#thanks for the prompt from what three months ago? I am going through the depths of my inbox

[birgittesilverbae]

In honor of yesterday's confusing anon, can we have the first time Shannon "language!"ed Mary in the tmtl-verse?

The midday sun burns hot across Mary's scalp, and she presses her face into the mat with a groan. She pulls her knees under herself, balls up her fists and shoves upright, struggles to her feet. Shannon watches her with a lazy smirk, then raises her hands in front of her again and curls two fingers, beckoning Mary towards her. 

"Jerk," Mary groans, but she's quickly learned just how incapable she is of ignoring any request from Shannon, no matter how much of a fucking dick move it is. She wipes her mouth on her sleeve, navy fabric going black with the blood from her split lip, glares up at that stupid grin.

"Coward," Shannon retorts, eyes sparkling. "Come on, Mary, let's have another go."

"More like you should go to hell."

"Language!" Shannon hisses, darting a glance back over her shoulder.

Mary furrows her brows, a headache growing that has nothing to do with her smarting mouth. "What?"

"Suzanne won't hesitate to make you pray a hundred Hail Marys if she catches you talking like that."

"Oh, fuck that," Mary groans, spitting a mouthful of blood out in disgust. "I got my fill of those at boarding school." She eyes Shannon thoughtfully, pumps her eyebrows up and down. "What'd you say, Shan? Did you tell her to choke on a dick when she was being a twenty-four-seven bitch last week?"

"No." Shannon tries to affect an aloof tone, but the corner of her mouth jumps towards a smile. "She was getting on me about coming to training tired and I said I hadn't gotten much sleep because I'd been too busy fucking her mom the night before."

[mianavs]

Hello~ I saw your requests are open and since I loved your Kurapika toxic HC's I was wondering if you could write something for him? NSFW or SFW but as dark and angst as you want please? Maybe reader hurts herself because she feels empty and when is going to do the do with Kurapika he notices? I am not creative, sorry but I love bad endings and suffering lol

thank you for the prompt and i hope you like the scenario! ngl, writing this made me all sorts of sad but i also like angst/suffering. that being said, dark content below so read at your own risk!

tw: self-harm, drugs, blood, smut

wc: 1.3k+

“Y’wanna know what your fuckin’ problem is? Y’feel too much and sooner or later it’s gonna catch up t’ya.”

That was what your boss had said after your first mission as an assassin three years ago. You could still taste the bile you retched, hear his roaring laughter as he watched you, see the needle that pierced his skin and the liquid that disappeared from the syringe into his forearm.

He died of an overdose 6 months later and that was enough to permanently steer you away from drugs. You preferred to feel pain instead of being numb, so you turned to blades instead of needles and got addicted to slitting your skin instead of shooting up heroin.

You started off small with little nicks in hidden places like the back of your thighs, under your arms, and on your hands. The sting helped you cope with the guilt you felt after eliminating your victims that included criminals, parents, murderers, and children alike—your job didn’t discriminate.

But like any other addiction, you started building up a tolerance to the pain and the little cuts just didn’t do it anymore. You pressed down harder and dragged the blade more until scarlet crevices opened up, disgorging a steady stream of blood. With each incision, you sucked in a breath and let the sharp pain course through you. Whenever you cut down too deeply and tears welled up in your eyes, you blinked them away, remembering the life fading from your victims’ eyes. If they didn’t cry at death’s doorstep then you sure as hell couldn’t after only a couple of gashes.

Even though you drowned in guilt as soon as you stumbled back home, you never hesitated during a job and that was the version of you he met—the confident, cold-blooded killer.

It wasn’t his power, intellect, or stunning blood-red eyes that drew you to him like a moth to a flame; it was the barely subdued rage that seeped out of him even when he tried hard to conceal it. Kurapika was probably the only person in the world who was as miserable as you and that comforted you to some extent.

An extended job with a mafia boss in York New had you running into him frequently at meetings or events to his vexation. From the permanent scowl on his face whenever you were in his vicinity to the cutting contempt whenever he addressed you, it didn’t take long for you to conclude Kurapika didn’t like you in the slightest and you wondered if it was because he recognized the misery in the depths of your eyes.

You soon learned his poison of preference was liquor and during those nights when you found him at a rundown bar surrounded by empty bottles, you sat next to him and watched him down glass after glass. You made it a habit to count the number of drinks it took until the hatred in his eyes turned into a melancholia that tugged at your bruised heart.

Most of the time, Kurapika ignored you completely but sometimes he spoke to you and, at his most vulnerable, even asked you to drink with him. You never understood the appeal of alcohol and hated the strong bitter taste of it, but you never rejected the invitation Kurapika extended and swallowed every last drop of the liquor he poured. It never took long for the effects of alcohol to hit until you completely blacked out, yet, somehow, you always made it back to your bedroom the following day.

It was your last night in York New when Kurapika invited you for a drink and, like always, you accepted with a false smile that matched his forced civility. After pouring you a couple of drinks and only a bottle in, he spoke to you.

“Why do you insist on drinking when you hate it?” He didn’t even sound buzzed while your face was already flushed.

“Would you believe me if I said it’s because I’m interested in you?”

It was meant to be a joke and you even quirked your head for effect but something shifted in Kurapika’s eyes and suddenly you became awfully aware about how close the two of you were. His eyes shifted down to your lips and your throat constricted when you felt his slim fingers thread through your hair as he drew you in for a kiss.

Your heart thumped erratically in your chest like the first time you cut someone down and a river of blood appeared at your feet. Your skin burned like the first time you lost control and made cuts all over your body until all you saw was red. Kurapika’s bruising kiss and harsh grip on your hair blurred your vision with tears of pain but his warm tongue and intoxicating taste opened up a foreign pool of emotions that you were falling into headfirst.

You only became vaguely aware of your situation when the two of you were peeling off each other’s clothes in a moonlit hotel room. If Kurapika noticed the slightly protruding lines that marred the entire surface of your skin in varying tones, he didn’t mention it and continued to touch, grip, bruise, kiss, suck, and bite all over until you forgot all about your disfigured body.

Despite it being your first time, he wasn’t gentle and you loved it that much more. He stretched you out until you were bleeding when he first bottomed out while you dug your nails into his skin and bit down on his shoulder. The sharp pain continued when he pulled out almost completely before snapping his hips back and filling you up to the hilt.

Pleasure came when he adjusted your position and continuously hit a spot deep within you while sucking on your tits until your nipples became red and swollen. The pain never left, however, as his teeth bit down on your sensitive breasts and his hands held your thighs in a bruising grip.

You cried out your pleasure amidst the mess of blood, sweat, and tears and, seconds later, Kurapika groaned his before pulling out and covering your stomach with spurts of his hot semen. The two of you laid in the bed until your breathing evened out and the sticky pink residue between your legs dried up.

When your high subsided and self-loathing reared its ugly head again, you ignored the growing ache in your lower half and sat up, scanning the room for your clothes. Just when you’d gathered enough strength to rise to your feet, cold fingers traced the scars on your arm, causing you to shiver from the sudden contact.

“Why?”

It was only one word but you knew exactly what he meant. Your first instinct was to make something up to hide your weakness like the assassin you were trained to be, but you decided to be honest for the first time in your life.

“Coping mechanism…for my job. Pain helps me hate myself a little less.” You replied, cursing your quavering voice and the hot tears that threatened to spill. You didn’t deserve to cry and he sure as hell would rebuke you for it.

Except, he didn’t.

“Don’t we all have them? Things we hate about ourselves.” His voice was softer than you’d ever heard but it was the words he spoke that made you surrender to the sobs building up in your chest. You lowered your head and let the tears fall to the ground. The sound of your crying was something you always hated, so you buried your face into your hands to muffle your wails.

