#so my apologies for the myriad of things i probably got wrong

[antilocaprine]

For the kiss prompt: frenrey, 19? 🥺

(Kiss Prompt List)

This might be the shortest length of time between getting the ask and posting the prompt fill so far. Go team.

19. ...for luck.

Most of the patrons had cleared out of the casino, but Gordon still checked under the tables as he sauntered through the card room. Alarms were ringing on the floor below where Dr. Coomer and Bubby had the cutter set up, drilling through the main safe door. He’d left Tommy glaring at a slot machine, and Benrey was clearing the next room over.

Gordon shook his head. He still didn’t know where Benrey had come from, but Darnold was able to hook him into their radio channel nearly instantly, so he must have had the right earpieces and shit ahead of time. They’d been careful in the lead-up, but technically, Benrey was around back when they were making vague plans to rob banks if they ever got out of Black Mesa alive. Maybe he’d been talking to someone else in the Science Team. Tommy had been looking around a lot before the heist - Gordon thought he was just being cautious, but maybe he’d been looking for Benrey.

And speak of the devil…

“Yo, you wanna play?”

Gordon glanced over. Benrey was idly spinning a roulette wheel.

“Sure,” Gordon said indulgently. They had time. He waved a blue-gloved hand at Benrey. “Red.”

“Huh?”

“Red?” Gordon raised his eyebrows. “I’m betting it’ll land on red?”

“What will?”

“Jesus,” Gordon growled. “Do you even know how to play that?”

Benrey looked down at the wheel. “This? Yeah, sure, you just…” He jerked his hand and the wheel spun wildly, colored bands flashing until it slowed to a stop.

“Nice,” Benrey said.

“That was - nothing happened. You just spun the wheel, there’s nothing there.”

“Yeah? And I had fun, soooo what’s your problem?”

Gordon threw up his hands, even though one was holding an AMCAR. “Fuck it, fine, whatever. You do you, man.”

Benrey muttered something too quiet for Gordon to hear, then his head snapped up and he raised the flamethrower. Gordon whipped around and fired a shot off at the dark-suited casino security guard before Benrey could reach him with the flames.

“Nice.”

“Thanks,” Gordon chuckled, ears ringing a bit as he propped the stock of the gun against his hip. “Just trying to keep you from committing fratricide or whatever.”

“Huh?”

“They’re security guards, you’re a security guard…”

Benrey nodded. “Cannibalism,” he said.

Gordon snorted. “What? Are you eating them?”

“No? Gross.”

“Then it’s not cannibalism, that’s only if you eat them. Although,” he tilted his head. “Would it even be cannibalism? They’re human, and you’re…uh…”

“Not,” Benrey said helpfully.

“Yeah, exactly.”

“So it’s cool to eat them?”

“Yeah,” Gordon said, then his brain caught up with the conversation and he blanched. “Wait - no! No, don’t eat people, that’s fucking weird, don’t do it.”

“Uh…okay.” Benrey gave him a shifty look, and Gordon decided he should drop this topic before he learned something he didn’t want to know.

“Hey, look, craps!” he said overly brightly, hoping Benrey would take the distraction. “I’ve played this!”

Benrey followed him over to the craps table, eyeing the lines and numbers on the green fabric. Gordon scrabbled through the scattered chips left by panicked patrons until he came up with the red dice. He shoved the rest of the chips out of the way and raised his fist, rattling the dice inside.

He had only ever played craps on dates, so it was some kind of muscle memory that had him holding his fist out toward Benrey, who regarded it with bemusement.

“For luck,” Gordon said, just as he realized Benrey had no fucking idea what he was supposed to do. He opened his mouth to tell him to blow on Gordon’s fist, but then froze. Benrey had leaned forward and placed a smacking kiss to the back of his curled fingers, his lips warm and scratching slightly against the nitrile gloves. Gordon’s breath caught and he stared blankly at Benrey, who straightened up and gave him a level stare.

“Well?”

“Uh - I, uh - yeah, okay,” Gordon stuttered, feeling heat crawl across his cheeks and up his neck. He fixed his eyes on the table and tossed the dice, which bounced across the green and came to rest with matching numbers up. Gordon’s stomach sank, even though nothing was actually at stake.

“Oh, whoa, nice job,” Benrey said. 

“What - why is that a nice job? It’s snake eyes.”

Benrey shrugged. “One is…number one, so two ones is like…the best, right? First place.”

Gordon stared at him for a moment, then decided that explaining the rules wasn’t worth it. “Sure, man,” he sighed.

“We’re number one,” Benrey said blandly, and Gordon snorted.

“We sure fucking are, buddy. C’mon, let’s go see if they’ve got the safe open yet.”

Gordon didn’t even think about it before reaching out and snagging Benrey’s free hand to drag him out of the room. Fucking muscle memory. He was never going back to a casino after this. 

Benrey didn’t seem to mind, at least. He clasped his palm to Gordon’s, tangled their fingers together, and trotted to keep up with Gordon’s longer stride. “What kinda game was that, again?”

“That was craps,” Gordon replied, and didn’t notice Benrey’s quiet snort. They’d just rounded the last row of slot machines, where Tommy was standing ankle-deep in a pile of quarters. “Holy shit, dude, you’re making bank!”

“Yeah, it’s actually really easy, Mr. Freeman,” Tommy said brightly. “You just have to turn, um, match the pictures.”

Gordon looked more closely at the slot machine and realized that the glass front had been smashed and the rollers manually turned to display three lemons. One of the rollers twitched spasmodically, like mechanical death throes.

“Good, uh - good job, Tommy,” he said.

Tommy bent down to grab a double fistful of quarters and stuff them into his pockets. “Where have you guys been?”

“We were crapping,” Benrey said immediately.

“PLAYING - we were playing craps,” Gordon said loudly. Tommy straightened up and raised his eyebrows, his eyes flickering down to their still-joined hands, which made Gordon remember he was holding Benrey’s hand. He yanked out of Benrey’s grip and readjusted his gun self-consciously.

Tommy, wisely, didn’t comment. “Were you, um, did you win?”

“We’re number one,” Benrey replied, and Gordon chuckled a little hysterically.

“Yep, yeah, we - we’re number one. Twice, even.”

“That’s right,” Benrey grinned.

Then something exploded downstairs and Dr. Coomer bellowed gleefully. A new alarm started screaming, and there was no more time for playing games. They took off down the closest staircase, Tommy’s pants jingling with every step and Benrey sending jets of flame over the banisters at shouting guards. And Gordon shoved all thoughts of holding Benrey’s hand and feeling his lips on Gordon’s fingers deep into a box in the back of his mind to deal with later.

They had a heist to complete.

[cmthingssss]

Freudian Slip - Emily Prentiss X Reader (slight former Penelope Garcia x Reader)

A/N: Listen all, my writing is cringe, but idrc because me and my friends like it, and if y’all like it, I love y’all <3<3. Also, this is a WIP that I probably won’t finish because I have no motivation to write smut right now (in kinktober too) smh 

Summary: New to the BAU and FBI in general, you find yourself infatuated with one Emily Prentiss, an older woman who coincidentally happened to be your boss. After she learns of your past experiences with Penelope, Emily becomes ecstatic to finally get what she’s been craving. 

  WC: 1444

Fresh out of the academy, you had by some miracle gotten a job at the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI. When you interviewed it was with a crusty old man with no relation because of “internal politics” or something, you weren’t really listening. He seemed to like you, in more ways than one. Too bad you played softball in college, AKA you were uber gay. On your first day, you got to meet with the team and damn… you weren’t aware that a major requirement for the job was to be hot, like model hot. The Unit Chief, Emily Prentiss you think, was the hottest of them all. Besides, everyone knew you had a thing for older women, and they weren’t wrong.

For the rest of the day and well into your first case, Emily, no, Chief Prentiss she told you, monitored you heavily. The other woman Jennifer, had taken almost a maternal role with you, and it seemed to bother Emily slightly, or maybe you were being delusional. Probably that. It felt as though she didn’t trust you or welcome your presence into her team. You were determined to warm up to her no matter what it took, and you were willing to do a lot of things you weren’t exactly proud to admit. Emily… Chief Prentiss didn’t even acknowledge you unless you were making mistakes. You brought her coffee everyday for a week? Something was always wrong with it and she threw it in the garbage. Baked her banana bread? Apparently she was allergic, even though you witnessed her eat one on the previous case. Even when the team would have a group outing and you bought everyone’s drinks, Emily would pay for her own. That’s what confused you the most, you just wanted her to like you, but she seemed to loathe you. You resorted to giving her a myriad of compliments, which she typically didn’t respond to. Recently, you’d begun thinking about Emily outside of work, and the thinking turned into fantasies which typically ended with you on all fours and Emily railing the shit out of you. It also may have involved your not-so-secret mommy kink. Those thoughts plagued your mind, even when you were awake now, every time you looked at your… much older boss, you began replaying those fantasies. After being ignored again, you tried to go back to the compliment route. 

“You look amazing mom-mily…” SHIT. The topic of your most recent sexual fantasies just slipped out of your mouth without a second thought. 

“What did you say, agent?” Emily definitely heard you and had to use every ounce of control she possessed to not blush. 

“Emily. I said Emily.” You proclaim as the tips of your ears burn in embarrassment. 

“Wrong again Agent L/N. For the last time, it’s Unit Chief Prentiss.” She looked at you with fury in her gaze, and as much as you hate to admit it, that slightly turned you on.

Embarrassed now, you mumble an apology and walk to the SUV without another word. As soon as you exited the precinct, the profilers in Emily’s vicinity started howling with laughter. 

Reid was the first to speak up, “And that is what you call a Freudian slip.” Followed by a quick slap on the head with a folder of paperwork from Morgan who also began cracking jokes. 

“Enough you guys. Y/N/N didn’t mean anything by it, maybe it was an accident.” Emily stared daggers at her team from across the table. 

“First of all, Y/N/N? We’re doing nicknames now? Secondly, they did tell me they had a thing for older women. Ask Garcia, they hooked up once.” Everyone’s jaws dropped including Emily’s. Morgan looked as if he had dropped the most obvious information in the world.

Garcia had accompanied the team on this case and had walked in the moment she heard her name, but she was bewildered. “Hooked up with who??” 

“Y/N. That’s who. When were you going to enlighten the rest of us?” Emily inquired, attempting to hide her anger. 

Penelope’s face enlightened with knowing. “Ohhhh, yeah, we were really good friends in college, before I worked here.” Garcia coughed, “It might’ve also happened after, but that’s none of your business.” 

The entire team once again burst into laughter. “WHAT?! I mean… Garcia, that's unprofessional and you need to end it.” Now Emily was the one with linguistic turmoil. She had no response to your utter lack of professionalism and thought that maybe you weren’t as cut out for the job as others thought. She’d have to have a private, disciplinary meeting with you for this. 

Meanwhile, you were sitting in the SUV awaiting whatever punishment Unit Chief Prentiss had concocted for you. You had been waiting an upwards of fifteen minutes and were getting rather bored, so you decided to pull out your phone to doom scroll. A few moments pass, and your attention gets captured by a 5 Minute Crafts-esqe video. You become so enchanted that you tune out anything happening outside the SUV, which causes you to miss the fact that Emily was angrily stomping towards the SUV, and had already entered before you noticed her presence. At the sudden intrusion of your personal space, you gasped. She then snatched your phone out of your hand. 

“Emily… excuse me, Unit Chief Prentiss. What the actual fuck is wrong with you.” You said as calmly as possible with annoyance laced into your tone. You reach for your phone back when she throws it in the back seat. 

All of a sudden she got super serious, and your eyes were trained on her face trying to decipher what was happening, “Y/N we need to talk… about your extreme lack of unprofessionalism.” 

“HUH? I’m gonna need you to explain to me how I’ve been unprofessional on this case. If anyone was unprofessional, it’s you. I’m a new agent and you’re supposed to be my mentor and boss, but you’ve done nothing but demean me ever since we met, and I still put up with it every day. Do you not think I’m tired of it? I can be a bitch, rude, blunt, but unprofessional is not one of them, so you need to take a long look in the mirror because if anyone is at fault for unprofessionalism, it’s you.” You take a few deep breaths to calm yourself before looking to her for a response. 

“I’m sorry Y/N/N, I shouldn't have been treating you like that. And I shouldn’t have been so upset about you hooking up with Penelope. It’s really because I think I have feelings for you and that’s extremely inappropriate on my part and I completely understand if you don’t feel the same way.” She actually just apologized to you, and she looks genuine, you’re not sure how to take it. 

“Well, you're just full of surprises aren’t you?” Well, there goes the vulnerability and rapport from that conversation. “Sorry, I’m not good with feelings, and since we’re being honest here, I’ve fantasized about you for weeks, which is why I’ve been desperate to please you.” 

Emily’s brows shot up at your word choice, but then she was emboldened by the comment Morgan made earlier. “Eager to please huh? We’ll see about that. I have so many things I want to do to you, but we can’t in a federally owned vehicle.” She let out a dark chuckle.

You attempted to hide your giddiness at her words, opting to nod wordlessly and allow her to take you wherever she needed. She sensed the tension that overtook your body at her admission of attraction for you, so she reached over and placed her hand on your thigh to calm you down. “You need to relax sweetheart. I’m not going to bite, unless you ask me to.” With that, you relaxed under her touch and laughed along with her. Emily began the drive to the hotel, the rest of the team in tow. You reached up and turned on the scanner to ensure that even though you were about to have the most amazing sex of your life, you needed to be vigilant about the job you came to do. 

After a short drive, you arrived at the hotel and muted the scanner. “So… where do we go from here?,” you asked nervously. Emily leaned over the console and placed her hand on your cheek lovingly. 

“We can start by going inside… whatever happens after is up to you.” You nod in agreement before getting out of the SUV and going to check in to the hotel. 

[cloudcountry]

SUMMARY: adeline looks on as you and her brother fumble around each other.

COMMENTS: eiland....silly..........eeiland....................prettyy <333333 there is a reference to cinderella but reader is not implied fem!aligned

You’re listening intently as Adeline rattles off a myriad of statistics concerning Mistria’s economy. The tea before you has long grown cold, having been poured at the start of this long winded discussion. You chip in when needed, taking note of any materials she politely asks you to gather, such as wood and stone and metal. You’re used to it by now, having upgraded the General Store, restored the Mill, and even provided the materials for Hayden’s new barn. As far as you’re concerned, it's the same old song and dance, and you’re all too happy to oblige.

The sun dips beneath the horizon and Adeline’s pen finally clicks, her frantic note taking over for today. She still does a once over of all her paperwork, no doubt preparing to reread it in the morning to make sure it still makes sense. You gulp down the rest of your tea, not wanting to waste it, and you feel yourself regain some stamina you lost while hacking away at trees earlier that day.

“I’m so sorry for keeping you so long, it’s eight already!” Adeline apologizes, pressing a gentle hand to your back and she escorts you to the door to her study, “I’ll let you get home now! I’m sure you still have many things to attend to.”

You’re seconds away from telling her that, while you are busy, it’s your job to be busy, and that since your labor is helping this town grow, you’d put your all into it—

But then Adeline opens the door, and you see her brother at the piano.

Eiland.

Your heart jumps and lodges itself in your throat, a wave of nausea crashing over you.

It’s literally his house! Of course you were going to see him!

He turns to face you (and you probably look as disastrous as you feel, but he still smiles and says your name, greeting you so kindly like you aren’t about to have a panic attack in the middle of his super nice house.)

“I have to move my horses!” you say in a rush, scrambling out of Adeline’s hold as you make a break for the door.

You can't stay! If you do, it'd be obvious how you feel and under no circumstances can you allow that!

“Wait!” Eiland calls, distressed, “Don’t you want to stay for—?”

The door slams shut behind you as you run down the steps, lost in the night, and Eiland can’t help but think of that fairytale of the girl who fled from her prince so close to midnight.

“...dinner.” Eiland trails off, frowning.

Adeline looks between the door and her brother, a large grin spreading across her face as she puts the pieces together.

“Hmm, I wonder what that was about.” she chuckles lightheartedly, “You know, the farmer doesn’t have any horses yet from what I’ve heard. Makes you wonder why they got so nervous!”

Eiland’s pout only gets worse.

“So...they’re avoiding me.” he huffs, running a hand through his hair, “Did I do something wrong?”

“Oh, I don’t think it’s anything like that.” Adeline giggles again, and Eiland sighs.

“Maybe they’ll want to see me tomorrow.” Eiland muses, resting his chin on his hand, “If I send them a letter about the armor...maybe we could talk then...”

Adeline watches her brother fondly as he drags his feet to his room, looking more discouraged than she’s ever seen him in her life.

This, too, shall pass. Adeline knows that much.

She opens the doors to the dining room with a conspiring smile on her face and a skip in her step.

[fandomshatepeopleofcolor]

seeing ayo edebiri get backlash over her comments about jlo is frustrating. It's like the Rachel Zegler/Snow White discourse all over again

ok so sorry this took me a few days to get to. I have been mercifully in a bubble of my home life and work.

so for those like me that didn't know here's the full story

Like to me... its hard to really blame Ayo but I think the treatment that Ayo is MUCH worse than the treatment that Rachel Zegler got tbh. And I'll tell you why.

First of all Rachel Zegler... lets face it she's benefitting from being a light skinned latina. and it shows in a myriad of ways. Like the fact that instead of casting a darkskinned actress for Maria to update West Side Story Rachel got the part instead and she could be like twins with Natalie wood

(also trigger warning I'm very sorry but that gif of natalie wood is literally from a movie that uses the g slur in its title)

And like I know that the white supremacists have been having a field day with Rachel over some stupid comments that didn't offend anyone. But she still has a much bigger footprint in movies than Ayo does. (and Rachel's 6 years younger than Ayo so even though Ayo is an award winner she's still probably not earning as much as Rachel)

Which is frankly bullshit.

If you read the article I linked above they literally referenced Ayo's comments on JLo in a skit!!! They didn't just make her apologize they laughed at her for daring to say what lots of people say about Jlo anyways.

its the whole "oh a black woman exisiting and speaking her mind is a threat to a lightskinned woman."

Like don't get me wrong I've been a fan of Jlo's for literally decades (saw her in Selena in theaters). but I truly don't think that what Ayo said was in poor taste. Jlo's vocals are not great. and she profitted from a highly specific type of song. one that was pioneered by Mariah Carey. (the whole pairing a singer with a rapper was literally Mariah's thing but JLo got popular off of it first).

I'm just... doubly tired. First i'm tired about the fact that Ayo's success is being ruined by some 4 year old comments. Second JLo is filthy rich she sang at Biden's Inauguration. She sang at the superbowl. She does not need to be apologized to by a Black woman. You don't need to rake Ayo over the coals over this shit. but yes to answer your comparison woc are hyperscrutinized in media and white ppl get to run their mouths without consequences.

/end rant

mod ali

[arkon-z]

The inspiration fairy has visited me, and the result is a scene from Hidden in Shadow that I now want to share. Purah and Robbie are reflecting on their recent adventures in a Goron mine.

