikes. His hand feels warm, and he looks down to see Eli’s holding it.

Demetri hopes his blush isn’t too visible.

“Holy shit, dude.” Demetri can’t help but grin. “You look great. Why the change?”

“After seeing what they did to you, I couldn’t...do a Cobra Kai color anymore.” Eli bites his lip. “And it just reminded me of all the awful stuff I did there, too. But uh...you know how Sensei LaRusso is always talking about balance?” Demetri just nods.

“I guess I thought I needed something like that. Like I want to be cool and intimidating and kick ass, like Sensei Lawrence and Miguel. But I also want to be all...I dunno...rational and wise and moral and shit, like you and Sensei LaRusso. And Eagle Fang’s got the red thing, and Miyagi-Do’s got the blue thing, so I was like...maybe I should mix them? For balance?”

“Ohhhhh!” And here comes Demetri’s shit-eating grin. Hawk isn’t sure why he expected any different. “You think I’m ‘rational and wise and moral and shit,’ Eli? I thought you thought I was a ‘lame nerd!’”

Eli just rolls his eyes. “God, shut up. You can be both.”

“Also, are you going to stop holding my hand?”

“No.”

Demetri just snickers and leans back, enjoying the sensation of Eli’s fingers between his.

“I was thinking about leaving, you know,” Eli admits quietly, after a beat.

Demetri sits up, staring at him in shock. “What?”

“I didn’t feel like I belonged,” he explained. “I didn’t feel like anyone wanted me there, after everything I’d done. No one but you believed me when I said sorry. I thought maybe I’d be happy if I went back to Cobra Kai, took you and Miguel with me so I wouldn’t have to fight you and we could all become strong together without...without everyone looking at me like I was evil. But now? I never want anything to do with those assholes ever again. Not after they hurt you like that.”

Demetri looks at Eli so softly that Eli thinks he might melt. Then Demetri breaks out in another huge smirk. “Awww, you were going to try and bring me back to your evil karate cult with you? How thoughtful of you!”

“Oh my god, shut up. Yes, I think you would’ve been good enough to survive in there. Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Also, are you still holding my hand?”

“Maybe I am. Mind your business.”

When Demetri takes said hand and uses it to yank Eli forward and kiss him full on the mouth, Eli isn’t about to complain. 

When they pull apart, Demetri is a spluttering mess, quickly apologizing and insisting he wasn’t thinking. Eli just laughs, and pulls him forward by the neck so their foreheads are pressed together. “God, I’ve wanted that for so long, Demetri. Don’t you dare apologize for it.”

A short pause. “I know it’s been hard for you,” Demetri adds quietly. “At the dojo. But you have to believe me when I say they’ll come around. I know you’re a good person, Miguel knows, and everyone else will realize it too. It’s just going to take some time. But you’ll figure out how to make it up to them. I believe in you.”

“Okay.” Hawk closes his eyes and exhales slowly, letting himself relax. “As long as I’m with you, it’ll be fine.”