The bed shifted underneath you and before you could turn around to see what Kurapika was doing, soft lips pressed a kiss to the scar on your shoulder. The gentleness of the action only made you cry even harder because you knew it was something you didn’t deserve but you wanted it, nonetheless.

[fuckallthegood0nesweretaken]

Sandor Clegane X Reader - Five and One

Title: Five and One

Words: 5,574

Warnings: Slight violence 

A/N: This might be turned into a series, but I don’t know just yet. If you’d like to request something, send me an ask. I’d love to write for you! There’s a Kiss Prompt list, a NSFW Alphabet list, and a Headcanon list. If you have an original idea, don’t hesitate to send in an ask for that as well.

If you’d like to support me, I have a Ko-Fi and a Patreon. I’ll be posting all of my work to Patreon first from here on out and I’ll even be posting some non-fanfic writing there as well. 

Sandor Masterlist

Game of Thrones Masterlist

Masterlist 

~~~~~~~

The five times Sandor Clegane wanted to kiss you

 1.

It was a hot day in King’s Landing and you were positively miserable. You had moved there seven years ago, just before the birth of your nephew, Joffrey. You were used to the cooler climate of Casterly Rock and the only reason you agreed to move into the Red Keep was because of your siblings. You had always been close to them and it had hurt to be so far away from your family.

 This is how you found yourself walking to the cooling pools, a little Joffrey in tow. You were easily his favorite person, not including his mother. He absolutely adored you and you adored him too. Joffrey giggled and tugged on your hand.

 “Come on Auntie! You promised to teach me how to swim!”

“I know, my love. We’re almost there,” you said with a sweet smile.

 Sandor was following closely behind, eyes never leaving your form. Once he realized he was staring, he shook his head lightly to clear his thoughts. Sandor and you had a, friendship, of sorts. He was always around Joffrey, being his guard since birth, and in turn he was almost always around you as well. If Joffrey wasn’t in his lessons or with his mother, he was with you.

 You could never say no to Joffrey when he wanted to spend time with you. You loved your nephew dearly and wanted to cherish the time spent with him while you could. It also helped that you liked Sandor’s company and he was with your nephew all the time. You shook yourself of your thoughts and turned to Joffrey.

 “We’re here!” Joffrey looked around the cooling pools with wide eyes.

 “It’s pretty,” Joffrey said, slightly in awe. There were three pools in the room, each with different depths. The clear water was slightly blue due to the stones at the bottom and the sunlight shining through the large windows made it sparkle. The temperature was significantly lower than outside and you were visibly more relaxed.

 “Are you ready to swim, little one?” You said to your nephew. He nodded excitedly, a wide smile on his face. “Alright. Let’s get started then.”

 Sandor turned around when you started taking off your outer layer of clothing and only faced you and Joffrey when he heard splashing. He watched as you taught your nephew how to float on his back and when he was having trouble, Sandor watched as you were patient with him.

 “Sweetheart, it’s alright,” you cooed. “It takes a while to be able to swim. No one gets it in a day, so don’t worry about that.”

 “I bet you got it in a day, Auntie,” Joffrey huffed. You let out a laugh and pinched Joffrey’s cheek.

 “Actually, I didn’t know how to swim until I was almost fifteen.”

 “That’s so old!”

 “You hush, little one!” You said as you tickled Joffrey lightly, your face in a false pout.

 “Why did you learn so late?” Joffrey questioned.

 “Well, when I was a kid, my father, your grandfather, didn’t want me learning anything of that sort. He viewed swimming as being in the same ring as sword fighting and other, lordly things, things that a lady shouldn’t do. But one day, I fell into the water at Lannisport and almost drowned. Luckily, my father wasn’t far away and managed to get to me in time. After that, he made all of us learn how to swim.”

 “So now you’re teaching me how to swim?”

 “I am. When Marcella and Tommen are big enough I’ll teach them and if you have any other siblings, I’ll teach them as well.”

 After a few more hours, Joffrey had learned how to float correctly and how to hold his breath under water. You were about to teach him how to tread water when someone came walking into the cooling pools, asking for you.

 “Lady [y/n], King Robert is calling for you,” the servant said.

 “Did he say what he needed me for?” You asked.

 “He did not, my lady.”

 “Alright. Come on, little one. We should get you back home.”

 “But Auntie! I want to stay here with you and to keep swimming,” Joffrey pouted.

 “I know, sweetheart. But your father needs me and don’t you want to see your mother? Get some food in that little belly of yours?” You tickled him again and Joffrey’s laugh echoed throughout the chamber.

 “Okay, Auntie. Do you think Uncle Jaime and Uncle Tyrion will be there too?” The two of you climbed out of the pool and Sandor handed you some towels.

 “Thank you, Ser Clegane,” you said to him with a smile. Sandor only grunted at you and turned away as you looked at Joffrey.

 “I’m going to go change real quick. You go with Miss Ava and get changed too, alright?”

 “Yes Auntie.” You kissed his forehead before going to the changing rooms.

 Sandor watched you walk away and he shook his head. He was having a hard time controlling himself and if he didn’t get his shit together, bad things would happen. But he couldn’t help himself. You were so kind and gentle, and when he saw you interacting with your family, all he could think about was kissing you senseless.

 When you walked out of the changing rooms, Sandor clenched his jaw shut and followed closely behind you when you started making your way back inside the Red Keep.

  2.

You couldn’t wait to get to Winterfell. The long trip would finally be over and you’d get to sleep in a real bed for the first time in a month. You’d also be able to see Ned and Catelyn again.

 “Auntie, you’ve been here before, right?” Joffrey asked you as you rode beside him on your horse. Sandor was behind you, silently listening to your conversation.

 “I have. I went with your father some years ago to help with some diplomatic things.”

 “Did you enjoy Winterfell?”

 “I did. It’s a beautiful place and the Summer snows are absolutely wonderful,” you said.

 “It snows in the Summer?” Joffrey’s eyes were wide and you let out a laugh. Sandor snorted lightly behind his helmet but no one heard him.

 “It does.”

 “But it’s Summer time,” Joffrey said. “Do you think it’ll snow while we’re here?”

 “They’re so far North that they get snow all the time, even when it’s Summer. It’s definitely possible that it could snow, but I don’t know for sure.” You gave your nephew a smile and pointed to the horizon. “We’re almost there.”

 Joffrey looked to where you were pointing and saw Winterfell in the distance.

 “We’re here to ask Lord Stark to be my father’s Hand, right? Do you think he’ll accept?”

 “I hope so. Ned Stark is a good man and he’ll make an excellent Hand of the King.”

 Joffrey kept asking questions and you answered them to the best of your ability, Sandor listening to every word. You were the only one that was able to make the prince less of a prick than he normally was and Sandor thought that it was hilarious. Not even his mother could make him do the things you could.

 When you crossed Winterfell’s gates, Joffrey went silent and you sat up straighter. Your eyes met Catelyn’s and you smiled at each other. The youngest Stark girl looked at you in awe and you winked at her before Robert made himself known and everyone knelt on the ground. After Ned and Robert greeted each other and Robert looked at Ned’s children, you dismounted your horse and walked up to Cat.

 “Lady Stark, it’s good to see you,” you said, giving her a hug. You turned to Ned. “It’s good to see you too, Lord Stark.”

 “’It’s been too long,” Ned said as he kissed your hand. Cersei walked up and you moved to the side so the Starks could greet their Queen.

 “Nine years, just as the King said.”

 “Ned, take me to the crypts. I need to pay my respects,” Robert said, giving no room for argument. You gave your elder sister a sad glance when Robert said that and watched as they walked off.

 ---