Somehow, amidst the shouting and laugher, Robbie noticed that Purah had disappeared. It wasn't like her to vanish at the start of a party. He saw Impa speaking amiably with the elders, and slipped away before anyone drew him into conversation. Hopefully, no one would notice his absence for a little while.

He found her not far from the main entrance to the chamber. She sat against the cliff wall, deep in thought.

"Hey P."

Purah glanced up at his voice, but her expression didn't change.

"Hi."

There was no emotion in her voice, and he knew it was serious, whatever it was. He sat down next to her.

"So, what happened?" he asked.

"Don't worry about it. It doesn't affect you."

"It's affecting you, though."

"Yeah." She gave a pained half-smile. "But I'm fine. I just need to think."

He frowned. "If you were fine, you'd be back in there enjoying the party. You never need time to think."

"Yeah, that's my whole problem," she said, scowling. "Not thinking. Like an idiot."

Now they were getting somewhere. "I don't think you're an idiot."

A myriad of emotions crossed Purah's face before she returned her gaze to the ground.

"I know," she sighed. "Look, it's nothing you did, okay? We don't have to talk about it."

"Right, I get it." He prepared to stand. "You probably want to talk to Impa instead."

"No!"

He froze at her cry. There was a flash of fear on her face before she looked away.

"I mean, I don't want to involve her. it's just…"

Robbie moved a little closer. "P, you can tell me anything. You know that. And it couldn't hurt to get this out of your chest."

Purah nodded. Several seconds of silence passed.

"…I screwed up,' she said, softly. "She got hurt because I thought I knew better. I should've listened to you both, but I had to be the smartest one in the room and try my stupid plan."

So that's what this was about. "Hey, it's okay-"

"No it's not! She almost lost her arm because of me! Gods, what the hell is my problem? Why can't I just think things through for once? I'm always screwing up because I won't slow down! What if the next time is worse? What if-"

"Purah!" snapped Robbie, shaking her shoulder. "Get a grip! You can't tear yourself apart over this."

She jerked herself away. "Why shouldn't I? I screwed up!"

"But you're losing yourself in it!" He shifted to look her in the eyes. "Look, you made a mistake. But you know what you did wrong, you apologized, and you're not going to do it again if you can help it, right?"

She gave a sardonic laugh. "I guess."

He leaned in. "And you're not going to dwell on this anymore, because then you'll be useless for the rest of this trip, and I know you hate feeling useless."

She sighed, but the tension in her face left with it. "You're right; I do hate it."

"Of course I'm right. I was right about you needing to talk about it, too." He nudged her shoulder with his. "And we didn't even need to talk to Impa!"

He gave her a bright smile, and she returned it.

"How do you do that?" Purah asked after a moment.

"Do what?"

"Pull me out of my own head when I get stuck in like that. You're the only one who can do it."

He shrugged. "Just one of my various talents, I suppose."

"One of your best." She rested her head against his. "Thanks."

He patted her arm. "Anytime."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while. He might have been imagining it, but the afternoon seemed a little brighter to Robbie, now that Purah was in a good mood again. There was a shout of laughter from inside, followed by cheering.

"I hate to spoil the moment, but they are throwing this party for us," said Robbie. "Maybe we should head back in."

"You can if you want," said Purah. "I don't think anyone will miss me in there. Especially if you're making excuses for me."

"I could," he said, stroking his chin, "But you'd be disappointing those young Gorons who were hoping for a sumo rematch."

"A rematch?" Purah brightened and jumped to her feet. "Why didn't you say so? I'll show those little brothers what's what! Where are the iron boots?"

[elliewiltarwyn]

obvious

So, context: I'm taking Lily through Stormblood currently (which is doubly funny because she doesn't actually go to the Far East in my canon, but anyway), and just after the Naadam, I got hit by a particular piece of NPC dialogue that amused me so much that for some silly reason it inspired me to write a whole 1,053-word thing about how Ellie would react to it. it may be a little self-indulgent. i apologize.

--------

As Ellie finishes spinning her claymore like a propeller and stabs it into the earth at her side, the four Mol warriors she’s demonstrating for erupt into cheers and applause, and the sounds are… heartening, Mia finds. It’s good to see these young spirited fighters celebrating a hard-won victory — and from the shite-eating grin on her lips, Ellie seems to agree.

“How I envy you, khagan! Why, you could court the man of your choice!”

Ellie’s grin vanishes and she arches an eyebrow at the zealous warrior, and the chatter ceases suddenly, a thick silence falling over everyone; for a moment, the young man freezes, suddenly keenly aware he's said something wrong.

But Ellie just shakes her head and chuckles, drumming her fingers on her claymore’s crossguard. “…Man,” she murmurs, leaving the word hanging in the air like a deflating balloon, watching the warrior’s face grow more and more terrified the longer the silence stretches on. “Yeah. Sure. We’ll go with that.” She speaks each of those monosyllabic words as slowly and carefully as possible, her eyes lighting up further the more beads of sweat appear on the young man’s forehead.

“O-o-or woman!” he finally sputters. “Pray forgive me, khagan, I did not intend—”

Ellie claps the man on the shoulder, smirking wickedly at him, then pats him on top of his head in the single most condescending gesture Mia has ever seen in her life, bending his cap slightly. Then she turns, hoists her claymore out of the ground, and slings it across her shoulder as she walks away, making her way back towards Cirina standing just outside the main yurt.

Mia watches her go, unsure if she wants to know what her own face looks like; she has the sense she is failing miserably at hiding her own amusement. Lyse certainly is, she notices, all but stuffing her fist in her mouth to stifle her laughter as she exchanges glances with Mia. For the young warrior’s part, he seems to be crumpling in on himself with mortification as his friends laugh and clap him on the back, one of them patting his head in the same manner Ellie just had. Mia gets the sense that their new khagan has just codified one of the better in-jokes their friend circle will have in their entire lives.

“I mean,” Lyse says in an undertone as she and Mia turn to follow, “strictly speaking, she probably could, you know? Technically, what her orientation is has no direct effect on the sorts of suitors she could court.”

“I suppose not,” Mia agrees, shaking her head in bemusement. “We’ve seen what she’s like when she gets male attention, however.”

“She does not take it well, it’s true,” Lyse admits, scratching her cheek and letting out a nervous laugh. “What was it she said, after she broke that drunkard’s arm in Shiokaze?”

“Muttered something to the effect of ‘am I not obvious enough of a lesbian?’, I believe.”

“I suppose I can’t blame this poor fellow for not knowing,” Lyse says idly with a giggle. “It’s all cultural — and this steppe has been home to some of the most unique cultures I’ve ever seen.”

“It’s been… incredible,” Mia murmurs, “learning about all the myriad differences of all these clans.”

“I’m really glad we came here, but I’ll admit… I’m most glad we—well, Hien, I suppose, fell in with the Mol in particular.”

“Agreed — inability to recognize homosexuality when they see it notwithstanding.”

“Ellie is very gay and proud of it,” Lyse chuckles, looking up at the roegadyn in question in the distance; she’s currently chatting with Cirina about something in a low voice. “Very confident in herself.” She takes on a somewhat wistful expression as her hand rests on her hip. “I… like that about her.”

Mia looks at her, stunned; only then does Lyse seem to realize what she just said, and she claps a hand over her mouth, her eyes going wide. They meet Mia’s briefly, a rising sense of panic creeping up Lyse’s face. “Um. Anyway! Er, let’s— I had a question for Hien, anyway!” And she bolts, dashing straight past Ellie and Cirina and into the yurt. The two warriors, the roegadyn khagan and the upcoming Xaela khatun, blink in confusion as they watch the doors flap back and forth in Lyse’s wake.

“Uh… she okay?” Ellie asks, frowning at Mia as she approaches.

“I… don’t know.” Mia feels a strange twisting in the pit of her stomach, and she still can’t put a name to it, and by this point it is really bothering her. She grits her teeth with her lips closed tight, then looks up at Ellie. “Are you? After that… I remember that bothered you a lot in Ishgard…”

“Oh, yeah, no worries,” Ellie says dismissively and shrugs. “Much different coming from an enthusiastic young nomadic warrior than a stick-up-his-arse pompous nobleman.”

The aghast look on Cirina’s face draws another laugh from Mia, at least. “Your… The breadth of your experience is vast, I see. Much more than our own, I suppose.”

“We’ve been around,” Ellie admits with another small shrug, and then grins down at the kind Xaela. “But some places have certainly been better than others — and this place, ephemeral as it is… Mol Iloh is among the top.” Mia cannot fail to notice the way Cirina’s eyes go wide and her cheeks light up, the strange way she stares up at Ellie like she’s seeing her in a whole new light. It boggles her mind that Ellie doesn’t seem to notice, carrying on without adjusting her tone in the slightest. “One of the most comfortable homes with some of the kindest people I’ve ever had the privilege to meet. It was a pleasure to fight for you, Cirina.”

“O-oh!” Cirina’s blush is luminescent against her pale skin and deep blue scales; after quickly wiping her sleeve against her face, utterly failing to scrub the redness away, she beams up at Ellie. “I-I’m both flattered and overjoyed to hear that. Thank you, Ellie!”

Ellie smiles back, pats her on the shoulder, and then moves over, ducking through the yurt doors, while Mia watches Cirina blinking rapidly as she gently touches her own extremely red cheeks and is left to consider how extremely obvious Ellie’s orientation is.

[bootlegmozart]

tfw ur mom misgenders ur bf the whole time you're at her place for shitsmas as if her son (me) isn't also trans.

tells me what i need to know about her.

if my dad apologized for beating the shit out of me as a kid, i'd probably like him more, but at least he didn't fuckin misgender my partner. my parents really fucked us kids up, and i hope my siblings get the therapy they need to grow emotionally. i love them so fucking much and it hurts to see them hurting and struggling with depression among a myriad other things.

like, how the fuck are you going to make the entirety of shitsmas about yourself? My partner didn't get to see his family, who are significantly more healthy and functional than mine. How are you going to screech about being the sloppy seconds when he didn't even get to see anyone and get his firsts? xmas isn't about you, it's about others. At least my siblings tried to give a shit. I can't blame them for how they acted because they haven't been able to work on themselves at all. At. All. It's always been doing shit for my fucked up parents. I can't hold anything against them, and I won't ever do that to them. They're my brothers. My homies. I know they got my back no matter what. They deserve so much better than what they were given.

I haven't felt this angry in so long. I used to be an edgy shitlord that wanted to kill everyone, and I've mellowed out a lot, but this? This infuriates me. This anger lets me know that nothing has changed with them. They might call me by my name and use the right pronouns, but they're selfish, self centered children. I never want anything from them for the stupid holiday because I don't want reminders of them anywhere near me.

How fucking dare you? How dare you treat my partner, my love, my everything, like this? How dare you give him two fucking lines about thanking him, and how you're glad he's here for me while I was in the fucking hospital, when you fucking yelled at me for not writing enough on the 50 fuckin thank you cards for my stupid first communion? How dare you not give him more than 20 seconds of your time to write a heartfelt thank you? How dare you give him dirt when he couldn't even see his family? What is wrong with you people? You taught me how to write a proper thank you and you don't properly thank people back. After everything he did for me, yet, you want to see me again next year after how you behaved. My partner and I are a package, and if he doesn't get respected, then I won't respect you with my response, my presence, or any presents.

You don't deserve my brothers. You don't deserve my partner.

You don't deserve me.

[infiniscribe]

Lyrics to Red Light Cafe Show: April 5th, 2009

These are the lyrics to songs I wrote back in 2009. Still Alive: Such a simple incantation promoting life without inclination of needing something more burning my walls bringing everything down Such a myriad emotion the state of confliction is absent to no one being something more how electrifying I hear you knocking on my door i can feel it burning, and rolling and gowing deep within i can feel it flowing, controlling underneath my skin i'm still alive i'm still alive W-o-n-d-e-r-f-u-l    E-l-e-c-t-r-i-c Down Doesn't Seem So Bad: I tried to stay by your Bedside but your bedside burned and banished me back to where i came from The hole i crawled out of didn't welcome me home with open arms just criticized with countless curses When you wake and wind up someone you hate When you wait up and wise up and realizing that down doesn't seem so bad anymore no, down doesn't seem so bad Just let it run away You'll feel it again someone Just let it go Let yourself breath Just get out of here September Sixteenth: These echoes sounding in my soul Can't bring me to my knees anymore But my eyes are swollen and paralyzed with the touch of feeling nothing at all Of being nothing Of sounding like nothing at all In fear of being nothing like you turned out to be I cannot correct the cracks and breaks that i have done to myself Only gasp at the man behind the mask that they have created The face that they distorted the lives that they have altered the face that they distorted i can't bare to face My head is bruised By the constant beating of repetitive bastarding Worn down to size the likes of what is left of my shallow heart Of my measured ego of my askew spirit of my measured ego thats shattered into place War Cry: this has no beginning it has no end no confrontations has no friends stripped of what it means to be human having no one ever to defend numb is the feeling you pretend when vitality is at its end having no courage having no hand to help the war inside your head im choked unprovoked and so uninspired lack of attention depressed for awhile go to the bar to find who we are and  just start over again I Fell So Far: I fell so far so far enough where you couldn't pick me up i was ripped and worn tired and torn and still your face ceased to come quit convincing its not your fault could of been avoided if you just would talk now its your choice to stay or to walk please don't walk please don't sit there and watch me fall im going crazy im sizing the walls can't figure out how i got in this room 'cus all im seeing are things reminding me of you I fell so far so far where i couldn't see myself anymore i was wrong and timid angry, unforgiving so simple but too complex to admit it Letter To Adam: First of all, Im convinced that i think and worry about things too much. Even incredibly trivial things; i have this overwhelming experience. And i imagine that this email alone is probably annoying and disheartening. But i felt more compelled to write you my apologies. My apologies.

[i-am-robie]

For me, one of the most inexplicable things in s5 was Lena working with Lex—the rest of it I could mostly swallow because here is a woman scorned, a woman hurt, who can’t see past her own anger. Here’s as close as I could get.

[INTRO PICKING UP MOMENTS AFTER THE END OF 5.19 Kara and Lena are alone in the lab while the rest of the team tries to figure out their next move (I don’t really care how this happens, it just does for my purposes okay? I’m not a fucking script writer.)]

“I wanted him back.” Lena’s voice feels like a gunshot even to her in the silence of the lab. Kara is sitting across from her, tinkering with a table, but she looks at Lena as if Lena has shoved her.

“What?” 

“My…” Lena swallows, “my brother. I wanted him back.”

Kara stares at her. This is the closest they’ve gotten to talking about before since Kara made it clear to her that she didn’t want to have that discussion. And maybe that was only hours ago, but that was before she shook Lena’s hand, before she said she was ready to hear Lena’s apology, before she asked if Lena was ready to work with her again, and the only thing Lena wants in the world, maybe even more than for this never to have happened, is for Kara to understand why she did it. 

“He saved me, you know? I shot him, for…” Lena stumbles (you goes unsaid), “I killed him, and when the anti-monitor brought him back, Lex made a deal that I would—” she thinks about how to describe it. “Survive is the wrong word I think—but that I would be as I had been when you saved the world.”

Kara is quiet, her face stuck somewhere between wariness and pain, like she’s not sure where Lena is going with this but knows, instinctively, that it will hurt. Still, she doesn’t try to stop her and that’s all the invitation that Lena needs to continue. She needs to get this out so that at least—if Kara doesn’t really forgive her, if Kara never lets her back in (lets her back in the way she’d let Lena in before Lena understood what that meant)—at least Kara will know the Gordian knot that Lena tied herself into. And, maybe, she’ll see why it took Lena so long to cut through it, why it took Lena so long to see the truth, even if that truth is, in the end, so very simple. 

Lena clears her throat and steels herself to continue. “It was catastrophically naive, I know. I mean, I killed Lex to stop him. Why would I ever walk willingly back to him?” She swallows, but her mouth is dry and her throat feels like sandpaper. She fixes her gaze on the table in front of her. “But you have to understand: when I shot him, I wasn’t killing my brother. I was killing what he had become—who he had become,” she corrects herself, because Lex turned himself into a monster, but Lena knows enough to understand that monsters are men, too. “That’s how I could do it. How I did it.”

Kara remains silent when Lena looks up at her, it doesn’t feel like an invitation to continue, per se, but it isn’t a request for her to stop.

“And then I woke up in a world where he was a hero, where he said he had changed, where he was on your side. And I thought, I thought what if Non Nocere could save not just me or the world, what if it could save Lex?” There’s a pressure to her speech now, although Kara’s quiet, Lena is aware that at any moment Kara will cut her off. “Because sure, the world was fundamentally changed, history as we knew it had never happened, but that potential...it’s like physics.” Lena looks down at her hands, remembers the energy thrumming through them when it had occurred to her. “The potential energy of his rage, of his monomaniacism, his megalomania: it was all still there waiting to be expressed, like water behind a dam,” she lets out a bitter laugh and looks away again. “I never stopped believing that he was capable of horrible, terrible things. I just hoped that maybe if I worked well enough, if I solved it quickly enough, that I wouldn’t have to lose him twice. And maybe no one else would suffer.”

She feels unmoored. It’s a familiar feeling, really, the only constant since her world came apart. This feeling is what Hope had been about: creating something to keep her head above water, to keep her from drowning until she could learn to breathe underwater. Lena casts around the lab for something to anchor herself.

There’s nothing but Kara. 

“I didn’t lose him again, in the end.” She lets out a sigh, shakes her head. “I’d never gotten him back in the first place. It was an illusion. But...but I did lose someone.”

Kara brings her eyebrows together at that, a tiny crinkle forming to match the small frown on her face.

“You,” Lena breathes the word out. “I lost you, Kara...The first time was when I didn’t believe that you could love me and lie to me about Supergirl. Except that I could have gotten you back then, if I’d been willing to see you, to listen to you, to let go of the worst parts of myself. Because it was those parts of me that convinced me you were gone. And you weren’t. Not yet.”

“We—“ Lena takes a breath, twists her fingers together, the pressure just to the point of pain to ground her. “Our relationship would have been salvageable, maybe, if I hadn’t decided that a world that didn’t need Supergirl was the way to fix my hurt. And it wasn’t the right way, it never could have been; the stated goal of Non Nocere might have been about making it so that no one could hurt anyone else, but really it was about making it so you couldn’t hurt me again. You’re not the first person to hurt me.” She lets out a self-deprecating laugh because that feels like an understatement so enormous it really is almost comical. “Sometimes it feels like my heart has been broken by everyone I’ve ever loved—I don’t know why...”

Lena trails off because part of her does know why Kara is different, and she’s not ready to say it aloud (she’ll probably never say it aloud) but she can’t commit to the untruth. “I needed something that would protect me from you because I knew eventually I’d let you back in, and I didn’t trust you not to hurt me again.”

Kara opens her mouth, but Lena holds up a hand to stop her. “So I made horrible, selfish choices because at that point it didn’t matter what you thought of me. I imprisoned Eve and I stole Myriad and I used kryptonite on you,” her sins are pouring out, it’s nothing Kara doesn’t know, and Lena isn’t in search of absolution, but she wants Kara to see that she knows what she did, that she’s not trying to bury it or deny it or gloss over it, “and when Lex brought me in, I worked with him. And that led to the second time that I lost you because it caused you to give up on me. I rationalized, of course, that it didn’t matter if you thought I was just another Luthor, or if you thought me capable of the same atrocities that Lex was—is—because what I was working on would make it so that no one would be capable of that. Not me, not him...not you.”

“Lena, I—” Kara starts, but they’re interrupted as Nia and Alex clatter back into the lab.

“We’ve got to get to the fortress.”

[ladykat-scraps]

Ok, I don't often post my gibberish around these parts, mostly because I feel like I’m too old and uncool to be here. But last week's Barry has been on my mind A LOT, and rather than torture my wonderfully supportive partner with all of my crazy manic thoughts on a TV show, I figured I'd go ahead and utilize the community chatter space that's already available.

Well, fuck. It’s probably fair to say that S03 E02 hath shooketh the fan community. Much has been made of the fact that we all should have seen this coming: a violent person behaving violently isn't exactly a surprise, the audience was never supposed to like Barry, etc. I don't think I have much more to add in that regard which hasn't already been pointed out. What hits so hard, and uncomfortably close to home here, is the fact that I, like so many others in Barry fandom, am complicit in shipping Barry/Sally. Granted, their relationship was always a minefield of issues - it would be naive to argue otherwise - but now that the abusive elements are becoming insurmountable and impossible to ignore, I've had to ask myself, is it ok to continue writing and reading fanfic about a relationship that has turned so toxic? Is it ok to even fantasize about it? What’s going to happen if, say, canonically-speaking, Barry ends up murdering Sally? At this point, I think it’s a very real possibility. Could there be any more blood-curdling, stomach-turning way to sink a ship?

If Hader’s goal was to leave us all squirming with perpetual discomfort, well, mission fucking accomplished. (I’m sure it was).

It’s a discomfort that manifests on so many intricate and myriad levels. There’s discomfort in watching a murderer fill up with uncontrollable rage and then hit himself on the head, knowing that you, too, have self-harmed like this in your less-than-stellar moments. (Finding common ground with a murderer: how fucking awkward.) There’s discomfort around stepping into the middle of a familiar scene that many people have bore witness to: an unstable significant other screaming at their partner, while friends and colleagues stand by in shock, paralyzed by inaction. There’s discomfort in an undue apology from the wronged party, just desperate to make things right again. And of course, for fanfic writers, there’s discomfort in knowing that you’ve written about these two in ways that now feel deeply problematic, and even unethical, given the canonical context. (I did find it interesting that Hader told an interviewer that Sally is based on him; I don’t want to wade too far out into the waters of speculation, particularly when there’s no evidence I’m aware of, and only he can speak to this, but it did make me wonder if he’s also experienced some kind of domestic abuse incident, like she has. Maybe as a witness, or even as a survivor. Perhaps not as an adult, but as a child? The odds are good for it, statistically speaking, in America - greatest country on Earth and all.)

For me, this one feels especially personal, in a way: during that cruel summer of 2020, in the middle of my pandemic-stricken loneliness and desperation, I saw a Barry story on Tumblr, and quite suddenly, got inspired to write a story of my own, based on that one. I ended up with a 50,000 word opus, of which I am incredibly proud, if not also incredibly protective. It’s been a long, long, long time since I’ve had even the barest inkling to write any kind of fiction, and feeling inspired like that was nothing short of revelatory. It was like waking up a long-dormant portion of my being, who, through no fault of her own, had been starved for attention and nourishment. I will note that I have no current plans to publish this story, but that doesn’t make the shifting dynamics of the Barry/Sally relationship any less complicating on the world that I’ve been constructing. To think that any story you’ve created - a true labor of love - may now be tainted by the hideous reality of what’s happening in the actual canon, is, well, completely devastating, to say the least.

As I’ve been reeling from the outcome of last week’s episode (nope, not dramatic license - who among us hasn’t been reeling? Who??), I’ve been pondering whether I want to continue on with the story ideas that I’ve been nurturing; whether it’s even right to. The idea of abandoning a relatively newfound, reignited spark in creative writing feels like a death all on its own; but, is it responsible to write tender, touching love scenes around a character who is so clearly violent and dangerous?

One way I’ve started to reconcile this conundrum is realizing that, despite the abrasive harshness of episode two, I’m quite confident Bill Hader himself still has a few tender, touching love scenes written around his clearly violent, dangerous character that have yet to be unveiled. For all his protestations that the audience is not supposed to find Barry likable, or be rooting for him (which, keep in mind, is simply his opinion - he doesn’t want you to find Barry likable because he doesn’t find Barry likable, but an artist doesn’t put their work out into the world without expecting it to be opened up to a wide variety of interpretation), the central premise of the show remains a redemptive one. From episode one, Barry asked us to consider, is it possible to be redeemed for your actions, no matter how severe? It’s still asking that question, and really pushing the limits of acceptability in answers. Which is a big reason why I think so many people do end up rooting for Barry, despite all the obvious reasons not to: after all, if he can be redeemed, in the end, for his actions and choices, then surely redemption is possible for anyone else, too. If a killer can ultimately find forgiveness, then maybe I, too, the viewer who has also made shitty mistakes and choices, can be forgiven. Like for that time I lied to my boss about having a headache because I didn’t feel like going to work that day. Not nearly as bad as murder, right?

Given that we’re only on episode two of this season (and Hader has already confirmed there’s going to be a fourth season, with no definitive series ending in sight), I’m fully expecting the narrative to pull some kind of emotional 180 that will cause Barry to look sympathetic again. Showing the absolute worst of him in episode two has the feel of setting up a particularly unstable house of cards, to stoke up audience fear and loathing, only to toy with our emotions again as tensions rise higher and higher. Yes, of course he’s a dangerous guy, and no, if he were real, no reasonable person would want anything to do with him; that said, condemning the actions of a murderer is not a particularly brave position to take. I think it’s very easy to say “Barry is bad, and he always was: stop calling him cute!” A far more complex (and frankly, interesting) viewpoint is the one the show invites us to take: that of moral ambiguity. After all, Barry makes a lot of terrible choices, but he does make some good ones, too. In season two, he has the opportunity to kill Hank, who was in the process of trying to kill him (and could have killed Sally, too), but he chooses not to. I’m not saying he deserves any kind of special brownie points or pats on the back for not killing someone; I’m just saying that the entire premise of this unbelievably complex and fascinating series rests on the notion that there aren’t necessarily any clearcut lines between good and evil, and that the compulsion towards bad decision-making rests within us all, to some degree. It puts me in mind of what the author of another series I love, who is now, rightly, in my opinion, undergoing her own struggles with shitty choices and redemption, once wrote: “The world isn’t made up of good guys and Death Eaters, Harry.”

So, I guess this is my long-winded way of saying that, while I’m still incredibly disturbed by where this is all going (and terrified of what’s coming up tonight), I think that, for now, I’m ok continuing to ride this ship. Before I got heavily into Barry fiction, my ship of choice was Lams - which, if you’re not in the know, is the Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens fandom. If you wanna talk problematic, Hamilton is your guy: he bought slaves for his sister-in-law, and definitely expressed more than his fair share of period-typical misogyny and racism. And, unlike Barry, he has the added burden of being real. If you pick apart any fanfic pairing, you probably won't have to dig too deep before finding some toxic, maybe even abusive elements that, in real life, would throw up red flags faster than an all-star color guard. But the whole point of fanfic, ultimately, is that the characters can be anyone you want them to be. Anyone you need them to be. If you need Sally to be crying at a coffee shop over a breakup, and Barry is the kindly barista who comforts her, they can be that for you. They are merely the vessels to you, the story’s author, for whatever issues you are writing around. After all, that’s what they are to Hader and Berg. (Someone who I think is doing a really great job of this is @berkmansimagines, whose ongoing “Barry x teen!daughter” series continues to maintain the integrity of the narrative they’ve constructed, while simultaneously building on the new episodes of Barry, and holding him accountable for his worsening actions). Writing for Barry and Sally has been incredibly therapeutic for me, and I hope to continue finding catharsis within these two, just as it must be cathartic to play them.

[dracosaurusrex]

Bookworms (Draco x Reader)

Summary: Where Y/N and Draco discover that there’s much more to each other than what meets the eye.

Word Count: 11k

Genre: Fluff (slight angst in the beginning); enemies-to-friends-to-lovers ; No Voldy AU

TW: Self-harm but it’s not too much.

A/N: Hi friends! I want to say that I don’t really know where I was going with this, but that would be a lie. So a couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine (we’ll name her @minty-malfoy​) posted a tag thread and one of her responses involved her wanting to own a bookshop. It got me thinking of a bookshop romance and ugh YES. With dark academia, how could I not? Fast forward to last week, I ask her for a favor without realizing it was her birthday, and I felt so embarrassed LOL. So, yes, this is your gift my friend. I hope you enjoy it. Keep shining like the light you are!

Besides that, I genuinely hope that if you come across this, you enjoy this big chunggus of a oneshot. I apologize if it’s slow at some parts. I also didn’t proofread the end. I should probably shut up now before I start questioning my writing omll

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Written in pages bound by leather covers are worlds that bring you out of your own. An adventure. An escape. Within that escape sprouts myriads of emotions and thoughts, but what you value the most amongst them all are its gifts of perspective and solace. 

Y/N Y/L/N lived the majority of her life with her mother. Her father, who was an auror, passed when she was young, leaving them to surmount the challenges of the world alone. Together, they owned a decent bookshop in Hogsmeade. Its shelves lined the walls, occupying the entire expanse from the floor up to the ceiling. Within them were books of varying genres, filling your senses with the soothing aromas of old parchment, sounds of turning pages, and the feeling of warmth and coziness. To others, this little shop was known as Avenoir Books. However, you knew it as home, your safe space, your comfort zone. 

Your mother was the one responsible for introducing you to your love for reading. Growing up, you’d recall the sound of her voice as she read to you--the way that it cradled you with reassurance when times got rough. She always managed to disguise her worries, yet in moments when she thought she was alone, you had witnessed her at her lowest points. It was only within your knowledge that you knew life was difficult, for your mother would shield you from the problems that reality had actually  presented to you. She carried the weight of both your worlds on her shoulders, giving you protection by surrounding you with new ones to step into as you sat yourself in the confines of your cozy shop. It was because of her that reading became your refuge, and it remained so when you went away for school at Hogwarts.

Your mother’s resilience fueled your desire to become strong, to become great, to create a new life where you wouldn’t have to see her cry in secret. She was the reason you had been sorted into the Slytherin house in your first year, and she was also the reason why you’d been so successful within your 4 years of schooling by far. 

You were a quiet Slytherin, mostly keeping to yourself while observing those around you. The most interesting and exasperating individual of the entire student body was a proud and arrogant boy, Draco Malfoy. He had never picked on you, but there were countless times you had witnessed his relentlessness with others, especially with the Golden Trio. Each and every instance increased your despise for him, furthermore deepening your ardent desire to keep your distance. However, it seemed that the universe had other plans for you today.

Weekdays kept you immersed in bulky textbooks--notes constantly jotted down through endless heaps of parchment. On weekends, however, you swapped your robes for a work apron, helping your mother around the shop. She’d situate herself by the counter and typically manned the ground level, while you’d be propped on a sliding ladder, managing books that sat on shelves higher up. You had a system in Avenoir Books. Customers would typically roam about the main floor, which was occupied by books from famous publishers and authors. However, for books that were more obscure or specialized, customers would head to the counter and gain consultation from your mother. In return, she’d direct them to you, prompting you to slide amongst the shelves in search for the requested titles, genres, or authors.

The store typically had a steady flow of people passing through. You have come across many different personalities and backgrounds throughout your life. Today was quite different, however. The bustling noises slowly died down upon the entrance of a pair of notorious figures, the air suddenly becoming tense. There stood Lucius Malfoy. His chin was pointed up, platinum locks flowing over his shoulders, walking stick in hand, his eyes scanning the shop with a pompous expression on his face. Standing to his side was Draco. He maintained the same look as his father, which soon featured a scowl as it managed to grace his face. 

You heard the older man mutter, “Let’s get this over with, Draco.”

The two made their way through the vicinity as gazes were trained on them. Even you stopped what you were doing to observe their actions. Lucius approached your mother, who gave much effort to keep a welcoming smile plastered on her lips.

“Mr. Malfoy, what brings you the pleasure of stopping by?” Her tone was sweet and quite inviting, although it didn’t do much to shift the man’s attitude.

“You have quite the selection here at Avenoir--I’m impressed.” His tone on the other hand was laced with a tinge of venom and arrogance. Lucius' eyes kept trained on the expanses of shelves until they landed on you. 

“I assume that’s your daughter, Y/N? Draco’s told me much about her.” You couldn’t decipher whether he meant well, moreover what Draco could’ve possibly said about you to his father. You weren’t aware that the boy even knew of your existence since all you did was keep away from him at all costs. 

Your mother responds, “Yes, she’s a fifth year at Hogwarts. I assume your son’s the same?”

“You’re not wrong. Although, that’s not what I’m here for…” As Lucius continues his consultation with your mother, Draco takes the liberty to browse through the various genres of books featured on the ground floor. You don’t move from your position, rather you keep your gaze on him, observing his reactions. He picks up a familiar script. It’s a muggle book entitled, The Memory Police by Yoko Ogawa. You witness him flip through the first couple of pages before focusing in on the first chapter. Slowly, you see the scowl begin to leave his face--the tension between his eyebrows dissipates, his lips release the frown that had situated itself there, and his eyes take on a more solemn and concentrated expression. It contrasted greatly to the image he maintained at school. You realized then that when he wasn’t so obnoxious and loud, Draco was actually quite handsome. 

“Draco, drop that filthy muggle book!” You weren’t aware of Lucius approaching until the snake embellishment that topped his walking stick violently landed on the boy’s shoulder. You saw him wince in pain as he dropped the book, rubbing the area to soothe the harsh sensation. Before you could react, your mother calls out to you. 

“Y/N, Alchemy, Argo Pyrites.” You broke out from your daze and simply nodded in understanding. The duo now had their eyes on you as you charmed the ladder to take you to the location of the book. You actively scanned the spines for the targeted title, releasing a small “aha” when you find it. Once it’s in your hands, you blow off traces of dust and ensure that the book is in mint condition. It doesn’t take you long to make your way down. As you do so, you approach Lucius and lend the book over. He takes his time to check for any disparities before meeting your gaze once again.

“Y/N is it? Pleasure to meet you.” His tone was anything but kind, but you go along with it, doing your best to maintain courtesy.

“Pleasure’s all mine Mr. Malfoy. It’s very kind of you to stop by.” 

“Certainly. Draco, say goodbye to your friend, let’s get going.” Draco looks at you from top to bottom before releasing a smirk. With a quick raise of his eyebrows, he turns around and follows his father out of the shop. You watch their figures disappear into the crowd before making your way to your mother.

“Draco seems like a nice boy, doesn’t he?” You scoff and cross your arms in disagreement.

“Oh please. ‘Nice’ is the last thing he’ll ever be.” She gives you a knowing gaze. 

“Did you see how his father hit his shoulder? Even I was shocked. That poor boy never saw it coming.” You recall the pained expression that Draco had on his face. You supposed his parents imposed their pureblood supremacist ideals on the boy’s choice of interests as well.

“It’s not like he doesn’t deserve the pity, mother. You should see him at school. Obnoxious! Rude! Arrogant! He bullies others mercilessly!” You expected her face to contort in disgust and disappointment, but she only gave that familiar motherly smile.

“We can’t always assume the extent of a person’s character based on what they show, darling. Similar to how we should not judge a book by its cover.” She emphasized the last point knowing that you would understand. You could never fight your mother. Despite the difficulty of getting to where you were in life, she always embodied grace and wisdom through it all. 

She spoke again, “Did you happen to see the book he was reading?”

“It was The Memory Police.” You couldn’t understand why she asked. She approached the book that Draco had dropped and picked it up. When she returned, she looked at you expectantly.

“You’re going to see him again this Monday, are you not?” You nodded, “I want you to give this to him.” Your eyes widened.

“Mother, I couldn’t possibly-”

“No excuses, Y/N! A kind gesture never hurt anyone.” Her tone softens, and you knew you couldn’t say no. 

“The look he had on his face reminded me of you when you were younger. Do you remember?” You only sighed, remembering the relief you felt when you cozied up to a book. She continued, “He seemed more peaceful having a little bit of time to escape don’t you think?” Your shoulders, which were once tense, dropped. 

You groaned, “Fine! I’ll do it.” Mother, 1, Y/N, 0.

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Throughout the remainder of the weekend, you thought of ways you could slip the book to the platinum-haired boy without having to actually confront him. You couldn’t understand why your mother wanted to reach out to him so bad. Never in your entire life have you seen her extend that much sympathy to a customer before. Ever! That boy is a git. A rich one at that! Everything was practically given to him on a silver plate. Why would he care so much about a measly book?

These questions roamed through your mind as you packed your school bag the following Monday morning. The book was settled on top of your desk, staring and waiting for you to pick it up. With dread, you reluctantly take it and place it into your bag. With one last look in the mirror, you grab your things and make your way to the Great Hall for breakfast. As you enter the massive room, you take a seat by yourself in the Slytherin table. You took a glance to find a familiar blonde mop of hair. All of his friends were there in their usual spot with him being the only one absent, which was weird because he never skipped breakfast. Wanting to get your mom’s task over with, you approach the group. They were chattering amongst themselves, not noticing your presence.

You cleared your throat, grabbing their attention, “Um, hey. Do you happen to know where Malfoy is?” They only looked at you in awe.

“The famous Y/N actually speaks? Didn’t think I’d ever hear a word come out of you.” The girl, Pansy, pointed out. You rolled your eyes.

Another girl, Daphne, kicked the prior’s ankle, eliciting a loud yelp from her. She spoke out, “I’m sorry Y/N. He said he’s not feeling too well, so he’s cooped up in the dorm.” You appreciated the softness of her voice in contrast to Pansy’s strong tone.

“Why do you ask? You never talk to him.” It was Blaise’s turn to chime in.

“I have some business with him.” You stood there, feeling the awkwardness creeping up. Your fingers were twirling the ends of your hair and you casted your gaze elsewhere. They just stared at you, still comprehending the sound of your voice.

“Well?” You asked. 

“Ah, yes. He’s in dorm 7.” You nodded your head in appreciation and turned around to leave. You had about an hour before class, giving you ample time to make the delivery and go about with your day. At least that was what you thought.

-------------------------------------------------------

Once you enter the Slytherin common room, you make a turn towards the boys’ dormitories. As you take the stairs leading to it, you’re met with a corridor that takes a close resemblance to the girls’. Doors were lined on either side with numbers used to differentiate them--Draco’s room was located all the way down the hall. Oddly enough, the closer you approached it, the more nervous you felt. You never imagined yourself stepping into this part of the dungeons, moreover doing so to drop something off for a boy you despised. You yelled at your mom internally for putting you through this.