 You had been in Winterfell for a couple days when you saw Joffrey angrily talking to someone, Sandor looming behind him. Brows furrowed, you walked towards the three of them. When you could hear what he was saying, you narrowed your eyes.

 “Do you know how much this cloak cost?!” Joffrey yelled. “Tell me how much you think it cost!”

 “I-I don’t know, your grace,” the woman stuttered out, clearly terrified.

 “Tell me!” The woman whimpered and you stalked towards them.

 “Joffrey Baratheon, what is the meaning of this?” You said. You stopped a few feet away from them and put your hands on your hips. Joffrey turned to you and pointed at the woman.

 “This peasant poured wine all over my cloak,” Joffrey hissed. Sandor rolled his eyes and shook his head when you glanced at him.

 “And that means you can yell at her?” Joffrey was about to speak but you silenced him with a glare. “No, it does not. You can get a new cloak. Now, apologize to her at once.”

 You could tell that Joffrey was biting his tongue and you narrowed your eyes slightly. He gave in and looked at the ground before glancing at the woman.

 “Please forgive me. I acted rashly and rudely,” Joffrey said, voice low.

 “It’s a-alright, your grace,” the woman said. She glanced at you and you motioned for her to leave. When she was gone, you turned to your nephew.

 “Joffrey, you need to learn how to keep your emotions in check,” you said.

 “She wasn’t paying attention and spilled wine all over me, Auntie.”

 “That doesn’t matter. It was an accident and accidents happen.” You took his face in your hands and made him look at you. “You are to be king one day, sweetheart. A king needs to know when to release his anger and when to keep it in check. Yelling at servants because of accidents is not a kingly act.”

 “You’re right, Auntie. I am sorry I acted like this,” Joffrey said.

 “It is alright, my love. Just remember that when you are king, fear will be needed, yes, but you also need kindness.”

 “I will.” Joffrey kissed your cheek and walked away. You sighed and looked at him as he walked away.

 “He’s lucky to have you by his side,” Sandor said quietly.

 “Let’s just hope that he continues to listen to me,” you said. You gave Sandor a small smile and bowed your head at him before walking back inside the castle.

 Sandor let out a breath and leaned against the wall as he watched you leave. You were so kind and he knew that you would be going to find that woman and apologize to her again, even though you didn’t need to. He smacked his fist against the stone and pushed himself upright before walking back into the castle.

  3.

The day Marcella was sent to Dorne, you cried. It felt like it was the last time you’d see her and your heart broke as you watched her get smaller and smaller. Once she was a speck on the horizon, you walked with your family and Sansa through the streets of King’s Landing. The crowd was getting restless and when you saw Joffrey get hit in the face and heard the swords zing as they were pulled from their scabbards, your heart felt like it was going to beat out of your chest.

 Joffrey was yelling and fighting broke out. You were with Tyrion and you both watched in horror as the crowd converged on a Septon and ripped his arm from his body.

 “Tyrion, where’s Sansa?” You said. Your eyes darted around the street and you saw no sign of her anywhere. Tyrion pushed you towards a guard and he grabbed you before guiding you inside.

 You sat down and immediately someone came over to you and checked you for injuries.

 “I’m fine,” you said. “Other’s need your help more than I do.”

 “My Lady—“

 “I’m fine! Where is Lady Sansa, Ser Meryn? Has she made it here safely?” You said as you stood up.

 “I haven’t seen her, Lady Lannister,” Meryn said.

 “Go out there and find her. Bring her here.”

 He was about to speak when you heard Joffrey say, “Let them have her.”  

 “If she dies you’ll never get your Uncle Jaime back!” Tyrion said. He walked up to Trant. “Ser Meryn, take some men and go find the Stark girl.”

 “I take my orders from the King!” Meryn spat. Tyrion turned to Joffrey, expecting him to say something, but Joffrey just got up and walked away.

 “I’ll go talk to him,” you said.

 “He listens to you. Go talk some sense into our nephew.”

 You started walking to Joffrey when the doors opened with a crash. Spinning on your heel, you were prepared for the horde outside but all you saw was Sandor carrying Sansa. Talking to your nephew was pushed from your mind as you ran to the girl.

 “The little bird’s bleeding,” Sandor said as you got to them.

 “Sansa! Oh god’s.” You cupped her face in your hands and brushed away her tears. Sansa clung to you, scared out of her mind and as you ushered her away from the commotion, you turned to Sandor.

 “Thank you for getting her back,” you said. Sandor said nothing back, but stood straighter.

 “Well done, Clegane,” Tyrion said.

 “I didn’t do it for you,” Sandor said. His eyes darted in your direction before he stalked off.

  4.

When you heard the bells, you knew the siege was happening. You were in your room and ran to the throne room just in time to see the tail end of Joffrey’s men leaving and Sansa walking back to her handmaiden, Shae.

 “Sansa!” You said as you approached. “Why aren’t you in the holdfast?”

 “The king wished for me to see him off before the battle,” Sansa said.

 “I hope he wasn’t too much of an ass?” You said quietly. Sansa’s eyes widened and she shook her head.

 “No, never.”

 “It’s alright, love. I love my nephew, yes, but he can be such an ass at times even though I’ve tried talking to him about it.” You gave her a smile and kissed her cheek. “The two of you go on and get to the holdfast. I’ll be there shortly.”

 “Where are you going?” Sansa asked, worry in her voice.

 “To give my brother and nephew my luck for the upcoming battle. Now go!”

 Shae took Sansa’s hand and started leading her away. You took a breath before walking outside to find your family.

 ---

 When you got to where Tyrion and Joffrey were, they were arguing as usual.

 “The two of you seem to never stop bickering,” you said. You were walking up the steps, and the men turned to look at you, surprise written all over their faces.

 “Auntie? What are you doing here? You should be in the holdfast,” Joffrey said.

 “For once we agree on something,” Tyrion said.

 “I missed you in the throne room. I came to give the two of you luck for the battle.” You gave them a smile and took Joffrey’s hand.

 “You will do well to listen to your uncle, my love. I know the two of you do not get along, but Uncle Tyrion is a smart man and he knows what he’s doing. Now stay safe, and come back to me and your mother, alright?”

 Joffrey just nodded and you kissed his forehead. Then you turned to Tyrion.

 “Stay safe, little brother,” you said. “I expect to see you for our weekly dinner tomorrow night as always.”

 “Of course, dear sister.” Tyrion grabbed your hand and kissed it, giving you a small smile.

 “And Ser Clegane, I expect for you to keep my family and yourself alive,” you said to Sandor.

 “Yes, Lady [y/n].” Sandor bowed to you and you dipped your head in return.

 Turing to face the water, you heard the sound of distant drums and saw the first of Stannis’ fleet appear.

 “There they are,” Joffrey said.

 “Archer’s to their marks!” Tyrion said. His order was relayed and he looked at you. “It’s time for you to get to the holdfast.”

 “Yes, it is.” You took a breath and looked at your family. “I love you both. Come back unharmed.”

 Tyrion nodded and pointed at a soldier. “See to it that my sister is escorted safely back to the holdfast and you will be paid your weight in gold.”

 “Yes, milord. Right away.”

 You started walking away, giving one last glance to the ships appearing one by one. Pushing your nerves aside, you made your way back to the Red Keep and into the holdfast. Once you got there, you thanked the soldier and opened the doors. Sansa saw you almost immediately and walked over to you.

 “Has the fighting started yet?” She asked you.

 “No, but I saw the fleet. It will start soon enough,” you said. You saw the fear in her eyes and pulled her close. “No harm will come to you, little one. If Stannis manages to win this battle, he will not hurt you.”

 “How can you be so sure?”

 “What I am about to say is not something that sounds nice. Do you want to hear it?”

 “Yes.”

 “You are a bargaining chip, little one. An ugly fact, but a fact nonetheless,” you said. “Stannis will want to make sure the North falls in line and will need you to help him.”

 “Just like Cersei made me do for her.”

 “Exactly like that.”

 “Will you be hurt?” Worry was in her voice and you gave her a smile.