The distance between you and the door kept shrinking, and as you drew closer, you began to feel strange. Something was off. The uncertainty looming in the air grew thicker until you finally found yourself standing in front of the room. Before knocking, you press your ear against the entrance. There was complete silence. You also notice that the door was not closed all the way. The animosity you felt towards the boy was gradually replaced with worry and concern. 

“Malfoy? Are you in there?” You ask hesitantly. There was no response.

“Draco?” You press your ear further into the door in hopes to pick up any sign of his presence. When you received none, you pushed forward, entering the room with caution. You were met with the sight of a half-made bed, Draco’s robes and uniform laid out on top. His desk still had books turned to different pages, accompanied with an open ink bottle and quill left upon pieces of parchment. All these things, yet still no signs of the Malfoy heir. You stood in your place for a moment, trying to concentrate on his whereabouts. However, your thoughts were interrupted by the subtle sounds of sniffles. Your eyes widened as your focus redirected to locating its source. It was then that you noticed another door leading to what you believed was the bathroom. The noises became more prominent as you walked towards it. You felt nervous and uncertain about what you were going to find. As you wrap your hand around the knob to open it, your eyes widened at the sight of the boy grabbing his wrist, which was dripping with blood. On his side was a razor blade. 

You gasped as his eyes met yours, your heart breaking in the process. In front of you wasn’t the same bully everyone knew. No. In front of you laid a half-naked Draco whose eyes were filled with what seemed to be hopelessness, defeat, and fright. Tear stains stroke his cheeks, his eyebrows furrowed with pain. His hair stuck to his forehead as sweat accompanied his tears. The hand gripping his wrist was stained with blood, its pressure only forcing the flow to increase. 

“Draco!” You didn’t know what overcame you in that instance. You frantically threw your bag off your shoulders and proceeded to kneel next to him, taking in his wounded arm. The boy retaliated.

“What do you think you’re doing!?” His voice was defensive and strained, but it didn’t faze you.

“I’m trying to save your sorry arse! Look at how much blood you’re losing. Merlin!” You returned a gaze that matched the intensity of his. The concern in your own tone heightened as you dug into the pockets of your robes in search of your wand.

“I don’t want to be saved! Don’t you get it? Leave me alone!” He wriggled in your grasp, only inducing you to tighten the grip you had on him. He gasped at the stinging sensation, tears streaming down his face. Tears began to fill the brim of your eyes. 

“Stop spewing nonsense, Malfoy! I can’t leave you and I won’t!” The pained expression on your face caught his gaze. Tears had already spilled over. “Please, Draco. Let me heal you.” The boy stopped his protests upon hearing the desperation that was laced in your voice. You used the back of your hand that was gripping your wand to wipe the tears off of your face. After calming yourself down, you hover your hand over his gashes to perform the healing spell, a serious expression now spreading across your face. 

“Vulnera sanentur.” His blood begins to retract back to its origin, the rate of its flow slowing down.

“Vulnera sanentur.” Your wand continues to trace Draco’s wounds. The traces of residue begin to disappear. Draco looks at your concentrated face and then turns his gaze back onto his wrists.

You perform the incantation for a final time, “Vulnera sanentur.” The cuts disappear completely and you let out a sigh of relief. You cast a look at Draco’s stunned face before scanning his shirtless torso. It was also filled with scars that were most likely left to heal on their own. The frown on your face grows as a rush of thoughts suddenly occupy your mind. How long has he been doing this to have this many cuts and scars? Draco, behind his arrogant mask, was alone. You didn’t need him to vocalize that fact for you. It was written across his face. The expression glossed over his eyes longed for the company that he never truly had. 

In that instant, you knew your mother was right. You really can’t assume the extent of a person’s character based on what they showed.

“Would it be okay if I took care of you for a bit? I don’t feel comfortable leaving you alone like this.” Your voice was soft as you released small hiccups signalling the end of your crying. Draco, who has no energy to object, simply nods. Your thoughts drift to your mother and how she was strong enough to carry both your burdens. As you recalled the love she gave you, the sour feelings that you had towards the boy faded. At that moment your only task of importance was to clean him up.

It was silent the entire time. You picked Draco up and propped him up onto a stool. He did nothing but keep his gaze on you as you walked to and fro in the bathroom. You took a face towel that was hanging on the side of the sink and wet it with cold water. You then wring the towel of excess water and wiped his face. The streaks that the tears made disappeared. You proceeded to his forehead, getting rid of the sweat and pushing his bangs upwards. You then began to wipe his neck, making sure that there was a comfortable distance between you two.

“Chin up.” You demanded. He obeyed, and you wiped over the expanse between both jaws, his throat, and down to his collar bones. You yelled at yourself mentally to focus on the action instead of the curves and crevices outlined by his skin. Luckily, you were able to keep a straight face, making no sign of being flustered whatsoever. You step back to wet the towel again before proceeding to wiping his shoulders. At this point, you began feeling warmth spreading across your face. Draco let out a small laugh.

“Like what you see?” He asks with a broken voice. You snickered at the way he managed to be funny at a time like this.

“I’m only being nice, Malfoy. Don’t let your head get big. Not that it hasn’t already.” You say, giving a coy smile. You gulp discretely as you make your way down his chest. His eyes never leave you. You purposefully wipe that area much faster to prevent you from blushing even more. Once you get to his wrists, you rub circles on the area where the cuts used to be before running the towel over it and to his hands.

“How do you feel?” You ask.

“Better.”

“Good. Cup your hands for me please.” He follows your instruction once again. “Aguamenti.” A stream of water flows from the tip of your wand and into his palms.

“Drink up.” He remains obedient. Once he finishes, you pour in water once again, having him repeat the act. You feel at ease as he gulps the water down. His body still looks limp, and his face still gaunt, but it was a huge improvement considering the state he was in when you walked in. 

Your gaze settles on the floor and the stray blade, both covered in dried blood. “Tergeo.” You mutter, cleaning up the mess.  

You point your wand to the blade, “Evanesco.” It disappears in an instant. You turn back to Draco. You wrap your arm around his torso and bring him close to you to help him maintain his balance as you step out of the bathroom.

“Where do you keep your sleepwear?” You ask. He points to the cabinet, and you go forth to take out a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. You hand him the articles of clothing and turn around to leave him to change. 

He laughs, “You’re silly you know? You’ve already seen me half-naked, yet you turn around.” You only shrug and chuckle before turning around to meet his gaze. He leans on the side of the bed, arms crossed.

“I have yet to ask, Y/N. What brought you here in the first place?” You were so absorbed in healing and cleaning Draco that your initial purpose for coming over flew past your mind.

“Oh yes,” You pick up your bag that laid on the floor, and rummaged through it before pulling out his copy of The Memory Police. 

“Mother saw how peaceful you looked when reading this book at the shop. She heavily insisted that I bring it to you, saying that you can use an escape too.” You lean on the space beside him as you hand him the book. His eyes widened as he cautiously took the book out of your hands, as if his father would appear right this instant. He scanned the cover, and flipped through the pages, his eyes glossed with disbelief. The sight of him like this made you imagine how much of his life had been kept in a cage. Wealth did not serve as a basis for happiness. You could only guess how much expectations were held for the Malfoy heir.

“My father would object to me having this.” You nodded in understanding, rubbing his shoulder to comfort him. He looks up at you.

“I won’t push you to tell me the reasons why you decided to harm yourself, but I’m certain that you need a break from whatever bothered you in the first place. Please, keep it. My mother will nag me without end if I don't deliver it.” He smiles.

“Thank you. I mean it.” Your jaw dropped. He rolled his eyes.

“Draco Malfoy actually knows how to say ‘thank you’.” You say, mocking a look of disbelief. He scoffed and his scowl reappeared in an instant. 

You raised your arms in defense, “What? You can’t blame me.” You both share a laugh before silence overtakes you once again. Your head faced downward, and you kept your sights on your shoes.

“Thank you for letting me take care of you. It frightened me to see you like that.” You fumbled with your fingers.

“It’s a miracle that you came, Y/N. I don’t think I’d be able to stop myself if you hadn’t yourself.” You smiled. You were appalled with the fact that there was a soft side to the boy. You looked at him, remembering the comfort that you found in your mother’s love through books. In that moment, an idea sprung forth in your mind.

“Ever since I was young, it was only me and my mother. Father passed when I was 2, and we were left alone to face the world.” You looked at him to find that his attention was on you. You continued, “There were plenty of times I felt hopeless and scared, but it was the comfort of her voice that washed that feeling away. She’d stay by my side at night to read me books, and she always managed to take me to worlds that detached me from the reality that we lived in. She told me that Avenoir, besides it being a bookstore, was established to become my safe space, my comfort zone, my refuge, if you will. She’s why I love reading.” You took Draco’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

“And I want to extend that to you. Please feel free to come by whenever okay? We’ve never been that close, and you have been pretty gittish, but no one deserves to feel alone.” You gave the boy a reassuring smile. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Draco gazed at his hand, which was still squeezed in yours. He then shifted his view back to the smile on your face. Y/N Y/L/N, the most reserved and studious Slytherin in their year, surely had a lot to say, but it was surprisingly the most relief he has felt in a long while, if ever. She gave his shoulder a little squeeze before picking up her belongings from the floor. Before she left his dorm she faced him once more.

“Will you be okay on your own?” She asks. Draco nods and gives his signature eyebrow raise. She chuckles.

“If you need anything, I’ll be in my dorm. I don’t plan on going to class today.” As he watches her leave, he notices the warmth that spreads over his chest. He brushes it off before flopping on his bed and immersing himself into the world of the Memory Police. For once in his life, he manages to escape the burdens of his family name. He escapes the burdensome fear of being considered a let-down to his parents. He escapes the rabbit hole of expectations, worries, pressures--the need to be “perfect” Draco. He finds an escape from the reputation that he upholds through you. Furthermore, he finds himself desiring more of your company. Because of this, he moves from his bed, with his book in hand, and strides into the girls’ dormitories. He never got her room number, but when he sees an open door, he automatically assumes that it’s her inside. Without thinking, he barges at the sight of her stunned face. 

“Draco? What’s the matter?” The boy takes a good look at Y/N’s space. Her bed is made neatly and is stationed against the farmost wall in front of a large window. Her table is positioned at the end of her bed. There were a number of small bookcases that cover a majority of the perimeter of the room. It’s cozy.

He takes a moment to compose himself. “Is it alright if I can stay with you? Just a little longer?” The girl gives him a confused look, but agrees nevertheless. 

“Sure, close the door.” He does as she says, and looks around. Her dorm truly reflected her personality. Her words break him out of his daze.

“You can sit on the bed if you’d like.” As he gets himself situated, he observes her. Y/N was known for her hardworking nature, and mostly stayed away from socialization because of it. In that regard, she never really had much to say unless she was answering a question during lectures. She doesn’t say much once he’s situated. Instead, she quietly turns back to her desk to focus on her note taking, actively highlighting important bits of information from her books. Draco was amazed to say the least.

“Y/N, why is it that you study so much?” He asks. Her gaze remains rooted to her work as she finished writing up the last sentence before gazing up at him. She grins.

“I’m working hard, so I can earn enough to give my mother a better life.” She says simply.

“Is the life you have right now not enough?” He doesn’t mean to come off as ignorant or insensitive, but he asks out of pure curiosity. Y/N only rubs her chin to think of a proper response.

“Don’t get me wrong, we’re both happy. I just suppose it would be nice to know that she wouldn’t have to worry about her resources. Life was always uncertain before opening Avenoir. I remember how she would hide away to cry so I wouldn’t see her tears. I felt helpless and I couldn’t do anything about it. I hate being weak because of that.” Draco simply gawked at her. The availability of resources has never been an issue for him; it felt like a slap on the face seeing how hard Y/N worked for that level of accessibility.

“I feel like a lot of people have been gawking at me today. Stop it.” You chuckled as you scratched the back of your neck, recalling the reactions of his friend group as you held a conversation with them.

“You’re surely something else, Y/L/N. That’s all.” Y/N only smiled as she removed herself from her desk. She pulled a random book from one of her shelves and sat herself next to Draco. Together they get lost within their own worlds.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was a mutual feeling of friendship that emerged between you and Draco. However, the both of you never bothered to make it obvious in the presence of others. Actions so far were limited to discrete nods towards each other in the hallways. Nevertheless, you were content. You didn’t see him constantly, but you heard people talk about him and how he hasn’t been teasing or picking fights with students as much as he did in the week prior. It was a change you were surprised with, but one that you were pleased to hear about regardless. Besides that, you still kept yourself to your own tasks throughout the remainder of the week. It was a set cycle, which involved going to lecture and studying within the confines of your room. Although, you had to admit that you enjoyed the blonde’s presence, and secretly wished that you’d spend more time together.

The weekend arrived, which meant you’d resume your work at the bookshop. The day flew by fast. Customers came bustling in by the hour that you never had much time to talk to your mother while you were working. As you waited for demands to trickle in, you occupied yourself with another book, The Happy Prince by Oscar Wilde. It was a pleasant book about selflessness, however you found your mind drifting off often. When you weren’t reading, you kept your eyes peeled for the entrance, hoping that a certain boy would come in. However, no sign of the Malfoy heir showed as hours passed. Your hopes soon depleted. Giving up on the chances of him coming, you resumed your reading. 

It must’ve been about 20 minutes after 3 o’clock when your mother calls you from the counter. You heeded her request and made your way down the ladder. Behind her are large boxes filled with new books that were to be stored on the higher shelves. As you drag them to the base of the ladder, your back bumps into something hard. 

“I’m so sorry! Are you al-” As you turn to identify the person you collided with, your eyes widened at the sight of Draco. Your heart skips a beat as you scan his appearance. He sported a black turtleneck that fitted securely around his torso, which was paired with dark plaid pants, and black leather chelsea boots. Rings adorned his fingers, and his platinum locks are slightly disheveled from the wind. He looked delicious rather expensive. 

Draco was just as shocked when he realizes that it’s you he bumps into. You weren’t wearing anything fancy as he was--just a simple white shirt, straight jeans that ended just above your ankles, faded white sneakers, which was all adorned by the work apron that wrapped around your waist. Your hair was tied into a loose bun that settled at the nape of your neck with some stray strands framed around your face. It contrasted to your typical appearance at school. He preferred you in casual wear much more than in uniform, but he wasn’t going to admit that.

You straighten your posture, “Hey! What brings you here?” The boy in front of you rubs the back of his neck bashfully.

“I just wanted to spend time here. You offered on Monday.” His timidness made you smile. 

“You’re definitely welcome to stay-” You were interrupted by your mother’s gleeful shout.

“Draco! It’s so nice to see you! Please do make yourself comfortable. I assume Y/N delivered the book safely?” You rolled your eyes and let out a groan.

“Yes, mother. I did.” She only laughs in response. “I extended an offer to have him hang around if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all! Would you like some tea, dear?” The warm welcome fills the boy’s heart.

He gives a polite nod, “That would be lovely, thank you.” He looks to you with amusement plastering his facial features. 

“Would you like some help?” The smile that you give to him in response makes his heart flutter. 

“I’ll be okay. Like what mother said, please make yourself comfortable.” You reassured him, before urging him to follow you to the back of the shop. Past the counter is a corridor that leads to a small outdoor patio. Fairy lights are strung on the edges of the fence that borders the space, and a table for two is set near the entrance that goes back into the store. As the sun begins to set, the small set up becomes even more charming.

“It’s not much, but this is us.” Your arms spread as you step towards the center of the patio. Draco looks around and then back at you.

“It’s lovely.” He states with a happy grin stretched across his lips. The space doesn’t hold the same grandeur as his manor, but within the small and cozy confines, he feels safe and content.

“I’m glad to hear that. Take a seat! I still have work to do, but I’ll be clocking out soon. Stay as long as you’d like!” The joy in your voice doesn’t go unnoticed. It’s quite difficult to suppress the emotions after the anticipation that has built up throughout the day. With your spirits lifted, you return to work. The load of the boxes don’t seem as heavy as they used to.

Draco sits around in silence for a bit with his hands clasped together. The thought of being within your personal space makes his knees bounce up and down as he waits for his tea. Wanting to release his nerves, he explores the compound a bit more. He steps into the corridor, taking notice of the way it’s decorated. Pictures of you and your mother grace the walls. The sight urges him to look out in the front of the shop. He catches you piling books in your arms before making your way up the ladder. In doing so, he takes note of your focused face, the furrowing of your eyebrows, and the slight parting of your lips. Your eyes blazed in determination, sparking that particular warmth in his chest again. Draco tore his gaze from you and redirected it to the photos mounted on the wall. One that caught his interest was of you on your mothers back. Your small arms were wrapped tightly around her shoulders as your small face peered over her with a small toothy grin. He notices the light in your eyes. It had remained the same ever since. He stares at the photos for a couple of minutes.

“You found our pictures!” Your mother comes up from behind him, startling him slightly. She responds to his reaction with a hearty chuckle as she worms her way through the corridor, Draco following closely behind her. They sit across from each other, and the boy watches her as she sets a cup before him. She takes the tea pot and pours the liquid carefully.

“How do you like your tea, dear?” She asks.

“Slight cream, no sugar, Mrs. Y/L/N” Your mother looks at the boy. His shoulders are stiff and he’s tense all over. His hands look clammy. Basically, Draco looks nervous.

“I don’t bite. Don’t worry, love. Relax.” She gives the boy’s hand a reassuring squeeze. It was much similar to the feel of yours. He relaxes a little bit, adding cream to his drink.

“Y/N speaks very highly of you.” He states a matter-of-factly.

“Is that so?” A smile appears, “How’s my daughter at school?”

“She’s a really hard worker. Everyone knows her for her intelligence, but she is rather quiet. Much different than the way she acts here. She is so vibrant.”

Draco takes notice of the surprised look in your mother’s eyes, “Oh my dear, if I’m being truthful to you, it’s been so long since I’ve last seen her vibrant side shine through. She’s more demure in character. It’s not common for her to act that way.” Draco didn’t completely understand why, but hearing those words made his heart skip beats. He didn’t respond for a bit, allowing her words to sink in. Out of nowhere, Y/N calls out to her mother signalling the completion of her task. Her head pops from the door frame, and she glances at the tea briefly before shifting her view to the boy.

“Y/N! Why don’t you give Draco some company and have some tea? You can go to your room after!” You cough, but merely nodded in response. You seat yourself in the chair that was once occupied.

“How’s work?” Draco asks. He takes the kettle and pours you a cup.

“Busy as always, but it’s a pleasure to be here.” You thank him for the tea and proceed to adding your preferred amounts of cream and sugar.

“You look handsome today, by the way.” You took a sip of your tea so you wouldn't see his reaction. The boy only beamed.

“You look pretty too, if I’m being honest.” You chuckle as you set down your cup. 

“You’re telling me that when I’m dressed in a t-shirt and some ragged jeans?” You didn’t really know what kind of answer to expect. For the most part, you felt average in your get up. He, on the other hand, looked like a model.

“Yes I am. You are pretty.” You only smile at your feet and thank him. The boy was charming without the pompous get up. Ever since that Monday morning, you began to develop appreciation for this genuine side that he showed you. 

As time passed, your mother closed up the shop. Both you and Draco offered to help her, but she denied almost immediately. Instead, she insisted that you take the boy up, causing you to palm your face in embarrassment. However, you eventually agree and lead the way. Within the corridor were stairs that led to a second level. You and Draco climb them and turn to the first door on your right. Your room was slightly bigger than the one at school. It was furnished in a fashion that was similar to your dorm, but there were a lot more books--this time stacks of them could be seen littering the floor.

“Did you bring your book?” He nodded and fished it out from his back pocket. 

He briefly scans the room, “Did you read all of these?” You nod with an embarrassed smile.

“I bet you’d love the library in the manor.” Your eyes widened at the sound of it. A tinge of excitement sprouted from your gut as you begin to imagine its vastness.

“I don’t think you’re wrong. I bet it’s quite the sight!” Delight could be heard from your voice. Draco only tries to suppress a smile.

“Maybe one day.” He mutters to himself, hoping that you didn’t hear. However, when he looks up, he’s met with your wide smile. He blushes immediately and curses under his breath.

“You weren’t supposed to hear that.” 

“Don’t worry. I’ll pretend I didn’t.” You wink at him, and pull out your book. You flopped on your bed, patting the space next to you. When he situates himself by your side, you begin to pick up where you left off, already pushing the outside world aside. Draco sits with his legs crossed, and copies your actions. Silence fills the both of you as an hour passes. However, he’d take opportunities to sneak small glances at you once in a while. Your focus on the pages never shifted. If anything, the furrowing of your brows deepen as you turn with every page. With his curiosity getting the best of him, he leans closer to you to see what was so interesting. His actions don’t go by unnoticed, though. As soon as you felt his knee come into contact with yours, you realize how close he has gotten since you started reading.

“May I help you, Malfoy?” You ask, slightly amused.

“What’s your book about?” He asks. You tense your brows as you come up with an answer, not wanting to spoil anything.

“It’s about the friendship between a statue of a very selfless prince and a swallow. What about yours?”

“I’d never thought I would like fiction, but I do like this one. It’s about a girl who protects a person who can remember.”

“Remembers?”You ask with genuine curiosity. Draco nods, his eyes expressing the interest he has for the novel.

“Things on the island vanish, and the majority of the people have no recollection of it after it disappears. The people who show any signs of remembering get taken away.” Your interest for the plot increases 

“That sounds very interesting. Do you think we can trade when we finish?” 

“I think it sounds like a plan.” You stare into each other’s eyes for a moment before a snapping noise is heard. Suddenly your hair loosens, and you realize that the rubber band holding your hair together gave out. Draco looked at you with an eyebrow raised. As you reach to pull the remnants of the tie away, your hair frees itself. Some strands framed your face, while the rest flowed over your shoulders and covered the expanse of your back. You run your fingers through the front and they fall into curtain-like waves. Draco on the other hand is taken aback at your sudden change of appearance. Prior to getting to know who you were, nothing much was thought of you with the exception of your brains. Besides that, you were rather plain looking, always having your hair up in a braid or a ponytail. 

It was a seemingly natural reaction to let your hair simply flow. You really didn’t think much of it. But, when you met Draco’s surprised look, it was your turn to raise a brow at him. He really didn’t know what overtook him, or why these particular words fell out without thinking, but both hearts were racing and ears turned warm after he spoke out.

“Merlin, Y/N. You’re bloody gorgeous.” It caught him off guard. Your expression was the only thing that made him come to terms with the reality of it.

“I- You- You weren’t supposed to-”

“Thank you.” Draco’s jitters stopped in an instant when he saw the way you smiled up at him. Noticing the silence that settles in, you quickly think of something to break it.

“Should I wear it down at school? I’ve been thinking about it. It’s time for a ch-” You were startled by how quick his response was.

“No! Absolutely not!” He speaks frantically.

“-ange. Okay, then. Sheesh.” You both just laugh at his sudden outburst. Draco’s, however, was a nervous one. 

After a couple more minutes of reading, a savory aroma fills your senses, and your mother calls out to you both for dinner. The food was pleasant, but it was the actual state of togetherness that lit Draco’s heart. Although the warm feeling of you and your mother’s company was foreign to him, he was glad to have been able to experience it. The entirety of his stay lifts a huge weight off of his shoulders. Moreover, he begins to acknowledge the budding emotions that he feels for you. He felt each beat of his heart more profoundly within the small moments that you shared, with every glance that he took, and with every laugh that spilled from your lips. 

You stare up at the clock, taking note of the time. It was already 7:30 PM. Curfew was at 9:00 for fifth years. 

“Mother, I think it’s time that we get going. I’ll see you next week.” You notify her of your departure as you help clear out the table. 

“Oh, it’s that time of the day already? Very well then. I’m so glad you stopped by today, Draco. You’re welcome here anytime. Let me see the both of you out.” After you give her a hug, you make your way to the main room of the store. Draco thought you were going to exit, and was brought to confusion when you suddenly stopped in your tracks.

Draco clears his throat, “So, do you know how exactly we’ll get back?” It was already late and the boats that transported students to and from Hogsmeade were closed for the day. 

“Are you a fan of portkeys?” You ask. Draco’s eyes widened.

“Have you created an illegal one?” When you don't answer, he just laughs. You rummage through your bag, picking out a random book. When you open it, there’s a postcard with a picture of Hogsmeade on the front. 

“It’s a touch-activated one. It goes straight into my dorm.” You look up at him to see a devious-looking smirk plastered on his lips.

“You really are something else.” He whispers. You roll your eyes and shake your head.

“Let’s touch it on the count of three, okay? 1...2...3.” At the touch of the object, Draco felt his body get sucked into a bind, lights flashing, and your surroundings blacking out until it wasn’t. He kept his eyes shut the whole time. The entire instance occurred for a second. When you arrived at your destination, you felt fine, having gotten used to the uncomfortable sensation resulting from the mode of transportation. The boy who isn’t as experienced, however, didn’t find himself so lucky, and opted to lay down on your bed for a moment, closing his eyes to regain his strength. As you gave him time to rest, you took the opportunity to change into something more comfortable, taking advantage of the fact that he wouldn’t be aware of you doing so. 

When he opened his eyes, he was surrounded by the familiar confines of your dorm. They  roamed around until stopping at your changing figure. You had slipped on a jumper, which was paired with loose fitting sweats, the waistband wrapping securely on your hips. The only source of light was that of the moon as it radiated through your window and onto your bedroom floor. It casted a surreal glow upon your features, and Draco couldn’t help but stare.

“Would you like some water?  I know the experience could be unpleasant.” Your voice was soft and was followed by the sound of your melodic giggle.

“Y/N, you’re mental if you tell me you do that every week.” He says astoundedly. You nod with a grin and shrug your shoulders as you passed him a cup of water. He takes it gratefully and gulps it down as you sit on the edge of your bed. 

“You should probably get back to your dorm soon and take some rest. Do you need any help?”  He shakes his head, but is betrayed by his body as he stumbles out of your bed. With quick reflexes, you hold him steady, allowing him to regain his balance quickly. 

“Are you sure?” You ask doubtedly. He reassures you by straightening his posture and flashing a smile. You return it as you walk him to the door. He stands in the hallway, facing you as you lean against your door frame. You rushedly look left and right to ensure no one was looking before shifting your attention back to him.

“It was nice having you today. Mother was really happy you came by.” 

“How about you?” The boy catches your gaze once more. You only looked at him with a raised brow, queuing the need for clarification.

“How do you feel about my company?” What he asked caught you off guard, but you couldn’t deny the joy that you felt being around him. The comfort you felt from reading alone didn’t compare to the calm silence that situated you both when you did it together. It was the simple yet overwhelming feeling of contentment--the feeling of someone entering your heart silently, gently, and with a rush all at the same time. Pure bliss was what it was, but you couldn’t formulate the words when he asked you. The boy smirked at your lack of response. Instead, he bent over to meet your eye level and leaned in. You held your breath within your throat as he drew closer, ultimately shutting your eyes in anticipation for who knows what. Draco noticed the slight change in your body language and softened the look in his eyes. His orbs, which were once filled with amusement, were now filled with adoration. He looked at your expression, before reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. You opened your eyes, meeting his gentle gaze.  Shocked, Draco backed away, shoving his hands into his pockets.

He stammered, “Y-You had something on your ear.” A flush had spread over his cheeks.

“Oh, is that so? Were you able to remove it?” You ran your fingers through your hair, oblivious of his frantic behavior. In your mind, you only wish it could’ve been more.

“Y-yea!” A nervous laugh leaves his lips. After he recollects himself for a few more seconds he says, “We should do this again sometime.” To which you happily agree.

You both bid each other ‘goodnight’. As you close the door, you lean your back against the wall, and slide down to the floor. You took note of the way your heart began to race when you recalled the events of today. The sound of his laughs, his subtle attempts to get close to you, his expression of interest towards the things that you treasured. Your image of Draco had begun to transform right under your nose.

Little did you know that as the boy walked back to his dorm room that night, the same thoughts ran through his mind. Although he was tired, he would constantly think about the way you looked when you were working, or when you were reading, or how your hair came undone. Moreover, he felt safe within your hospitality--it wasn’t forceful or intrusive, it just flowed naturally. This small escape made a huge improvement from the broken state you found him in that Monday prior. That night, as he laid in bed, he read his book peacefully until sleep took over his consciousness, filling his rest with dreams of reading with you by his side.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

It was a brisk Sunday morning when you found yourself at the Great Hall for breakfast. You were always one of the earlier students who came right when the doors opened. By the time you got yourself situated, only a few students trickled their way into the massive room. 

Your hand took hold of your book as the other filled your mouth with food. Your concentration blazed as you immersed yourself into the world of the Oscar Wilde that you didn’t realize how filled the hall became once you put your book down. The reason for you doing so stemmed from the sound of a presence that sat before you. You never had company when you ate, so when you looked up you were surprised to see Draco settling in the seat in front of you. Murmurs from other students could be heard at the peculiar sight.

“This seat isn’t taken I presume?” He asks. The typical Malfoy smirk graces his lips as he lowers himself down.

“Not at all.” You respond simply. You look around with a weirded expression. People had their eyes on the two of you. One in particular caught your attention. It was Astoria Greengrass, also dubbed as the Slytherin princess. She had an annoyed look on her face, but you brushed it off, turning back to the boy in front of you.

“Aren’t your friends waiting for you?” You nodded towards the familiar group of people.

“I can’t read around them. They’re too loud.” Once the statement leaves his lips, he pulls out The Memory Police and finds himself in the same stature you were in previously. You smile inwardly before taking a few bites of your food. It’s silent and you can still feel the lingering stares around you. They begin to get annoying after a while.

“Leave them be. They can stare all they want, but I’m not moving anywhere.” He says as though he read your mind. He glances at you from the top of his book, but his tone remains unfazed.  

“How’d you know?” You inquire.

“You have ‘uncomfy’ written all over your face, Y/N.” He keeps his gaze stuck to his book while stuffing a piece of scrambled egg into his mouth. You narrow your eyes at him before slowly opening your own again.

“What are you planning to do today?” He asks suddenly. You look up to see that his eyes never left the page. Your look at your own, except you’re not reading this time.

“Probably read at the lake, go to my dorm and read some more.” 

“Do you do anything else besides read?” 

“I study.” You could feel his eyes roll.

“Besides that.” You lower your hands seeing that you aren’t getting anywhere with the plot. 

“What else is there to do on Sundays?” You laugh, “Well what do you plan on doing today?” 

Your conversation gets interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. There stands Astoria Greengrass, arms crossed with an envious expression on her face. She looks at you then to Draco.

“Hey Dray. I just wanted to know if you wanted to hang out with me at Hogsmeade today?” She asks with a sickly flirtatious tone. She squeezes his shoulder while you just roll your eyes and look away to mentally gag.

“You must be blind to notice. I’m preoccupied if you can’t tell.” The sound of his tone is cold, much akin to the one he uses when he’s bullying someone. However, a smirk sneaks up to your lips as you keep your gaze lowered. The girl only scoffs before turning to you.

“Cute little book you got there Y/L/N. You always have your nose buried in one, don’t you? What’s that one about this time?” You take note of her condescending voice, which slightly pulls on your nerves.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, Greengrass? Sorry love, I’m too preoccupied to explain.” You wiggle your book at her before getting up. You throw the boy your version of his eyebrow raise before turning to leave.

“I’ll see you around ‘Dray’.” You say, imitating Astoria’s tone. You looked at her from head to toe and scoffed as you walked out of the hall. You couldn’t be bothered to deal with the likes of her. For the most part, giving her any piece of your energy was not worth it. You find yourself walking down the corridor before hearing the sound of someone running to you. You stop in your tracks and turn around to see the familiar platinum-haired boy.

“You need some company at the lake?” He asks. Your face, which was once filled with annoyance, releases its tension, and transforms into a gentle smile.

“I don’t need it, but you’re free to come along if you’d like to.” You turn your back quickly before getting a response out of him. He follows you.

Throughout the walk, Draco notices that your hair is up in a braid again, smiling as he reminisces the sequence of events that occurred the night prior. Could you have kept it up because he said so? Such thoughts filled his mind with interest. The events that happened in the hall also made him wonder. He had never seen you agitated before.

“I never thought you’d respond like that.” He says to start up conversation.

“To Astoria?” He nods.

“Not worth my time or energy. I may be quiet, but I’m not a pushover...Dray.” You tease him with the nickname, although he doesn’t mind it when it comes from you.

“It sounds better when you say it.” He says, making you shake your head in response.

“I was about to choke myself. Merlin, did you hear the way she said it? It’s enough to make your ears bleed. Bloody hell.” The way you release your frustration gives the both of you something to laugh about. That familiar feeling of comfort overcoming you both once again.

“Do you think she’s going to approach me again?” You ask.

“Knowing her, she might.”

“Merlin, avada me now.” Draco only laughs louder at the sound of your displeasure. By the time you reach the lake, the sun is seen casting its rays upon the water. Clouds are still in the sky, but the overall scene is bright and beautiful, assuring that it was going to be a good day.

You sit on a patch of grass that meets the sand, while Draco assumes the seat beside you. Before you could even begin to read, the boy takes the opportunity to ask you another question.

“How far are you from finishing your book?”

“I’m almost done. Give me a few minutes and I should be finished.” His eyes widened slightly

“Fast reader aren’t you?”

“No, well, maybe. There are more stories in this book. The Happy Prince so happens to be one of them.” He nods, allowing that particular conversation to end. He lays down on the grass, ready to read in the process, but is caught staring at the expanse of your neck. Your braid reaches the middle of your back, swaying in the wind. When he takes sight of the band that holds it together, he reaches out, hoping that you won’t notice, and pulls it off. He swiftly drops it to make it seem like he hasn’t done anything, so by the time you turn around to identify the cause of the loosened sensation, he already has the book propped on top of his legs, gazing at the lines with much concentration. 

“Did you see anything?” You ask with a raised brow. He simply nods, trying to hide the smirk on his face. It doesn’t go unnoticed by you though.

“Draco. Was it you?” When he doesn’t respond, you laugh.

“You’re such a git.” Your fingertips trace the sand to locate the rubber band, but the boy stops you before going any further. He wraps his hand around your wrist, while catching your gaze.

“It looks better down.” He says firmly.

“But you said-”

“I don’t want you letting it loose for others to see. In front of me is fine.” He holds your gaze for what seemed to eternity before slowly loosening his grip on your hand.

He then proceeds to ask, “Can I touch it? Your hair?” You smile and nod at him. He takes the opportunity to scoot closer behind you. After he situates himself at a comfortable distance, he reaches out to your loosened braid, and gently runs his fingers through it, breaking it up entirely. Your strands are soft in his touch, and the light from the sun only emphasizes how shiny it is. You pay no mind to the boy’s doing. Instead, you continue reading while he plays with your hair. 

After 15, perhaps 20 minutes of reading, you finally finish your book. It is then that you notice that he’s still stroking your locks. Slightly amused, you look up from your book and decide to tease him for a bit.

“Are you having fun back there?” Your question is accompanied with a giggle.

“Most fun I’ve had in years.” Sarcasm laced through his voice. “Can you teach me how to braid?” Your head turns back, but you’re only faced with a serious expression.

“What’s the sudden interest?” As you ask your question, the breeze picks up, eliciting a shiver out of you. It takes a second for Draco to notice how thin your clothes were.

“Why don’t we go inside? It’s warmer and you can teach me how to braid your hair.”

“You’re so insistent, aren’t you?” 

“Not insistent, just ambitious.” You rolled your eyes as he lifted you from the ground.

You both make your way to the dungeons, taking the familiar route that leads to his room. You don’t protest the destination as much, only being grateful that it was warmer than the harsh change in climate outside of these walls. You can’t help but recall how much has drastically changed since the week prior, but it warmed your heart knowing that there was more to Draco than what meets the eye.

As you enter the dorm, you take notice of all the luxurious details that embellish everything from his furniture to the style of his clothes. It was much more put together since the last time you found yourself there. The crisp scent of apples filled your nose, allowing yourself to ooze into the comfort of the environment. You show no hesitance to flop on his bed, seeing as he has done so to yours a number of times already. While doing so, he discards his robes and hangs it over a coat rack. The sight of you brings out a small smile from him as he claims the seat next to you. 

“Now, where were we?” He asks. You proceed to sectioning your hair into two parts. You hand him one, which he takes gently all while focusing his concentration on the demonstration you show.

“Okay, so we start off with three sections…” He does as you say.

“Now I take this, and flip it over this section.” He repeats. Only the sounds of his breaths can be heard.

“Now you do it to the other side, and repeat the pattern.” As you demonstrate with your strands, a shocked expression fills his face as he tries to repeat your actions. He gets it eventually, although his braid is much messier and unkept in comparison to yours, which is tight and neat. A familiar scowl appears on his face, but you try to keep your laughter in. In all fairness, he really was trying.

“Here. Take all of it. Try braiding my hair.” You run your fingers, deleting both your work and his, and turn so that your back is facing him. You keep your sights set towards the window, as he begins to work his way through your hair. He starts off by combing his fingers through your locks, which felt annoyingly good. He then proceeds to repeat everything that he has learned within the last five minutes. Him doing so only proved how quick of a learner he was. Silence filled you both, and as time drifted on, you ended up dozing off into sleep. It is only when Draco finishes that he notices you. He tugs at his final product slightly to see the expression on your face, but in doing so, you fall onto his chest as soft snores find their way out of your lips. 

“And she calls me a git. Look at her sleeping while I handle her hair.” His eyes soften at the gentleness of your own expression before he scans the way your arms have wrapped themselves across your waist. Ensuring that you were sound asleep, he carefully reaches for your hand, forcing it to open as he slightly interlaces his fingers with yours. He takes a moment to comprehend the situation, his face warming up when he realizes that your back is slouched against his chest, your head resting on his shoulder, and one of his hands clasped delicately into yours. 