 “I am a Lannister, love. Even though I haven’t done anything with the battle, I am still his enemy. I will be one of the first in here to die.”

 “I won’t let that happen,” Sansa said. You kissed her forehead and took her hands.

 “Stay strong for the people here. They won’t get it from my sister. Show them the queen you can be,” you whispered. Sansa nodded and you kissed her forehead again. Right then, Cersei came inside the holdfast with Tommen and he came running towards you.

 “Auntie!” He said.

 “My little love!” You swept him up in your arms and kissed your sisters cheek, the two of you walking to the back of the room.

 “I heard you went to the battlements earlier,” Cersei said.

 “I did. I missed our brother and your son so I went to them to give them my luck.”

 “How kind of you.” There was a slight bite to her words but you ignored it.

 The two of you sat down, Tommen sitting on your lap. Tommen fell asleep quickly and you pretended to do the same, listening to Cersei and Sansa talking. It was only when Lancel burst into the room did Tommen wake and you jerked with surprise at the noise. You listened as Lancel updated Cersei on the battle and as she told him to get Joffrey back inside the Red Keep.

 When Lancel came back and told Cersei that all hope was lost because the soldiers saw Joffrey leaving, you had to hold back a laugh when Cersei pushed your cousin down and stormed out of the room, Tommen following her. Sansa then saw it fit to take your advice and calm the women, offering to sing a hymn with them.

 “You must go,” Shae said to Sansa. “Run to your chamber and bar the door.”

 “Come with me!” Sansa whispered.

 “I have to say goodbye to someone. You need to run.”

 “I’ll go with you,” you said. You locked eyes with Shae and she nodded.

 “Come, Sansa. Let’s go.”

 ---

 When you got to Sansa’s room, you made sure all the windows were shut as Sansa locked the door and brought a lantern over to her vanity.

 “We’ll be safe here, love,” you said quietly. Sansa picked up a doll and you sat down.

 “The ladies are starting to panic,” a voice said. You jumped from your seat and stood in front of Sansa, ready to take the brunt of an assault until you saw who had spoken.

 “Seven hells,” you said, squeezing Sansa’s arm.

 “What are you doing here?” Sansa asked him.

 “Not going to be here for long. I’m leaving.”

 “Where?” You said, approaching him.

 “Some place that isn’t burning.” He looked at you and Sansa. “North, most likely.”

 “What about the king?” Sansa said.

 “He can die on his own, just fine.” Sandor took a drink of wine and stood up. “I can take you with me. Both of you. I can keep you safe.”

 “I’ll be safe here,” Sansa said. “Stannis won’t hurt me.”

 Sandor surged forward and Sansa flinched back. You stayed silent as Sandor went on about killers and when he was done, Sansa stood up straight and looked Sandor in the eyes.

 “You won’t hurt me,” she said.

 “No, little bird, I won’t hurt you.” Sandor looked at you and you shook your head.

 “I can’t leave either,” you whispered. You saw his face fall for a split second before he turned away.

 “Sandor, wait!” He stopped in his tracks, heart beating a mile a minute. That was the first time you had called him by his first name and he already loved the way it rolled off of your tongue. You walked up to him and put your hand on his arm.

 “Can we speak outside?” You asked. He nodded and unlocked the door, stepping outside. You turned to Sansa and said, “I’ll be back in a minute, love. Don’t lock the door, we’ll be right outside.”

 “Okay.”

 You walked through the doorway and closed the door behind you before turning to look at Sandor.

 “I can’t leave her by herself,” you said. “Besides Tyrion, I’m her only ally in this gods forsaken place and she needs me. She’s like a child to me.”

 “I know,” Sandor said. He looked you in the eyes. “Keep her safe.”

 “I will. You stay safe as well. My nephew won’t take your leaving kindly.”

 “As you wish, Lady [y/n].”

 You bit your lip and after a moment’s hesitation, surged forward to kiss Sandor’s cheek. He stood still in shock and stared at you as you went back inside Sansa’s room. The click of the lock spurred him into motion and Sandor left you and King’s Landing behind.

  5.

When you saw your brother step out of the carriage, you swayed slightly. Sansa steadied you and gave you a push.

 “Tyrion!” You cried. Running toward your brother, you fell to your knees and embraced him tightly. Tears were running down your face and you felt him wipe them away.

 “So you went to Winterfell when I told you to flee. How has that worked out for you?”

 “Pretty well. Except for me losing my eye,” you said, laughing softly. “And I see that the rumors were true. You’re the Hand of the Queen.”

 “I am.”

 “Lord Tyrion, who is this?” You heard the Queen say.

 “Your grace, this is my other sister. Lady [y/n],” Tyrion said. He kissed your cheek and the two of you stood up.

 “Forgive me, your grace,” you said. “I did not mean to interrupt the formalities.”

 “It is quite alright. It’s nice to finally meet you. You’re one of the few people Lord Tyrion speaks highly of, Lady [y/n].”

 “I’m flattered, your grace,” you said. Bowing slightly, you looked at Daenerys. “If you’ll excuse me, I should get back to Lady Stark.”

 “Of course.”

 You turned and returned to your place next to Sansa and watched as they interacted for the first time. What you didn’t see was Sandor riding in, but he saw you.

 You were radiant in his eyes, standing there. You didn’t look like the lady he had left behind in King’s Landing. There was an air of confidence around you that you didn’t have before, standing straight up with a sword at your hip and a dangerous glint in your eye. Sandor was so distracted by you, he didn’t realize someone had grabbed his horses reigns until they started speaking to him.

 “Milord, I can take your horse to the stables for you,” the man said.

 “I’m no lord,” Sandor said gruffly as he dismounted his horse.

 “I can still take your horse for you, if you’d like.”

 Sandor grunted as a reply, but let the man take his horse anyways. He didn’t really care what happened to the horse, if he was being completely honest. All he could focus on was you.

 ---

 At the meeting, you finally saw Sandor Clegane. You were sitting next to Bran and Sandor was standing at the back of the room. The two of you had made eye contact and you gave him a smile, tilting your head in greeting. He did the same and you turned your attention to the meeting going on.

 Lord Umber had just left and now Lyanna Mormont was talking to Jon. You loved how sassy she was and so did almost everyone else. Then, Tyrion started talking.

 “If anyone survives the war to come, we’ll have Jon Snow to thank,” Tyrion said. “Thanks to his courage, we have brought with us the greatest army the world has ever seen. We have two full-grown dragons. And soon, the Lannister army will march North to join our cause.”

 You sat straighter at those words and looked at Sansa, brows furrowed. That couldn’t be true. Cersei would never join forces with the Starks and the last Targaryen, least of all the two people in the world she despised the most: you and Tyrion. Tyrion kept talking but you weren’t paying attention anymore. You were too busy looking around the room, gauging the people’s reactions.  

 Lady Mormont was seething in her seat, Royce was shaking his head in disbelief, and everyone else was trying to speak all at once. You made eye contact with Sandor and cocked your head to the side, silently asking if it was true. He nodded and you sat back in your seat, mind running a mile a minute.

 The meeting was over soon after that bomb was dropped on you. You kissed Sansa’s cheek before walking to the back of the room and stopping right in front of Sandor.

 “Sandor,” you said, looking up at him.

 “Lady [y/n],” he said, bowing slightly.

 “Just [y/n]’s fine. Don’t feel much like a lady nowadays.” You laughed and Sandor scoffed lightly.

 “You serving the Little Bird now?”

 “In a sense. Brienne and I both protect her but I’m also protecting her little brother, Bran. I also give her advice when needed,” you said. “It’s not what my father had in mind when he taught me war tactics and probably not what my brothers thought would happen when I started training with a sword.”

 “You seem happy,” Sandor said.

 “I am. It’s been a long road to travel, but I’m glad that I got to Winterfell in one piece. Well, mostly.” You let out another laugh, Sandor frowning.

 “When did that happen?”