It’s when his eyes land on your resting face once more that he recalls all that you are, all that you have shown him. He then envisions the long-term, imagining all he has yet to discover about you. The care that you’ve shown him by far is more than what anyone has done throughout his life. He revisits the week before when you mentioned reading as a way to escape. Now that as he has you lying against him, he thinks of the possibility that his real escape is actually you. His mind finds pleasure in that thought, and it only makes his heart race when he thinks about what could possibly happen between you two tomorrow, or the day after that, a week, month, year. What answer would he receive by then? He isn’t even sure if you’d say ‘yes’ to an offer in a relationship, especially knowing how focused you are with your school work. Ridding the thoughts for another time, Draco slowly lays his back down against the mattress, bringing you carefully along with him. Your legs become entangled with his. His hand never leaves yours. 

Ensuring that you were certainly asleep, he whispers softly to the air, “I think I like you, Y/N.” He wraps his other arm around you before falling into a peaceful slumber.

A/N: I don’t think this is the end, but that’s not the point! I hope you enjoyed it :) Any feedback is very much appreciated hehe.

[abbynx]

Man's greatest treasure

(Monoma Neito X Reader)

You find it particularly difficult when it comes to clashing amongst the most the rich and important who has colourful arrays of expensively glimmering rocks sewn in their clothes while you wore second hand clothing you've inherited from your older relatives. You find it additionally difficult you were practically the most underdressed person, ironically the most eye-catching one in the banquet. It seems like being the favoured darling among the crowd in this party sounds ethereal... If they weren't looking down at you on their noses with their brows raised, probably questioning how a simpleton such as you be in an extravagant banquet hosted by the wealthiest and privileged family in Japan.

Silently heaving a sigh, your gaze simply met with the floor. It was then you noticed the rich texture of the material of it. For all you know, the floor you're currently standing on is made with the most rarest stone known to mankind but at least it does not negatively interact with you. The nasty glares from rich strangers never seem to fade out even if you try to divert your attention into something else. Your ears can't help but to do its purpose, you've heard the things they've said about you.

How the hell did they even got here?

Who in the world thought it would be a good idea to invite them?

Did they...? Crashed the party?

Ugh, their attire is sooo last decade

Aren't they supposed to be... not invited?

Who invited this peasant here?

You have always dealt about comments about you. Whether it was because of your physical appearance, your personality, your status, your background, your ambitions and you have come into terms with it... You were born from a poverty-stricken family who raised a person who will give them financial support. You have always been the pawn, the answer to their financial needs. For the booze, the drugs, three meals a day, a decent living space... However, there would be times you would find yourself getting strangled with extremely irrational thoughts. You would let them fuel the way you doubt yourself to a certain extent you've contemplated about your own worth. A pawn to your parents, a doormat to privileged people, a plaything for fate to entertain themselves with... A worthless nobody who serves the role as the floor scrubbing servant who feeds on the leftover from the plates of the privileged.

The only reason you were because of an invitation from the celebrator himself. Neito Monoma wishes to celebrate his success of landing as the top ninth hero with you by throwing am insanely large gala.

His family was old money, filthy rich and will only get richer and richer as the decades pile on. Their family have always been composed of famous and successful people. His father owns a large company for jewellery mainly rings, his mother is a famous fashion designer, his eldest brother is the heir of the company and as well as a popular influencer, his sister is the famous actress with myriad of talents for both Broadway and media...

And how could you forget your darling Neito Monoma? The top ninth hero of Japan. Talented, skilled, cunning, intellectual, successful... Compared to a plain nobody such as you are. You often questioned your relevance and worth and he hates it.

It was no secret his family does not like you. They never bothered to conceal it even if Neito was around. You've met them before, it was the time your boyfriend introduced you to his family in a simple family dinner in the Monoma estate. You can still feel their gazes bearing scrutiny and obvious hatred. Neito was by your side all the time and you appreciate it... But there would be times where you're starting believe his parents that he deserves better.

You have encountered his sister awhile ago. She was divinely beautiful, a deity incarnated with a rotten core. With a face barren with any superficial cosmetics, it was then you realize that she is effortlessly beautiful as much as she is effortless at being ugly on the inside. The way she scrunched her face upon seeing you present in her brother's celebration... It was disgusting that you weren't able to stand your ground, but your in the depths of your despair, your inferiority got the best of you instead.

"Oh, I thought he would have already broke up with you-" she gazed at your from the tip of her nose. "-dear brother deserves the best and only the best. Not some peasant dressed in poorly sewn trash. Even the floor has more worth than you." She says, before walking off. It was awhile ago, just before the gala was crowded with too much people, and yet it still lingers in your mind.

The floor even has more worth than I have-

"Ah, you've made it!" You find yourself snapping out of your irrational thoughts induced trance when a certain pompous voice took your hands in his, pulling you closer until your head rests on his chest. You gradually pressed your head against his chest with a sigh, entwining your fingers with his soft and slender ones. His chest lightly shakes with a light-hearted chuckle, wrapping an arm over the small of your back while his free hand held your hands. "I apologize for my tardiness, I was simply greeting guests individually... So I decided to greet the best for last." He strokes your hand with his thumb, before pressing your wrist against his lips.

He usually enjoyed seeing you vulnerable when reacting to his shameless acts of public display of affection. The way you would timidly avert your gaze from his smug, but oddly affectionate ones, the heat emitting from your face and the smile you try to defy. But this time he saw a different type of vulnerability in your eyes... You were shaken, your usual vibrant eyes were dull and casted down, your head lowered, your shoulder sagged and back haunched. Monoma Neito immediately notices your unusual discomfort and pulls you out of the crowd to a more obscured area by the balcony.

He walks behind you, puts his hand atop your shoulders and rolls it back. He proceeds to walk in front of you, taking your chin with his pointer finger and thumb, before tilting it up to have your lovely eyes meet with his. His lips formed into a soft smirk before stealing a peck from you. He lingered a little longer, savouring the sweet spark between you and pulls away to stare into your eyes.

"Darling, chin up-" he puts his curled finger under your chin, tilting it up. "-your crown is falling."

"Oh shut it-!" At the most highest range of your voice, you shoved him by his chest and turned away from him to face the gardens below the balcony with a red face. A low chuckle erupted from the depths of his velvety vocals and takes this as an opportunity to wrap his arms around your waist and puts his chin atop your shoulder.

"Are you particularly uncomfortable with the crowd? If I've known it sooner I would have swept you off your feet and have you in my bedroom-" his finger began to wander by your shoulders, wandering by your collarbone and neck, before he found himself tracing your jawline and cheeks. He leans to your ear, his hot breathe fanning your skin as he acquired an enticing voice. "-we could've done so many things- OOF!"

You did not let him speak any further by giving him a good elbow by his stomach and pushing him away. Your cheeks burned hotter than the sun and the only thought you can pick at the back of your head was to jump off the balcony if he ever continued to fluster you like this. He doubles over in pain, clutching his stomach, but couldn't help but to laugh at your dirty assumptions.

"I was going to say reading books or watching a movie, but I see you have something else in mind," he laughs, wrapping his arms around your stiff figure. His laughs subsides with a sigh, before he puts his chin over your shoulder. "What's wrong, my love? You've been uncharacteristically silent the whole night."

You knew it wouldn't last long before he would address the elephant in the room. You were quite disappointed it took him a few minutes before he can see what's wrong. The moment he lead you out of the crowd, he knew something was wrong. You were becoming more easy to read the more he spent his time with you and you have no idea if it was a good thing or bad.

He sighs at your relentless desire to stay silence. You felt his lips on your cold neck, his cold hand grasping your hand and giving it a tight squeeze.

"Darling, please..." His voice was reduced into a more soothing tone. Genuinely concerned for your well being, taking you seriously... "Please tell me what to do to make you feel better..."

That damned voice he uses that instantly commands you to listen to him, to make yourself the best version of yourself just for him. Your chest started to well with pleasant feelings, knees started to feel weak, leading you to lean your body on his for support. He presses his body further, engulfing you with his comforting warmth. Neito gently strokes your arm in a manner to comfort you, just waiting for your answer.

"Is it my family again?" He asks, patiently waiting for your answer.

You sighed, turning around to face him. You leaned your head on his chest, grasping his hand in yours. "Promise me you won't confront them about it." You knew far too well he will find his ways to look for a loophole from your request, but at least you can hope he won't confront them because of you.

"... No promises." You rolled your eyes, lightly smacking him by the chest. He simply chuckles and caresses your cheek with a loving smile. "I'll try not to be too harsh."

You sighed, knowing full to well he might not abide with your conditions. "It's your sister..." You held the same hand he uses to caress your cheek, firmly pressing it. "She- she said that I'm worthless-"

"We both know it isn't true, my love," he smiles, kissing your knuckle and watches you squirm under his kiss. "You, my darling, are not worthless. You're priceless. Ignore my family, disregard their judgement. Their beliefs are all built in with vanity and you shan't let them affect you."

He deeply gazed upon your eyes, his grey orbs peering into your soul and piercing it with sincerity and reassurance. "No matter what they say, no matter what they do, you can't let them knock you off your humble pedestal. You can't let them dictate your worth. For you, my sweet sweet angel, are man's greatest treasure."

With tearful eyes, you embraced Neito, pressing your face against his chest. You denied yourself to sob, bursting into small whimpers as he strokes your back with his hand, swaying you from side to side to calm you down.

"It's alright my love, let it all out..." He comforts, kissing your cheek and letting you cry on his chest.

"I love you, Neito..." You wiped the stubborn tears away from your eyes, backing away from him.

He chuckles in amusement with sheer euphoria, he pulls you close. The distance between the two of you closed as both parties leaned forward to meet in a passionate kiss. He grasps your hand close to his chest, wherein his heart erratically pounds within him. After pulling away, he lingers for a second and leans his forehead against yours.

His lips touched yours as he breathlessly spoke, "I love you, too, my dearest Y/N. Remember you're worth more than you think."

[ynsimagines]

Supergirl: Forgiveness

When Alex Killed Astra

Alex killed Astra. Kara’s last living blood relative. The thing is Kara has no idea Alex is the one that killed her, she thinks it was Hank. You were the first person, that Alex confessed the secret to since she needed to somehow get it off her chest.

Keeping a secret this big tore you apart. On the one hand you wanted to tell Kara, she deserved to know. On the other hand you wanted to keep your promise to Alex and protect her in case Kara ended up lashing out on her the way she was with Hank. Not that Kara was ever violent towards the people she loved, but you feared she may never speak to Alex again. In the end even though it was killing you you decided to keep the information for yourself deciding to trying your best to not get involved. Though technically you kind of already were thanks to Alex.

This all comes to a head one day when you were observing Alex, and Hank  spar in the DEO training room when Kara walked in she was talking to you and Hank about Myriad when Alex interrupted. “I saw Astra standing over Hank.” 

“What?” Asked Kara.

“Alex,” Hank and I said simultaneously. This is happening she’s actually going to confess you realize as she looks in Hank’s eyes. You really wish the floor would suck me up right now so you don’t have to experience this. 

“Hank didn’t kill Astra I did,” Alex’s voice broke with her confession. You placed your hand comfortingly on her back for support. To let her know she’s not alone. Alex is full on sobbing while she tells Kara everything. You follow her by beginning to cry yourself when Alex told Kara that she can’t lose her. You can’t lose Kara either, but you probably will. You knew what happened all this time and didn’t tell her, one of your big sisters would hate you. 

Kara heads towards the door and you think she’s going to walk out when she surprises you by turning and hugging Alex who’s now sobbing in her arms while you rub her back. Hank heads out in order to give you some time, Kara kisses Alex on the forehead before turning to you. You tried telling yourself to stop crying because there attention shouldn’t be focused on you, but all that was thrown away when Kara wrapped you in her strong arms. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you Kara,” you sobbed. “I was so worried you’d hate Alex.”

"Shhh I know sweet girl it’s okay,” said Kara. Alex joined back in the hug efficiently sandwiching you between your sisters. “Come on lets go somewhere better than this,” suggested Kara. The three of you headed out of the training room and you began to walk in the opposite direction. “Where are you going little one?”

You turned around looking at your sisters, “I figured you’d want some 1 on 1 time,” you shrugged. 

“This involves you too kiddo, come on lets fly like we used to.” 

Inside Kara. A thousand emotions were rising. Fighting for dominance but she couldn’t sort them out right now. All she knew is that the sight of the two most important people in her life breaking down was enough to outweigh the hurt and anger simmering in the blonde. 

You immediately recognized the area Kara took you and Alex to. A small mountain on the outskirts of National City, one you’ve hiked before. The three of you sat in the grass, “Kara, I’m really sorry this had to happen,” Said Alex.

“Me too,” you nodded in agreement. 

“I love you both so much. I know that there’s more to family than just blood. You’ve both shown me that. But when Astra died it felt like I had lost all my ties to Krypton. It was like watching my planet burn all over again. It was like having hope only for it to get ripped away again in a matter of days.”

Kara’s statement broke your heart and your pretty sure it broke Alex’s too. “I know we’re not your family from Krypton,” you began “and I know were not enough.”

“That’s not true,” Kara cut you off looking you dead in the eyes. “You, Alex, Eliza, and Jeremiah are the best thing that’s ever happened to me on earth, and you are more than enough. This isn’t your fault little one, yours either Alex. My anger was just a mask for all the pain I felt when I saw Astra lying on the ground. My grief just resurfaced.”

Without thought you and Alex simultaneously hugged Kara creating another Danvers’ sisters sandwich. “I’m so sorry Kara, we’re here for you.”

"It’s so hard to live without them sometimes,” cried Kara.

“I know but you’re never alone.”

.

You eventually all went home to yours and Kara’s apartment that night after your talk. The three of you all feeling exhausted and emotionally drained. Alex also decided to stay the night in order to make sure Kara was ok when she pulled you aside to apologize.

“I’m so sorry kiddo, I put you in the middle of everything and that was so wrong of me. I never should’ve told you what happened,” said Alex. 

You nodded, “it’s ok Alex, it seems that everything worked itself out.”

Alex shook her head, “It’s not. I’m your big sister I should be helping you solve your problems not burdening you with mine. I’m supposed to be looking out for you and I was just looking out for myself.”

“Alex you always look out for me your a great older sister, I forgive you,” you said hugging her.

Although you tried to sleep you felt too restless so you got up and quietly headed up to the roof of yours and Kara’s apartment building. “Couldn’t sleep?” You heard a voice ask from behind. You looked over your shoulder luckily it was almost sunrise so you were able to see Kara.

You nodded, “a lot on my mind I guess...”

You took a breath, “I’m really sorry for not telling you Kara.”

“Sweetie, I told you its ok its not your fault.”

You shrugged not being able to get rid of your guilt. “I mean I understand now, but I was so hurt when I first found out about the DEO. I was just so worried if I told you you’d hate Alex and then Alex would hate me. Now I just hate myself for letting you down.”

“Little one you didn’t let me down, you’ve never let me down. I realize what an impossible position you were put in. I know how awful you must’ve felt thinking you’d have to choose between us. But I’m not mad I forgive you so please try to forgive yourself.”

You nodded hugging your sister for the umpteenth time that night. “I guess I can try.”’

“That’s my girl,” Kara kissed the top of your head, “and I mean what I said before. I didn’t expect a little sister when I came to earth, but I’m so glad I got one. You are so much more than I expected and you’re perfect” 

[lovelylogans]

the warmest hello (to the coldest goodbye)

once a spy, always a spy forever, forever the warmest hello to the coldest goodbye remember, remember -spies are forever, the tin can bros

warnings: undercover spy work, mention of weapons, drugging someone into unconsciousness/giving someone a roofie, essentially the start of an enemies to lovers fanfiction

pairings: virgil/logan, offscreen roman/patton

words: 4,465

notes: this is for day 7 of @analogicalweek! the prompt of the day is “free day” and i have decided to write a combination soulmates and rival spies au! please enjoy!

⁂

Not that Virgil would admit it, but, like literally every other marked person, he's tried to imagine how he might meet his soulmate. He just didn't ever spare any thought on what he'd do if it happened on the job.

His official cover to his friends (which was mostly his cousin Roman and Roman’s husband Patton) was that he was an analyst—he was always vague about what exactly it was he analyzed, but since neither of them were particularly mathematically inclined, and both were maybe a bit too trusting for their own good, they took him at his word.

Even when he was sent off on various unusual "business trips.”

It’s not like Virgil’s mark is very specific about when and where it’ll happen. Virgil knows that variations of "sorry about that” make for a large percentage of common soulmarks. 

There’s protocols in place, of course, but Virgil had never really paid attention to those classes while training to be a spy. The Lewis clause is the kind of thing Virgil didn’t pay as much attention to, because it didn’t seem as useful as understanding the technology or how to make a cover. The Lewis clause is what to do when someone meets a soulmate on the job—there are specifications for if the soulmate is a target, a team member, or an enemy.

Virgil hadn’t really cared at the time. He’d kick himself for that later.

Any number of meetings occurred accidentally—knocking something over, bumping into someone, or, like his cousin Roman's soulmate did, take Roman's coffee thinking it was his own hot chocolate. They got married two winters ago, just so they could serve hot beverages in cold weather.

He thinks the iteration stamped in black along his left inner arm, "I'm very sorry about this," with the addition of "oh no, it's you” tacked on at the end of his makes it likely that whatever he says will, A, likely be first, B, be somewhat unique, or unique enough to be immediately recognizable, and C, be in the aftermath of some kind of accident.

He ends up being partially right. What he says is first and it is somewhat unique. What his soulmate apologizes for is no accident, though.

Virgil does undercover work, sure, but it's very rare for him to enter the James Bond style locale he's at today, and that he’s been working for the past couple months; the marble ballroom he's circling is dripping with gold chandeliers and matching heavy, velvet curtains that accent the floor-to-ceiling windows. There’s a string quartet in the corner, barely audible over the chatter of rich socialites. Virgil, deeply uncomfortable in his white-tie attire, is circling the room in an attempt at looking like he attends charity balls all the time.

He sucks at it.

As if on cue, his earpiece crackles to life.

"How the fuck did you ever qualify to be a spy?" Janus, his tech man and eye in the sky, snickers into his ear. "Your acting skills are horrendous. If you auditioned for The Room right now, they wouldn't let you into the cast.”

"Fuck off,” Virgil fake-coughs into his shoulder.

"Christ, at least try to look like you're mingling, not like you've stalked the target here."

Unable to stop himself, he glances toward the target he's meant to be watching.

The target, who is so staggeringly wealthy it could make Virgil, who is trying to pay off his student debt on a spy's salary (not as high as one might think) burst into tears. Or, much more likely, start ranting about the myriad flaws of capitalism. If so inclined, he could honestly probably steal the amount of money necessary from one of her offshore accounts, and it would be as unnoticeable as someone taking a penny from him.

Mary Lee Truman is standing amidst a flock of suited men, like a dove amidst a flock of dour crows; her dress is slinky silk, a shade of champagne that glimmers rose-gold in the right shade of light. She’s standing leaned to one side, her hip popped out and an arm crossed over her stomach, a crystal-cut champagne flute dangling in her fingers as if she was born to hold one.

Her husband, Lee Truman (fuck if that wasn’t confusing, it was really easier to think of them by their codenames) is off by the bar, seemingly getting himself another drink. 