 “I was almost at Winterfell when I ran into Brienne and Podrick. Pod recognized me and convinced Brienne to let me tag along. Not long after, we found Sansa and Theon being attacked by some of the Bolton men. One of them got my eye but I took his life.” You shrugged your shoulders nonchalantly but Sandor stayed quiet and let you explain how you had gotten to stand by the Starks side.

 He heard all of what you said, but couldn’t stop staring at you. He had known you were alive due to hearing it come from Jon’s and Tyrion’s mouths but seeing you here, in the flesh, made his brain stop working. He short circuited even more when you told him you had helped out with the Battle of the Bastards, but calmed down when you said it was just with the strategy.

 “I’ll also be fighting the dead when they arrive.” You looked at Sandor and found him staring back at you, face unreadable. “Sandor?”

 “You’re what?”

 “Fighting in the Great War. I’d planned on it before Cersei said she was going to help us and I’m still going to now. Even if I don’t think she’s actually going to send anyone to help. My sister only loved five people in this world and now it’s down to one.” You were about to continue, but someone came up to you and said that Sansa needed you.

 “I’m sorry, Sandor. This conversation will have to be continued later. I hope you find your stay in Winterfell better than the last.” Tilting your head slightly, you walked away.

 Sandor watched you go and rubbed is face in irritation. He didn’t want you to fight, especially since he’s seen them up close, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to stop you. Sighing to himself, Sandor started walking deeper into the castle, mind running all over the place.

  The one time Sandor Clegane kissed you

 1.

The dead were here and no matter how much you thought you were, you weren’t ready. You were up in the battlements with Sansa and Arya, watching the Dothraki being obliterated by the Night King’s army and to say you were scared would be an understatement. When Sansa went down into the crypts, you stayed up top with Arya and shot arrow after arrow at the dead.

 The dragons were impressive but when the cold winds came whipping through Winterfell and obscured them and everything around you, you went down off of the battlements to join your brother Jaime, helping with the retreat. Once the trench was lit, you took a second to breathe. This small moment would allow who was left to regroup and make sure they were still equipped to fight the battle.

 “You should get to the crypts, [y/n],” Jaime said. You glared at him and he flinched slightly.

 “I’m not going anywhere. I’m perfectly able to fight, just the same as you.”

 “I just don’t want you to die!”

 “No one here wants to die, Jaime. But I’d rather die here, defending everyone, and not run away like a coward,” you said. You turned and grabbed his arm. “I’m not leaving. I’m going to fight by your side, okay?”

 “Alright.” Jaime kissed your cheek just as soldiers started yelling.

 “Man the walls!” Was all you heard.

 Sharing a look with your brother, the two of you ran up to the battlements, Jaime relieving the archers and you sending them up higher. You sheathed your sword and took out your Dragonglass knife, readying it for when the Wights came over the walls. Jumping up and down slightly, the first Wight came and you stabbed it in the head.

 ---

 Sandor was faring no better than anyone else. All he could see was fire and all he could think about was you. The only thing that took his mind off of you was Arya. Seeing her in danger spurred him into motion and he found himself running through the halls of Winterfell to get her to safety.

 ---

 When the dead started rising again, you felt your heart drop. You were in the courtyard with Jaime and you blindly grabbed his hand. He squeezed it and you looked at him, fear all over your face.

 “Fight till our last,” you said. Jaime nodded.

 “Fight till our last.”

 You were soon joined by Brienne and Podrick, the four of you fighting off the new dead with everything you had. Blood was flying everywhere, the sounds of fighting and your own heart beating were the only sounds you could hear. You only stopped fighting when the Wight you were fighting dropped without anyone harming it. Exhausted, you stumbled back, falling against Jaime.

 “We’ve won?” You said, breathing heavily.

 “I think so,” Jaime said back. You let out a small laugh and turned to embrace your brother. He hugged back and after you let go, you saw Sandor walking towards you.

 “Oh thank the gods! You’re alright!” You said, walking towards him as well.

 There was a smile on your face and before you knew it, Sandor had swept you into his arms and was kissing you like he was never going to see you again. After a moment, you started kissing back, the initial surprise over. When Sandor felt you reciprocating, he snaked one hand down to your waist and the other to your cheek.

 Sandor stopped the kiss and put his forehead to yours, breathing deeply. Your eyes were still closed and when you felt him start to move away, you grabbed his arms and stopped him.

 “[Y/n], I—“

 “I love you,” you blurted, interrupting him.

 “What?” He had a look of bewilderment on his face and you giggled.

 “I love you, Sandor Clegane. I have for a long time.”

 He said nothing and pulled you in for another kiss. You could feel the smile on his face and you couldn’t keep one off of yours either.

 “I love you too,” Sandor muttered.

[missdawnandherdusk]

A Girl’s Choice

Draco X Reader (highschool!AU)

Summary: Everything was absolutely fine in his small town, until you stumbled in and began to defy the status quo.

A/n: So, guess who got Midnight Sun and has been reading it non-stop for the past few days? Me. It was me. So, please enjoy this Twilight Parody of our favorite characters. Also I get to move back to college in like a week and I am EXCITED--mainly because there’s a good chance that I get a room to myself bc of the virus. So yay me. I love you guys a lot and really thank you for your patience and enthusiasm. It makes me smile. 

“So, Gin asked me to the dance this morning,” Harry was chatting you up—a normal occurrence before class started.

Draco didn’t mean to eavesdrop on you. He really didn’t, but he was intrigued about how this would go down. Since moving to the small town, you had been a buzz among the boys in the grade level. Draco could all but assume that most of the fantasized about you asking them to the girl’s choice dance coming up.

“That’s great!” You genuinely smiled. “You’ll have a lot of fun!”

Harry fumbled, losing his casual composure. You noted on it, and your look became more skeptical and judgmental—something Pansy would approve of.

“Well, I told her I’d think about it,”

This surprised Draco as much as it seemed to surprise you. It was no secret that star lacrosse player Weasley and Potter were all but official and had been for almost all of high school.

“Why in the world would you tell her that?” Your words mimicked his thoughts.

“Well... I thought maybe you’d... want to ask me?” He ran a hand through his usually untidy mass of curls.

Draco could not make this up if he wanted to. He barely suppressed the laugh that threatened to escape his lips. How in hell had Harry figured that you’d want to go to the dance with him? You’d been here maybe a month. As far as Draco knew, you weren’t interested in anyone. Perhaps the small town didn’t have enough shine for your city lights.

“You should tell Ginny yes, Harry,” You scolded him like a child. “It’s rude to make a girl wait,”

“Yeah, I guess,” Harry sulked, his face falling as the bell rang, signaling the start of class.

Draco couldn’t wipe the amused smirk from his face. You huffed annoyed and opened your notes, already prepping a new page for today’s lesson. You didn’t pay him any mind during class—a normality between the pair of you. Draco ignored you and you returned the favor. It was almost easier this way for him. Your shiny new toy status had no effect on him. He had every shiny toy he ever wanted. You had no appeal to him.

Harry, however, Draco stole glances over from time to time. The green-eyed jock pouted throughout the entire lesson, stealing glances over to you. You hardly noticed. Instead you were doodling in your notebook, waiting for the teacher to move on.

Maybe the stars aligned, or maybe you did fascinate him, but Draco found himself in the lunch line next to you the following day as another tried to ask you to the girls choice ball.

“So, I heard you turned down Potter,” Cedric gave off-hand. “Waiting to ask someone else then?”

Draco snorted, and this time you did give him the slightest glare before turning back to Cedric.

“I’m not going,” You answered curtly, grabbing fruit from the stand. “And no, I don’t plan on asking anyone.”

“Why aren’t you going?” Cedric almost pouted.

“There doesn’t have to be a reason.” You snapped. “I’m not going,”

Draco could only imagine the glare that you gave Cedric for him to back off so quickly. Again, a smile quirked at his lips. You might be the shiny new toy, but you weren’t going to be used like a porcelain doll.

“So, has she asked anyone yet?” Pansy asked as he sat beside her at their usual lunch table.

“She’s not going, and you totally missed her going off on Diggory,” Draco grinned. “That girl has to have a glare that rivals yours,”

“She turns down Potter and Diggory... do you think maybe she’s into chicks?” Pansy asked almost hopeful.

“Wouldn’t know and don’t care,” Draco shrugged. “Besides, she’s not going to the dance so go ask Greengrass before it’s too late,”

Pansy sulked and stabbed her salad with a bit more vigor than before.

You stormed into the chemistry classroom a bit more irritated than he had seen you in the cafeteria. He wanted to guess that another guy had tried to ask you to the girl’s choice dance because honestly it amused him to see you so upset. It was cute how riled up you could get from some unwanted attention. He wondered how far you’d have to be pushed before you actually started swinging. Maybe he wanted to find out.

“So,” He asked pointedly. “Anyone else try to ask you to the dance?” 

“Oh, fuck off Malfoy,” You hissed making him grin wider.

“Well, I was wondering if—”

“If you even start to finish that, I won’t be so forgiving,” Your hand clenched into a fist and Draco thought that maybe you’d actually try to hit him, but Snape walked in as the bell rang, taking any chance away from you.

Draco sat back smugly in his chair—to your great annoyance—as class droned on. At the end of the hour Draco followed you out, calling your name. You froze in the hallway, before turning to face him.

“I’m really not in the mood right now Draco,” Your strained voice gave a hint of weariness. “What is even with you guys? Can’t you just leave a girl alone? I’m not going to the stupid dance and I’m not just saying that so I can ask someone else,”

Before Draco could get a word in you stalked away, disappearing in the crowd. And he stood there, dumbfounded. Was he not amused an hour ago about your annoyance? Did it not make him smile that you were tortured by your suitors? Why all of a sudden was he frowning and loathing Potter and Diggory—and whatever poor bloke had the unfortunate courage to ask you before class—even more for winding you up?

“It was Krum,” Pansy didn’t even say hello as she sat next to him in Spanish. “He was the one who tried to ask her,”

“She said no to Krum?” Draco’s eyebrows shot up. “You might be right, she really might swing the other way,”

“Aw, but I already asked Daphne,” Pansy pouted.

“Pans, darling, I think if anyone else breathes near her about the dance she’s gonna send someone to the nurse,” Draco chuckled. “So maybe you dodged a bullet there,”

She sighed wistfully. “Still, it’s nice to dream,”

____________________________________

“So, did you ask anyone to the dance yet?”

“Dad, I really don’t want to talk about this,” I huffed, kicking off my shoes. “I’m not going to that stupid dance,”

“Well, I know it’s probably not as glitzy as your uptown shindigs, but you should still go and have fun,” My dad set down his paper. “Make some friends while you’re here,” His tone was hopeful, as I knew it would be.

He wanted me to be happy here. He wanted me to fit in and enjoy my time in the middle of nowhere. It was a farfetched dream. But it was mine, I supposed.

“I have a few friends,” I insisted. “But I’m not one for dances... and the guys in town aren’t exactly... appealing,” I decided.

“Well, not that a father will complain about his daughter not wanting to date, but maybe you should go with a group of friends or something?”

“Everyone’s paired off, dad,” I sighed, looking in the fridge for something to make for dinner.

As I set off to do my chemistry homework, my mind meandered to my chem partner. It was out of character that he spoke to me today. Normally we disregarded another in comfortable silence. It had been that way since I showed up. And though it might have stung a bit in the beginning, I could tell quickly that Draco and his friends were the wrong sort of crowd that I didn’t want to be caught up in. The kind of crowds that I escaped by moving from my city life.

And I liked the crowd I had found; Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Neville were all very sweet and welcoming on my first day and had sort of adopted me into their group without looking back. Not that there was much depth in any of their lunchroom conversations, but at least I wasn’t alone. Hermione was the only one I could hold a conversation with—she had AP classes as I did and was a saint when I needed homework guidance.

Chemistry, however, was the one subject she couldn’t help me with. She had opted out for AP Environmental instead, claiming she had done her time with Snape and would rather dropout than be in his class another year.

So, it left me begrudgingly texting Draco about tonight’s homework. He was the only other one in class that seemed to keep up easily. Maybe it was because he was a shoe shiner class pet of Snape’s.

Malfoy: Oh, so you’re talking to me now. Don’t want yell at me again?

My cheeks flushed in anger and embarrassment at his response. He was never one to hold back what he was thinking—even if it was brutal.

Y/n: I’m sorry for snapping at you. It wasn’t fair to you. I’d give a reason, but I doubt you’d care

Malfoy: Pansy already told me that Krum tried to ask you to the dance. That’s what? Three guys now? If I hadn’t stopped her, Pansy wanted to ask you too.

Y/n: At least it would have been a girl asking me to a girl’s choice

Y/n: And you’re short one, Ron asked me too

Malfoy: Weasel? Wow. Never thought he’d have the guts to ask anyone 

Y/n: He’s actually going with Hermione

Y/n: Now will you please help me on 7?

And to my surprise, Draco was quite civil about walking me through the covalent bonding prompts. It made me feel a bit more guilty about snapping at him earlier today.

Seeing how I struggled on the homework, I wasn’t surprised that Harry came over during study hall and asked me for help on the same, if not more, questions. After the first couple, he griped that I was too similar to Hermione for knowing it all. And that it wasn’t fair that it came so easily to me.

“Actually, Draco helped me,” I smiled as I showed my notes to Harry for the next question. “He might help you if you ask,”

That was a long shot. Harry hated Draco and vice versa. It didn’t take me long to figure that one out.

“Malfoy helped you? Like actually helped you?” Harry scoffed. “The little prat,”

“Hey,” I warned snatching my notes away. “If you’re not gonna be nice about it I won’t let you use my notes,”

“Oh, come on, don’t be like that,” Harry pouted. “You know I was kidding,”

“Yahuh. Sure Harry,”

“Oh, come on,” Harry tried again. “He’s a prat. Always has been,”

I rolled my eyes, not wanting to hear anymore of Harry’s lamenting, and grabbed my bag. “I’ll be in the library,”

Wordlessly I left, fuming slightly. The music from my headphones thawed out my anger towards Harry a bit as I pushed the doors of the library open and sat at a table, pulling out my calculus homework to go over it one last time.

“This seat taken?”

I barely heard the question over my music. My eyes darted up to meet steady grey ones.

“It’s a free country,” I shrugged then remembered that I want particularly irate towards Draco at the moment. “Thank you, by the way,” I murmured, taking out one of my headphones. “For the chem help,”

“I might have had an ulterior motive,” Draco mumbled, pulling out a binder.

“If you think I’m gonna ask you to the dance because you helped me with my homework you have another thing coming Malfoy,” I warned.

“I think every guy in the school has got that by now,” a smile played at his lips. “No, I... I need help in McGonagall,” He was almost sheepish to admit it.

I raised an eyebrow at him skeptically, but he did seem genuine about needing help.

“I’m not sure I’ll be much help, but I can try. My old teacher, Jones had a different way of explaining it...” I trailed off, a pang of remorse about leaving my old school in my chest.