His eyes stray to Mary Lee again; he can tell a couple of the suits are hired muscle, bodyguards, which makes sense, as the Trumans are allegedly a massive crime family, doing their dirty dealings in plain sight. A couple of the suits he recognizes from dossiers; one is a business partner of Lee’s father, who might not even know what the Truman family really gets up to; one absolutely knows what the Truman family gets up to, as Virgil’s read his rap sheet and knows he’s been in and out of jail due to his assignments from the mob.

There’s one suit there that really doesn’t seem to fit the mold of either category.

For one thing, he’s around Virgil’s age; for another, he isn’t rippling with muscle. Not that he doesn’t look fit; his well-tailored suit shows off his broad shoulders, his biceps, his lean waist. He’s dark-haired, and pale, and blue-eyed, and he’s standing next to Mary Lee with a look that Virgil would think of as dour, but now that he’s looking closely, the blue-eyed man looks almost... calculating.

This man wasn’t in the dossier.

Almost everyone at this ball was in the dossier.

Virgil looks away from Mary Lee and the handsome man, and instead decides to start taking up Janus’ advice; he slowly moves through the room.

Well. He's doing it to get closer to Mary Lee, but sure, he can attempt to mingle.

He traverses through the room, his fancy shoes clicking on the marble floor, mindful to not step on any dress hems—he has it easy, as his directive was simply to wear his white tie with his hidden weapons, his ear piece, and his lapel pin that records everything he's seeing. The women in the room provide the only splashes of color outside of the black suits and white shirts of the men, the gleaming marble, the gold- accented glasses and dishware. Even what little art he's seen follows that color theme -- white marble busts, abstract black and white paintings in their gilded frames, a gold statue outside the front steps, as if to greet the partygoers.

But the women of the party aren't beholden to this strict color scheme. Gowns of pink chiffon, red lace, blue taffeta, deep violet velvet, Virgil passes them all, keeping one eye out for rose gold silk.

He ends up instituting himself in a ring of people listening intently to an art history professor talking about the architectural significance of his building—he introduces himself with his cover name, James Walker, to the man next to him, who Virgil already knows is a Truman cousin. He gives a fake first name too—he says his name is Alex, when Virgil knows it’s really Bruce. Okay. Something to take note of.

He listens to the art history professor talk about art deco with just one ear, the other straining to eavesdrop on Mary Lee and her suits.

“Do you think our beneficiary approaches?” Mary Lee murmurs to the blue-eyed one, the one that wasn’t in the dossier.

“Oh, I know he does,” the blue-eyed man says to her. He has a pleasant British accent, the kind of voice that would be right at home on a nature documentary calmly narrating the eating habits of wolverines, or something like that. “According to all my research, our previous beneficiary is no longer within our purview. A new one will have been instilled in hasty time. As a matter of fact, I believe I would be able to point him out to you right now.”

Mary Lee sighs, a little, and the man continues talking about their charity. Virgil’s mind races. He knows the Truman’s “charity work” almost always acts as a sieve to run dirty money through, so what would it mean, that they got a new beneficiary? A new target, maybe? A new directive?

Either way, this is almost definitely some kind of code they’re talking in. He tunes a bit more into the art history professor’s impromptu lecture—he’s taking a brief tangent into talking about Tamara de Lempicka—as he ruminates on that particular conversation between the blue-eyed Brit and Mary Lee.

Then he ends up in conversation with an elderly woman beside him, who wants to know who he is—James Walker, I run a business a state or two over, I’m interested in diversifying my assets—and if he’s been to any art museums in town. Both he and the man he is meant to be have not, but it turns out she’s a curator and has numerous suggestions for him.

He also knows this woman, Ida Kelly, has been paying into the Truman business for quite some time, and has potentially ordered hits using the Truman’s muscle.

“Madam,” a suited waiter shows up at her side, as if on cue, and hands her a small glass full of what looks like a gin-and-tonic.

“Oh, yes, thank you,” she says, taking her drink immediately.

The waiter turns to him. There is a singular champagne flute on the tray. “Sir.”

“I didn’t order anything,” Virgil says stupidly, before he realizes that almost everyone here is taking champagne flutes off of trays, and he supposes this waiter just wants to clear his before he has to double back and get more. “Oh, all right.”

He takes it. It’s a delicate, crystal-cut glass. He’s almost a little afraid that if he holds it wrong, it’ll break.

“Really, we’re doing an Impressionism exhibit, and it is positively divine,” she says.

Very suddenly, there’s a hand on his shoulder, emanating warmth through his suit and Virgil jumps, a little—he hopes whoever it is didn’t feel one his knives. Or, God forbid, his gun.

He turns to see no one, when a hand touches his opposite arm, and he turns again. It turns out to be the blue-eyed Brit, who is staring only at Ida, brushing past him, allowing his hand to trail down Virgil’s arm, touching his hand as if to say, please stay there, I do not want to bump into you.

At such a close range, Virgil can smell his absolutely incredible cologne, see his defined jawline, the way his blue eyes gleam.

Ida brightens. “Darling!”

“Ida,” the Brit says warmly. “I visited that display myself, it was simply wonderful.”

“Oh, you’re too kind,” she says, clearly drinking up the praise. Virgil looks between them, feeling even more awkward than he has all night.

“Wait a goddamned minute,” Janus murmurs in his ear, after such a long stretch of silence that it makes Virgil jump again. There’s the sound of rapid typing.

“A victory!” The man says, lifting his glass—it looks to be full of whiskey. “A toast, to your latest triumph.”

“Oh, now,” she says, but when the other surrounding suits start lifting their glasses, Virgil lifts his, as well.

“To Ida Kelly,” the Brit says. “One of the finest artistic minds to walk the earth at our time!”

Virgil takes a sip of his champagne at the same time as everyone else; another woman in a deep green gown with a shawl edged in feathers takes Ida’s arm, rhapsodizing about the Impressionism movement and the latest event that her art gallery had put on.

It takes about a minute for Virgil to notice his vision going blurry in the corners.

It takes him about ten seconds of blinking hard and rubbing his eyes, hoping to clear it, to stumble over his own two feet.

It takes five seconds for Janus’ voice to buzz to life in his earpiece, urgent, “Virgil, get out of there, get away from that man, that’s Lo—”

It takes him about two seconds after that to notice that the blue-eyed Brit is looking at him with an expression clearly lacking remorse.

It takes him about half a second to realize the finger tapping one shoulder, his hand at his hand—the same hand that had been holding his champagne flute. He hadn’t been looking at his drink. The Brit had made him turn away from his drink.

The Brit put something in his drink.

Virgil’s been made.

“Good God, man,” another suited man says, when Virgil stumbles over his own two feet, “had enough of the bubbly, have you?”

Virgil ignores him; even as his vision is growing blurrier and blurrier, his eyes are intent on the Brit, staggering towards him, and he doesn’t even really know why. He’s been made, he should be running, but—

"Did you just fucking poison me, you fucking asshole?" Virgil slurs, and his sudden lack of physical control resoundingly answers the question before the Brit can; the arms that catch him before he can full flat on his face are muscular and warm. He’s distantly aware of the crystal-cut grass slipping from his hand and shattering on the marble.

The warm, muscular arms are more pressing than that. And, for a dirty rotten criminal who has probably killed people, the man is quite handsome. His bespectacled face swims in Virgil's vision.

"'I'm very sorry about this," he says smoothly, before his eyes widen in alarm. "Oh no.”

As Virgil is on the verge of unconsciousness, he hears, "It's you."

His last three thoughts before he slips under: did he just fucking say what he thought he said, then, good God his eyes are so blue, then, fuck, I should have paid way more attention to the Lewis clause.

⁂

Virgil is aware of three things as he wakes up: one, he feels like he has a dreadful hangover. Two, he’s pretty sure he’s in a plane or train or car or something moving, which makes him feel motion sick.

Three, he’s been stripped of his earpiece and his weapons.

He blinks his eyes open slowly, squinting; it’s night time, but even the low light is making Virgil’s eyes hurt.

This is a limousine, he can tell that much off the bat; the partition is closed, the glass tinted as dark as it legally can be, the interior leather light-colored, the bar fully stocked with different sodas and crystal-cut decanters full of various liquors, which makes him wince in memory of the champagne.

He feels like shit, but when he looks over and sees the blue-eyed Brit—his soulmate—his soulmate who had fucking drugged him and was working with the mob—it makes him feel even shittier.

“Ah,” his soulmate says. He’s sitting with one ankle resting on his knee, a squat glass of whiskey in hand. He has glasses on now that he hadn’t had on before. Also, his accent is no longer British; he’s got a nice Italian lilt to his voice, now. “Good. You’re awake.”

Virgil stares at him. He doesn’t say a word.

“I’ll admit this,” he gestures between them, “rather put a cinch in my plan on how to deal with you.”

“Would you have killed me?” Virgil asks. His voice comes out a croak. “If we weren’t...”

He trails off.

The man’s eyebrow arches, before he shrugs, and rolls up his sleeve. His soulmark is in the same place as Virgil’s—stamped across his left inner arm, in the spiky handwriting Virgil only uses in his personal notes, not the more uniform one he writes reports with.

Did you just fucking poison me, you fucking asshole?!

Undeniably a matching soulmark to his.

“My parents were quite bemused by it, when it showed up,” the Brit—or American?—the blue-eyed—his soulmate says. “I suppose we have our answers now.”

“Do we?” he says. 

The man takes a sip of whiskey. Then, he says, “Your predecessor was FBI. Are you the same?”

Virgil tenses. The man rolls his eyes again.

“Please,” he murmurs. “For an organization meant to be secretive, your lot are quite obvious when you trade moles in and out. One comes in, goes out, and coincidentally someone new is knocking on the door within the week. It’s absurdly simple to pinpoint who’s reporting back to your government. So. FBI, CIA, military...?”

“Who gives a fuck,” Virgil says.

“One should know what one’s soulmate does for a living, shouldn’t they?” he says. “This is a very unique situation. I’m simply trying to find out—”

“What do you do for a living, then?” Virgil snarls. His head is pounding, his mouth is dry and it tastes dreadful, his soulmate is an asshole working for the other side, and he’s being carted off to God knows where. This day is one of the worst of his life. Why couldn’t he have had a nice little café meet-cute, like Roman had had?

The man smiles at him, not particularly kindly. “I diversify.”

Virgil pulls a face, because he knows that’s poking fun at his cover.

“What,” Virgil says, “poison people on Monday, go to Ida Kelly’s resort on Tuesday, with a fun little Friday jaunt of killing people who cross the Trumans?”

“I’ve never actually been to the museum Ida Kelly curates,” the man admits. “It was an easy way to insert myself near you, to put it in your drink. And for goodness’ sake, it wasn’t poison.”

“Roofie. Drug. Whatever.”

The man’s eyebrows pull together, in a rather petulant expression. “I designed that myself, you know.”

“Well, it’s shit,” Virgil snaps. “I feel like I have the worst hangover of my goddamn life.”

“Yes, that was part of the design,” the man says, and offers him a glass of water.

Virgil stares at him. “Seriously.”

“No trust between soulmates?” He says.

“Yeah, well. Fool me once.”

The man shrugs, putting down the glass of water into a cupholder, before digging out a sealed water bottle. Virgil takes it and places it into a cupholder near him. No fucking way he’s accepting any food or drink from this man.

His lips quirk up into a smile.

“Where are you taking me?” Virgil says, ignoring the way that smile makes his heart pound.

“That rather depends,” he admits. 

“On?”

“Well.” He says. He uncrosses his legs, planting both feet on the floor. “I’m assuming that now the man in your little earpiece—he was rather rude—is aware that you have been, what is it you say? Made?”

Virgil nods.

“Well. Now that he, and therefore your employer, knows that you are made, you won’t be poking your nose into Truman business anymore, will you?”

Virgil grits his teeth. “Not undercover.”

The man ignores that. “And I know that no matter which you work for, the Lewis clause has been adopted across every arm of that government, and as such you’ll be prohibited from any mission that might bring you into contact with me.”

God damn it. How does he know the spy lessons better than Virgil does?

And then it occurs to him: Janus knew that man. He warned Virgil to get away from him, to get away from Lo—

He rolls this information around in his head. The Lewis clause isn’t exactly a widely advertised part of being a spy; there was a whole trilogy of novels that got adapted into secret agent movies, years ago, that concerned opposing agent spies coming to face each other again and again, and the secondary soulmate agents teamed up together. Which the Lewis clause would prevent, but the public who went and read those novels or saw those movies wouldn’t know that. 

So either this man—Lo? Lo what?—either knows a lot about spies, because he’s one of those know your enemy types, or...

Or he sat down and learned about the Lewis clause the same way that Virgil did, except he actually sat down and listened. Maybe he defected, maybe he’s dirty? Or maybe Virgil’s just overthinking it.

Look. Virgil’s got a lot of questions here. Chief among which:

“Where are you taking me?”

“Away,” the man says vaguely, looking at him. “Are you gay?”

Virgil gapes at him.

“I’d be perfectly fine with a platonic soulmate, but for the sake of disclosure, I am gay.”

“For the sake of disclosure,” Virgil repeats disbelievingly, and pinches the bridge of her nose, rubbing it. God, his head hurts terribly. 

“Bisexual, or pansexual, perhaps?” He prompts. “Asexual? Or... you could be straight, I suppose.”

“Ugh,” Virgil says reflexively, then shakes himself. “I’m not—okay. Fine. Yeah, I’m gay too.”

“All right,” the man says, as if noting it. “What’s your name?”

Virgil snorts.

“What?”

“Okay, I don’t—” he gestures to the limousine around them. “Again, you just drugged me. I don’t know where you’re taking me. You probably would have killed me if I hadn’t said those words.”

The man makes a moue of distaste.

“Or had someone kill me, I don’t know,” Virgil amends. “Either way, you’re working with that family, who I’m assuming aren’t pleased at having a spy getting caught trying to work himself into your ranks, so I’d rather you not know all that much about my life, thanks.”

“It’s not like I’m asking for your,” an infinitesimal pause, as if he’s wracking his brain, trying to remember something, “social security number or anything. A name.”

Virgil stares at this man. Lo—. Lo something. Lochlan? Loyd? Or was it a codename?

“Yours first.”

The man pauses.

“You drugged me,” Virgil says.

He smiles at Virgil. “Will you hold this over my head for the rest of our lives?”

The rest of our lives. Yes, that’s meant to be the fairytale ending for soulmates, isn’t it? A nice little meeting, the swell of overdramatic violins in the background, falling into each other’s arms and forming a life together. That’s the popular answer.

More and more recently, though, people have been advocating for choice; that soulmates are not always the best person for you.

Virgil doesn’t know which camp he and this man will fall into, just now.

“Yes,” Virgil says quietly. “Yes, I think I will.” 

The man sets aside his whiskey.

“Logan.” He says at last, and his accent has changed again; it’s vague, almost indecipherable, but if Virgil had to guess he’d say Midwestern American. Virgil wonders if it’s his real one. “My name is Logan.”

Logan.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“Since discovering you’re my soulmate? I haven’t lied to you at all. Not a word.”

“Except for the accent.”

Logan laughs.

“Habit, sorry. It’s a long story that perhaps the man screaming in your earpiece will be able to tell you one day.”

Virgil jolts with surprise. “You know—?”

He cuts himself off before he can say Janus’ name.

“Reputationally,” Logan says, and, as strange as it is, Virgil believes him. In this, at least.

His soulmate’s name is Logan.

“Virgil.”

Logan smiles, his blue eyes glittering. “It’s nice to meet you, Virgil.”

There’s the sound of a soft knock on the partition, and it lowers; Virgil can’t see the driver.

“Sir? We’re here.”

“Right,” Logan murmurs, shaking himself. He reaches into his jacket and withdraws an envelope, offering it for Virgil.

Virgil hesitates.

Logan rolls his eyes. “It’s not like I’ve laced it with anything. I’m holding it with my bare hands.”

Virgil huffs, but he takes it, opening it and pulling out a thin piece of paper.

It’s a commercial flight ticket to Washington, D.C.

“Why D.C.?” Virgil says quietly.

“Most of those organizations are based there,” Logan says. “Is it too far a jump to assume that you are, as well?”

It is actually too far a jump; it’s not even remotely close, he lives in an entirely different part of the states. But. To be fully honest, he doesn’t want Logan to know the state he lives in, and therefore the state that Patton and Roman live in, until Virgil knows if he can be trusted or not.

Logan opens the limousine door from inside, revealing they’ve pulled up to the local airport.

“What, no private plane?”

“I assumed you wouldn’t trust that,” Logan says with a shrug. “The Trumans may be powerful, but you know as well as I that manipulating a flight of this nature is well outside their purview.”

Logan’s right, he absolutely wouldn’t have trusted that, but. This limo’s pretty swanky. For the time he wouldn’t have been obsessively running over every crack and seam in a private jet and interrogating the pilot, he probably would have had a pretty swell time.

Virgil swallows, looking up at Logan. “There are programs, you know? If you wanted to be a witness. Be in service to—”

Logan smiles at him in a way that’s almost pitying. “I left that life behind a long time ago.”

Virgil looks to the airport, then back at Logan.

“Will I see you again?”

Logan shrugs again, almost delicately. “Who’s to say?”

Virgil nods, once, and he says firmly, “I’ll see you later.”

Logan grins at him. “Not if I see you first.”

Virgil slips out of the limo, slams the door shut, and, with what feels like Herculean effort, manages to get into the airport without looking back to see if he can see Logan through the tinted glass.

He does exchange the ticket for another that’s an hour and a half later, though. He’s not a total idiot.

He gets through security pretty quick, and sits in one of the incredibly uncomfortable chairs, his brain pounding with his headache, the questions swirling around in his head making it even worse. Virgil puts his head in his hands.

He just met his soulmate.

His soulmate is working for a mob family.

He just met his soulmate.

His soulmate is apparently smart enough to specifically engineer a roofie.

His soulmate, though!

Janus knows his soulmate. Janus recognized his soulmate.

His soulmate knew about the fucking Lewis clause.

Was his soulmate a spy too? Was his soulmate in deep cover? Had he betrayed his organization? Was he a good person, or had the universe seen fit to hitch Virgil to someone awful?

How had Logan gotten entangled with the Trumans in the first place? Why wasn’t he in the dossier? 

Where was Logan even from? Did he like coffee? Hot chocolate? What had he studied in school? What was his favorite food? If they were normal people, would he have asked him on a date and not drugged him and dragged him off in a limo? 

Who was Logan?

Whatever the answers to his questions are, though. Virgil knows himself enough to know that he isn’t about to let this case go. Not the Trumans. Not him.

Lewis clause be damned.

[zenithpng]

TOUCH AND GO bruised | touch-starved | hungered

[“Every child is a treasure,” the chief says quietly, one hand pressing Zuko’s forehead into his own shoulder as if Zuko is a lot younger than he really is. “I’m so sorry no one has ever told you that before.”

And with that Zuko is crying into the shoulder of a man he hardly knows. A man that has shown him more kindness in the few days they’ve known each other than his own father has in sixteen years.]