And maybe the way Jones taught me made more sense to Draco because he did eventually start to understand the calculus on the paper beneath us. I realized that Draco was very methodical. He enjoyed having rules that worked every time no matter the question. A failsafe that kept him ahead of the curve.

“Do you miss it?” He asked as we started to pack for the next hour. 

“Miss what?”

“Your old school? It has to be a lot different than this hell hole,” His words were nonchalant but still skeptical.

“It’s not so bad here,” I defended weakly. “But... I miss it, yeah. I feel like I have to prove myself all over again. Back home—back in New York no one questioned me. The teachers trusted me... the staff knew me...” I sighed. “I’m a stranger here.”

The warning bell rang and the same sense of dread that settled upon me reflected in Draco’s eyes: we were halfway across campus and there was little hope of getting to Snape’s class in the two minutes we had left.

Both scrambling, we headed for the doors and tore down the hall. I followed Draco’s path because if I was honest, I still didn’t quite know my way around the school nor the quickest ways to certain buildings.

“Miss Y/l/n,” Snap looked down disapprovingly at me. “I hope you have reason for being late or it’s Saturday detention for you,”

My anxiety spiked as I fumbled out an explanation. In the corner of my eye, I saw Harry stand, ready to come to my defense, but there was no need. Flawlessly Draco directed the attention of the irritated teacher to him with a sly smile and quick lie, that wasn’t really a lie at all.

“It was my fault,” Draco smoothed quickly. “I was having Y/n help me with McGonagall’s homework and I kept her late.”

Snape’s eyes darted between the two of us before he sighed, telling us to get to our seats before he gave out detentions for disrupting his class.

With a breath of relief, I sat beside Draco. 

“Thank you,” I murmured.

He shrugged and took out his notes and homework just as Snape began to go over it. And we went back to ignoring each other. Except, this time, it deemed impossible for me not to glance at him every so often, or for my eyes not to drift to his notes on the table, making sure that I hadn’t missed anything. The hour seemed to end quicker than normal. As usual, Harry walked to gym with me, chatting about the upcoming game before the dance this weekend.

“So, you and Malfoy?” The comment caught me off guard. “I don’t like it,”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s nothing Harry,” I shrugged. “No need to let your little feud make up wild stories. He just needed help with calc,”

“Sure, the golden boy needed help with his homework,” Harry said flatly. “That’s believable.” 

“And what about it is so farfetched?” I demanded.

“He’s doing it for some reason. He knows you turned me down, maybe he’s trying to get at me by being nice to you,” The offhand comment had my blood boiling.

“Are you serious right now!?” I snapped. “What is so wrong with you that you can’t see past your own ego!?”

Storming off, the only relief from my anger I was allowed happened when I ‘accidentally’ pelted Harry with a ball in the face, sending him to the nurse. When my anger faded, doubt remained. Was Draco only trying to be nice to me to get at Harry? From what I knew of Draco secondhand, I wouldn’t put it past him.

______________________________

Draco was shocked when Snape had called on you for a homework answer, and you admitted that you didn’t know. Didn’t you know that he didn’t mind you texting him about the homework? That helping you wasn’t the worst waste of his time in the world? You had done it before. Not days ago. And yet you allowed yourself to be ridiculed by Snape for your lack of habitual knowledge.

You didn’t notice the small frown that lingered on his face for the remainder of class as you kept your head down and doodled in your notebook. Deciding that he didn’t like your comatose, he did something that deemed childish: he passed you a note.

You ok?

You stared at the paper and looked over at him, biting your lip before scribbling: 

Fine. Pay attention.

Rolling his eyes, he took the paper back and wrote:

I can’t if you’re over here moping.

You took the small piece of paper and crumpled it in your hands, shoving it into your bag. Draco decided to leave you alone for the rest of the hour his curiosity still burning through him. A quick meeting of Harry’s livid stare, and Draco had a better idea of what was going on. He just hoped, for perhaps the first time ever, that he was wrong.

“Oi, what the hell did you say to Y/n?” Draco demanded, singling Potter out in the hall the next morning.

His curiosity and suspicions had festered over the night. Draco had made the conscious decision to text you, asking if you needed help with chem, and your lack of response had him worrying again.

“What are you going on about Malfoy?” Ron crossed his arms, coming to Harry’s defense.

“Stay out of this weasel,” Draco hissed, noticing the crowd that began to gather around the small confrontation. Most of his attention, however stayed focused on cold green eyes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Malfoy,” Harry tipped his chin back. “What? Is she not bowing down at your feet like you’re used too?” A laugh barked out of him and Weasley and a few other onlookers.

“At least she’s got enough self-respect to not be on her knees for you,” Draco heard the familiar condescending voice of Pansy beside him. A grin curled onto his face at her words.

Harry didn’t know what to say to that it seemed, and it further proved Draco’s suspicions. 

“So, you did say something to her,” He accused. “She got her not a month ago and you’re already dragging her into our mutual hatred?” Draco wouldn’t stoop that low. It was pathetic. 

“Well if you hadn’t gone and pretended to need help with McGonagall’s work, there wouldn’t be a problem,” Harry gritted, as if he had the high ground.

“As opposed to you who pretends he doesn’t need help them blames others when he fails?” Draco snapped.

There was quite a large crowd gathering around now, and he and Harry were less than a foot apart. Both boys were on the verge of snapping.

“Draco?”

Your voice was enough to distract him that he didn’t see Harry throw the first punch. Pain blistered across his jaw as fury burned in his eyes. Now the kids around them were chanting and egging on the fight. But Draco never had the chance to swing back.

Because you had drove yourself into the cleared circle and delivered a few punches of your own.

“What the fuck is wrong with you!?” You shouted at him kneeing him in the groin leaving him keeled over, groaning. “I told you to back the fuck off!”

Draco wasn’t as surprised at the comment as he was about the knowledge that you knew how to beat the pulp out of a star football player without a whim. You never seemed like the athletic type but the blood pouring from Harry’s nose begged that you were slightly more dangerous than Draco had originally thought.

“Are you okay?” Your wild worried eyes were trained on him.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” He didn’t mean for the words to be so harsh, but the hurt that flickered across your face made him regret them.

He wished he had time to explain exactly why you shouldn’t have done that, but McGonagall and Snape were already upon the scene and threatening detentions. He and Harry, of course, were called out as the other students scattered.

“McGonagall, please,” You stood loyally beside him, despite his harsh words. “Draco didn’t have a hand in this, I did.”

Both teachers raised their eyebrows in surprise. Draco just gaped at you. Harry was glaring and still bleeding.

“I see. All three of you go to Dumbledore’s office.” She said, her careful eyes not leaving yours.

Harry strode off first, perhaps feeling smug in the fact that either way, you or Draco would be in trouble for this encounter. Draco wondered if you knew you had just bought yourself three days suspension for fighting.

You were silent beside him as you flexed your hand. He pondered if you had hurt it in your fervor. He almost asked you. Then he remembered the hurt on your face at his last words and decided against it. You wouldn’t want to talk to him.

“So,” Dumbledore said pointedly. “I heard there was a bit of a skirmish today in the hall,” An amused smile sat upon the principal’s face, no doubt taking in Harry’s state. Draco wondered if his skin was bruising yet.

“It was me,” Draco said not realizing what he was doing.

“Oh, don’t you even,” You were scathing at him, your hands clenched again, pain flitting across your face—you definitely hurt your hand then. You turned to Dumbledore. “Harry swung at Draco and I stepped in. I’m the one who did it.”