Read more under the cut, AO3 link -> HERE <-

Having adults at the temple is weird, Zuko decides.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust them. Well, maybe he doesn’t quite trust Chit Sang, but Hakoda is a good man. He’s Sokka’s dad. He’s a perfectly kind person. He’s nothing like Ozai.

But for some reason, Zuko’s mind can’t seem to separate the two people.

Every time Hakoda’s deep voice echoes through the temple, he’s back in the throne room, if only for an instant. It’s stupid, and he doesn’t know why it happens, but it does. And so of course, the solution is to stay nice and far away from the whole group.

It’s not that bad really. Zuko’s used to keeping his distance from people. He tries to tell himself that it isn’t so bad. After all, it’s nice and quiet when he wanders off alone, there are no grating sounds, no yelling.

(No liveliness. No hugs from Aang or shoulder-pats from Sokka. No smiles surrounding him.)

He’s in the middle of some solitary firebending practice late in the evening when Aang runs into the room, hands grasping Zuko’s tunic. The elder stammers, thinking there’s some kind of emergency based off the way Aang is all but dragging him out of the room, but the kid just grins at him, bouncing with energy.

“C’mon, c’mon, come on!” he urges. “Get your stuff, we’re having a sleepover!”

“We literally live together, Aang!”

“Not important!” the airbender grins. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go-”

And that’s how Zuko finds himself around the campfire, Aang and Toph on either side of him, both having curled up with the excuse of “You’re the warmest one here.” Well, Zuko isn’t about to argue with the Avatar or the greatest earthbender of their generation, so he resigns himself to his fate.

Aang was somehow right in his excitement. The sleepover is wonderful.

It’s lively and warm and Zuko can almost forget Hakoda’s presence in the group as he laughs at Sokka’s jokes and listens to Aang’s stories. Hours later, long after the sun has set, Hakoda speaks up.

“All right, it’s getting late,” he says through a smile. “Bedtime, everyone.” His tone is warm, not the slightest bit commanding even as he gives an order. The younger kids scramble off to their bedrolls immediately, followed closely by the rest of the group. Zuko remains seated where he is, as does Hakoda.

“Are you going to sleep, Dad?” Sokka inquiries from where he’s spreading out his blanket. Hakoda nods.

“In a bit.” Sokka seems satisfied with this and rolls onto his stomach, falling asleep within minutes.

Just after everyone falls asleep, Zuko and Hakoda stand almost in tandem. Hakoda holds a knife and a half-started carving, while Zuko is empty-handed. They both begin to walk off, Hakoda acknowledging him with a nod.

Zuko takes off at a brisk pace, making the short climb from one of the windows to a particularly scenic cliff face. It’s his favourite he’s found so far, providing him with the loveliest view of the night sky. It’s not uncommon for him to need to step away after being around the group for hours on end, and this is the perfect spot to do just that.

He sits, tracing constellations in his mind, when there’s a rustling from the forest. It’s probably just one of the myriad creatures that roams the woods here, but Zuko’s nothing if not wary. He lights a fire in one of his hands, tensing instinctively for the possible scuffle.

But instead of an animal, Hakoda emerges from the brush.

Zuko immediately drops his defensive stance, his flame growing smaller and softer.

“Sorry, sir,” he apologizes. “I thought there was something out there. Well, there was, but it was just you, and you wouldn’t hurt me, but still-”

“Zuko,” Hakoda interrupts, halting the nervous rambling. There’s a fond smile playing across his lips, almost like Uncle used to get when he saw Zuko actually smile. “It’s all right. I’m just surprised you got up here so fast.” Zuko shrugs, careful not to jostle his flame too much.

“It’s a short climb,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck with the hand that isn’t holding fire. “I can find somewhere else, if you want.” Hakoda just sits down, prompting Zuko to do the same.

“I think I’d like some company actually, if you don’t mind,” he said, taking out his carving. Zuko nods, pulling one knee up to his chest and resting his chin there.

The quiet isn’t awkward in the slightest, which surprises Zuko. The forest sounds and the quiet scrape of Hakoda’s knife blend easily into background noise and Zuko just watches the stars, lost in thought.

“So,” Hakoda begins, breaking the silence after a long while, “what’s the Fire Nation like?” Zuko ducks his head, momentarily caught off guard at the unexpected question.

“It’s, ah, nice.” He twists a flower stem between his fingers. “Warm all the time. The food is good.” Zuko curses himself for his awkwardness, but really, what is he supposed to say? Hakoda just nods though, cutting a little notch into his carving.

“And your family?”

Zuko tenses there, not having expected the conversation to go this way. Any military secrets he would readily spill but this? This is weird.

“It’s… all right,” is what he finally settles on. “My, um, sister is not the greatest as far as sisters go, and well, my father is Fire Lord Ozai, so no favours there. My mom is… gone. My Uncle is alive though! But his son is dead, so. Yeah.”

“That doesn’t sound like ‘all right,’ son,” Hakoda says, brows furrowed with a tinge of - is that concern? Zuko shrugs, going back to picking apart the flower in his fingers. Yeah, when he says it like that, his family kind of sucks. He draws in a shaky breath, thinking of the Water Tribe siblings. They didn’t exactly have the greatest family experience either, what with their mother being killed and their father leaving to fight in the war.

Still, that was somehow better than his. Kinda put things into perspective.

“Is it okay if I touch you, Zuko?”

The firebender raises his head, surprised by the question.

“Uh, yeah? Sure.” Why would Hakoda want to touch him? Subconsciously, he tenses, prepared for any harm that may be about to come to him.

But Hakoda just places a hand on his shoulder, the lightest bit of pressure on Zuko’s skin.

Before he can really stop himself, Zuko leans into the touch. It’s… nice. To have someone touch him so casually, with an undercurrent of care in the contact. Hakoda seems to realize this, and he moves slightly closer, looping his arm around Zuko’s shoulders.

And Zuko suddenly feels very, very small.

It’s been so long since he’s been touched other than Aang’s swift, squeezing hugs or Sokka’s friendly taps. It feels so wrong and unfamiliar but so right and safe at the same time. He’s not sure how to feel or what to do so he just stays there under Hakoda’s arm, trying not to lean in any closer lest he make the situation awkward.

“It’s been a while since you had something like this, hasn’t it?” Hakoda asks. Zuko’s hardly able to meet his eyes after that question, and not able to answer at all. Luckily, Hakoda speaks for the both of them.

“I’m a father, Zuko,” he says. “I can see when a child hasn’t been treated like the treasure they are.” Zuko swallows hard.

“With all due respect, sir,” he mutters, “I’m hardly a treasure.”

Hakoda meets his eyes sadly, takes a deep breath, and pulls him into a full embrace.

“Every child is a treasure,” the chief says quietly, one hand pressing Zuko’s forehead into his own shoulder as if Zuko is a lot younger than he really is. “I’m so sorry no one has ever told you that before.”

And with that Zuko is crying into the shoulder of a man he hardly knows. A man that has shown him more kindness in the few days they’ve known each other than his own father has in sixteen years.

That hurts. That hurts so bad, and Zuko only cries harder.

Hakoda only holds him tighter.

[cherrywoes]

ichi. (acanthus.)

SAKURA GENTLY RAN HER fingers across the soft, barely there pinpricks of hair at the back of her head. The knots had been too large to untangle without time and copious amounts of conditioner, and while she lamented the loss of growth, she found she quite liked the style. There was enough hair left on the top of her head that it could easily cover the uneven lengths of hair clinging to the bottom half of her scalp. She peered at herself through a small hand mirror Tsunade had provided her and didn’t like what she found. She looked too pale, malnourished, and the once healthy glow she had when she was free had vanished. She looked every bit the prisoner they had made her to be.

Any hope she had previously shriveled up and died when she looked at the crimson mark upon her forehead. When she touched it experimentally, it zinged! into the back of her brain where she felt strange bolts of electricity bounce back and forth within and route back to the mark. It was a very harsh reminder that she was no longer Sakura Haruno—she was someone else, someone who killed her teammates because her pride wouldn’t let her admit to her own weakness.

She gave Tsunade the mirror and pointedly ignored the curious look the Hokage sent her out of the corner of her eye.

“Your trial will be as straightforward as it can be, given the circumstances.” Tsunade tucked the mirror into her pocket with a sigh. She looked tired, as well, as she always did since she had become Hokage. Using sake as her coping mechanism didn’t do her any good, either, despite her younger appearance; Sakura could see it weighing on her, the drag of age and idleness. “I don’t think there’s much you can do in your own defense except to be honest; if you’re lucky, the elders might put you in for an extended prison stay—or they could also execute you outright.”

“Isn’t that what everyone wants though?” Sakura pulled her knees to her chest and squeezed them in an attempt to comfort herself. She didn’t have Naruto to reassure her that everything was okay; he was outside of the village, tracking down an errant Sasuke—his life had boiled down into an endless chase of their former teammate. It was all he could think about the last time she had seen him, his mind focused on dragging him back to Konoha even if it was the last thing the Uchiha wanted for himself. He would hate her, too, for this. “For me to be executed?”

Tsunade frowned. “They want answers, Sakura. The families of the men and women you killed, the wives and husbands and sons and daughters—they all want to know why you did it.”

She closed her eyes, faces flashing through her mind in a quick succession. Yamanaka eyes; Hyuuga eyes; the large frame of an Akamichi, smiling, offering her slices of fruit. “I guess they’ll be disappointed when they learn it was because I lost my abilities and killed them instead because of my own stupidity.”

“You underestimate them, Sakura.” The blonde woman shook her head slowly and gathered up the worn and dirty clothes she had left hanging on the side of the basin. “They’re going to hate you for it. It’s your decision whether or not you give them further reason to hate you even more, or prove them wrong and make up for your mistakes.”

Sakura opened her eyes and stared obstinately at the wall, listening to the words unsaid: if they even accept your apology to begin with.

She didn’t expect acceptance at all.

When Sakura took her first step outside in months, the sun made her eyes water uncontrollably. It was no longer winter within Konoha—not that she had ever favored it to begin with—but autumn, the trees turning from green to a myriad of shades between orange, red, and yellow hues. The grass beneath her shoes was crisp, on the verge of decaying and preparing for the next winter, and filled the air with a familiar scent she hadn’t been sure she would ever experience ever again. The sun was comforting and warm as it surrounded her in a suffocating embrace, her skin already starting to turn rusty red with a sunburn. She didn’t mind it, though—it was almost a reminder of the life she had lied to keep and lost.

“Sakura.” Kakashi stood, waiting for her outside the doors of the prison complex. He was early and nearly on time, Icha Icha Paradise’s sienna cover just barely visible from behind his back, tucked away into his pocket. He looked as tired as Sakura felt, dark eye bags highly visible against his skin, so much so that it looked as if he had earned two right hooks to both eyes. “Are you ready? Or do you want to bask in the sun some more?”

Once, she might have thought he was teasing. But the look in his eye, the tone of his voice, all denoted that he was serious, that he would risk being late if she wanted to sit in the sun and burn just a little bit longer, to feel the freedom that had been taken from her by her own actions. She considered it, momentarily, looking to the sky. The light burned her eyes and a single teardrop fell from her right eye and slid down her cheek. “No.”

“Alright then.” He looked unsure, then, eyeing the ANBU guards that stood behind her in their respective Raccoon and Panda masks. She had never seen them before until now, but she knew that Kakashi didn’t recognize them, either, and it was most likely a deliberate move on the council’s part. “Let’s go then.”

The walk to the Hokage tower and, consequently, the council chambers where her trial would be held, was not a peaceful procession. People, ninja and civilians alike—faces she didn’t recognize, she thought with some relief, even though guilt gnawed at her heart—screamed at her, got so close that spittle flew in her face when they yelled obscenities at her. When words failed, they began throwing rotten fruit, vegetables, and even pots of molding and old food. Several slices of sour cantaloupe slid down her cheek, juices clinging to her skin, gnats flocking to the scent. Her ANBU did nothing to prevent them from chucking a pot of scalding chicken broth on her, either. They were for the public’s safety, not hers; and even so, they wouldn’t have stopped them even if they had been ordered to, she figured.

When it touched her skin, burned like acid and lit her body on fire, she didn’t scream. Burnt, acrid flesh was not a pleasant odor, and combined with the chicken broth, it sent several civilians away with nausea. She could hear them exclaiming over the stench with their faces pulled into looks of disgust, both at the people who had thrown it (fondly, because it was ‘justified’, however bad it smelled) and at Sakura as she trudged by, her skin livid red and breaking into fever. The flesh of her arm, some of her neck, and flecks on her cheek would scar, if the agonizing pain sending her brain into a white fog was any indication.

Kakashi, walking ahead of her at a leisurely pace, was forced to remain impartial. She could understand him, of course, in that aspect. The village would turn on him, too, and then he would truly have nothing left. His team was disbanded, Naruto had devolved into a man on an impossible mission and false hopes, Sasuke had left the village and become Orochimaru’s apprentice and, afterwards, his killer, and Sakura, his final remaining student, had become his protege, his perfect copy—a friend killer, a ninja killer, just as he was.

Perhaps, Sakura thought as she fixed her gaze on Kakashi’s shoes, fate worked in very obvious, very deliberate ways, and was not as mysterious as anyone ever said it was.

Sakura arrived at the Hokage tower dripping with steaming chicken broth, mold clinging to her clothes from various entrees of old food, and reeking of weeks old tea that was just on the verge of becoming kombucha. Shizune waited for them, her face harsh and pale and completely emotionless. If she had any opinion on her former friend’s crimes, she gave no indication of it, her mouth pulled into a straight, thin line, her lips as white as her face.

“They have already convened and arrived at a verdict.” Shizune’s dark eyes darted to Sakura momentarily, the pain there deep and unfathomable, and then back to Kakashi, flicking over the ANBU guards and the growing crowd rioting around the entrance of the building. “Her presence wasn’t necessary.”

Her. As if she was a thing to be spoken of, an object. Once that might have angered Sakura, might have forced her into an enraged spiel, but the only emotion she could muster up at the derogatory tone was faint irritation that was suffused by the harsh throb of the burns on her arm.

“Tsunade’s orders.” Kakashi shrugged. He glanced back at her, then at her burns, and sighed. “At least heal her. Those burns could get infected—”

“I am under order not to provide care to Sakura Haruno under any circumstances.” Shizune shifted uncomfortably at that. “As is the rest of the village. Basic necessities, and nothing more.”

Her former sensei said nothing else and Sakura refused to open her mouth and beg Shizune of all people to heal her. She should have been able to heal herself, yet she had not even a scrap of medical chakra to speak of and risked cutting off her own arm in the process. It would probably be preferable to the festering, infected blisters she would gain in the coming days—if she was even alive to experience it.

She suffered in her own silence, closing her eyes against the pinpricks of hot white light that threatened to send her into unconsciousness. It was easy to block out the pain when she was stuck in her head; her pain tolerance was high, but without the help of her seal, of Tsunade’s healing advice and her medical chakra, she was reduced to biting her lips to stop herself from squalling and collapsing onto the wooden floor beneath her feet. Blood flowed into her mouth, metallic and bitter, like the blood that flowed from her teammates’ veins.

Sakura didn’t know how long she stood there in a half daze, flanked by her ANBU and Shizune and Kakashi talking quietly in front of her in short, stilted sentences. Their opposing affections for her prevented them from talking casually; Kakashi’s guilt prevented him from hating her and Shizune’s righteous sense of justice prevented her from offering her even a shred of pity. They spoke in whispers, so she could barely make out what they were saying, but she could read lips as well as any ninja; mentions of war, famine, disease—which made no sense to her, for what could have happened in the span of five months?

“Shizune. Kakashi.” Tsunade’s descent down the staircase, assisted by the wooden handrail, was slow and awkward. She was a little too hunched over, favoring her right hip and leaning heavily on the wall to support herself. Her gaze darted to Sakura. “Sakura. You came here for nothing. The decision has been made. I’m sorry.”

Kakashi stilled to the point that she wondered if he was even breathing. “They’re going to execute her?”

“Execution… would be a mercy at this point.” Tsunade produced a scroll from her pocket. Shizune’s strangled gasp was loud enough that it caught the attention of the ANBU. It was a thin scroll, no bigger than an index finger, and lined with gold and red trim. Sakura had never seen such a scroll in all her life, but with the way Kakashi went pale and Tsunade looked so defeated, she had to wonder what fate could be so awful, so terrible that even her nonchalant, uncaring teacher would appear to be frightened and disgusted. “The orders are clear and the vote was unanimous. Sakura Haruno will be given to ANBU, given a rank within the War Operations party, and shipped to the frontlines by dawn tomorrow.”

Shizune inhaled sharply. “It’s a death sentence in its own right.”

“Sakura isn’t suited for war,” Kakashi advised, voice breaking slightly. “They couldn’t agree on anything else? Not even execution?”

Tsunade shook her head slowly, guiltily. “Execution was too clean for them. A prison sentence was a slap on the wrist. The people wanted blood—so they gave it to them. Let her spill it for the name of the village, for the people they lost, they said.”

“And what if she survives?” Sakura couldn’t ignore the thread of concern that wove through Shizune’s question. “What about after the war?”

Tsunade looked at Sakura, then, her mouth turned downwards into a deep frown. “Then she may be free; but she can never return to Konoha.”

Nothing else needed to be said. Tsunade passed the scroll to Kakashi and vanished back up the stairs to her office, Shizune following without a glance back. The ANBU removed the chakra cuffs on her wrists, and while it might have felt like a cooling sensation when it returned to her system, all she felt was pins and needles, her nodes brimming to life with malicious energy. She rubbed her wrists tenderly, avoiding the burns as much as she could, and felt Kakashi’s hand land on her shoulder, squeezing it gently.

“Come on.” He veered her towards the back exit, where the crowd wouldn’t be able to see her. “We’ll go to my apartment, fix you up, and grab some supplies. Then… Then we wait.”

Wait for her inevitable departure and then, most likely, her death, of which Kakashi would probably never hear about.

“Kakashi-sensei?” She croaked. She could feel tears threatening to spill down her cheeks, burning her lash line and a knot forming in her throat. “Can I ask you for a favor?”

He paused, hand reaching for the knob of the exit. “Of course, Sakura.”

“Take care of my parents for me, please.” Sakura blinked rapidly to clear the tears from her eyes, the pain in her arm dulled to a numb sensation. If she hadn’t lost all of the nerves in it, she would count it as a blessing, even if she deserved it. “Without me, I don’t think they…”

“Don’t worry.” Kakashi ruffled her hair with a playful hand. It wasn’t quite as effective as it had been when it was shorter, but she could feel the affection within it besides. “I’ll watch over them, Sakura, I promise you.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, and he pushed open the door, sunlight spearing through the crack and enveloping her in its oppressive warmth once more.

That night, if Kakashi had any complaints about Sakura sneaking into his room and hugging him tightly, sobs wracking her lithe frame for the first time in months, he didn’t say anything. If she noticed him hug her back, tears running delicate rivers down the striped pillowcase he laid his head on, she gave no indication, pouring her soul out for possibly the last time in the safety of the arms of someone she loved.

Dawn broke, and with it, so did the remnants of Kakashi’s heart.

prologue | masterlist | 二 (ni)