“Mr. Potter?” Dumbledore raised an ancient eyebrow.

Harry seemed like he was debating whether or not he wanted to admit getting beat up by a girl. The thought made Draco smile, causing his jaw to hurt. He tried to flex it but halted when pain blossomed again.

“That’s what happened,” Harry admitted under his breath.

“And why, Mr. Malfoy, did Potter swing at you?” Dumbledore turned to him, an amused smile lingering on his face.

“I thought that Harry had said something to her that hurt her. She... wasn’t keeping up on homework and it was unlike her. After she turned Harry’s proposal to the dance down, I thought...”

“You turned down Mr. Potter’s proposal to the girl’s choice dance?” The principal turned back to you.

“His, Weasley’s, Cedric’s, Viktor’s,” You muttered, much to Dumbledore’s delight as the older man began to chuckle.

“Had quite a welcome here, haven’t you?”

“You could say that again,” Folding your arms, your face became solemn. 

“And do you have a reason for your actions?”

“I don’t like bullies, no matter where they come from,” Confidence founded your voice as you squared your shoulder. Never once had Draco ever heard someone call Harry a bully. The words had always been reversed. Everyone in the school saw the reputation in Draco, never Harry.

“Well, under normal circumstances, I’d have to suspend you and Mr. Potter here, but instead, I’m suspending you from being allowed to the dance this weekend. All three of you,”

“But sir!” Harry argued.

“Not another word Mr. Potter.” Dumbledore rose from his office chair. “My decision is final.”

Three ‘yes sir’s were mumbled as the three of you filed out of the office. You began to walk away, towards your next class Draco assumed, but he caught your non-injured hand, Harry slinking away himself.

“Let me go,” You shrugged him off.

“Wait,” Draco caught up to you, blocking you in the narrow hall of the office. “Look, about what I said,”

“Forget it Draco,” You snapped, and he could see unshed tears in your eyes. “Just leave me alone,” You pressed past him with a bit more force than necessary that had him after you again.

“I didn’t mean it like that!” He called, and you actually paused, your head turning in interest.

“Then what did you mean?” Your voice with thick. “Cuz all I see is a rich little prat who can’t say thank you. Or a self-centered guy who thinks I need someone to fight my battles for me. A high and mighty guy who thinks he can tell me what to do,” Your words were sharp and snarled. “So please, tell me what you meant.” The challenge dripped dangerously from your scowl.

“I...” Draco fumbled for the right words. “I’m not worth getting suspended for,” Your anger turned to confusion, turned sympathy, turned neutral.

“But I’m worth fighting for,” It was a stubborn and bold declaration. “And I know that,” A pause as you turned to leave. “So yeah, I should have done that,”

___________________________

I couldn’t help the tears that streamed down my face as I nearly ran to the parking lot, yearning for the safety of my car. Slamming the door shut, I let out a frustrated yell and slumped in the seat.

The backroads under my tires held a calming solace as I drove the long way home. It was something that New York couldn’t replace: the backroads I had grown up on. With the windows down and the radio blaring, all of my thoughts were tuned out.

At a red light, I found the courage to call my father and explain what happened. He said I was grounded this weekend for fighting, but I didn’t mind much. It got me out of having to go to the dance, even if Dumbledore hadn’t already said I couldn’t. I smiled when my dad told me he was proud for standing up for myself and beating the hell out of Harry.

I found myself smiling as I pulled in at home. Icing my hand and popping some pain killers just in case, I scrolled through my notifications, only answering Hermione. I didn’t care what the school gossiped about or what rumors started because of the fight. Hermione just wanted to know if I was okay and if I’d want her to send the homework from the classes I missed. I told her yes to both and thanked her.

Another notification popped up.

Draco: are you okay? how’s your hand?

I stared at the notification, and instead of deleting the icon like I should have, I opened it and gazed at the words. His mood swings were giving me whiplash. I thought about ignoring it, but he had already seen that I had read it. Cursing modern technology, I responded.

Y/n: fine

Mulling it over, I sent another text.

Y/n: can you send me the chem homework? please

The messages that followed were unexpected. Steady and clear photos of his notes for the day— and week it looked like—as well as the worksheet Snape had given. I felt a pang if gratitude towards Draco in that moment and his words from earlier settled in.

Draco has confronted Harry because he was worried about me. Somehow, he had picked up on how Harry’s words had affected me and driven me into doubt and a few missing homework assignments. Tears sprung back up in my eyes without my consent. It left me regretting the words I had snapped at him earlier. I let him know as much with another text.

Draco: most of it was justified

Draco: I know I’m not the easiest person to know 

Y/n: I was still wrong to say it. I’m sorry

Y/n: and you’re not so bad :)

There wasn’t a response from him for half an hour, so I settled down and began to transcribe his notes into my own notebook, then began to untangle the questions that the worksheet gave me. The crumpled note from a few days ago spilled out of my bag. I took it, unfurling it, running my hand over his words. I tucked it in my chemistry binder, smiling softly at his kindness.

Anxiety fluttered in my chest the next day as I drove up to school and parked in my usual spot. I felt torn between two clicks—probably the only two clicks this school had, and I had managed to get caught in the middle of a turf war—the thing that I wanted to escape by moving back in with my dad and I still managed to find myself in the same situations. Maybe it was just me. Maybe I was the problem.

Shaking the thought, I headed to first hour just as the bell rang in my efforts to avoid confrontation. Other than a few approving comments from my sorta friends, no one seemed put out that I had fought their golden boy. It eased my anxiety as the day went on. I was quelled a bit more when I heard that Harry wasn’t in school today. And maybe I smiled at that a bit.

“The jackass deserved it,” Ginny shrugged, “If you hadn’t shown up, I wouldn’t have hesitated either,”

She calmed the majority of my fears with her words unknowingly. If there had been one person I didn’t want to cross it was Ginny—she was fierce and took no prisoners. If the school had a queen bee, it would have been Gin.

“Is your hand alright?” Luna asked during art class. “You seem a bit off your game today,” She noticed my failing live portrait.

Luna was always quiet but observant of others, and it drew me towards the peaceful girl. Her calm nature as well as my fierce need to protect her from bullies kept me as her partner despite the seat changes in Trelawney’s art class. The teacher didn’t seem to care as Luna and I were some of her best students although Luna’s whimsical style contrasted my realistic preference heavily.

“It hurts a bit,” I answered truthfully. “But not enough to cry about,” There were yellow and purplish tinges to my knuckles, but nothing was broken.

“Everyone’s talking about it,” Luna semi-whispered. “Are you and Draco together?”

“No,” I answered a bit more harshly than I meant and refined my answer. “I was tired of Harry being an egotistical ass and dragging me into it,”

“He’s probably just jealous,” Luna gave offhand, adding some shading to her sketch. “Boys are like that,”

“Jealous? Of what?” I scoffed. “He’s with Ginny, and it’s not like I fancy anyone at this school,”

“Yes, I heard about all the failed proposals to the dance.” A smile touched her lips, “Regardless, from the outside, the only person you’ve shown interest in is Draco, and Harry doesn’t like it,”

“Well, he needs to get over it,” I muttered. “I’m not some prize to be won,”

My annoyance didn’t fade as I slumped into my seat at lunch, grateful that Harry was absent today because I might have just gone off on him again. Stupid teenage boys thinking they have some claim over a girl.

Harry was back the next day, looking worse for wear. I went to apologize, but he didn’t allow me too, saying he deserved it and the he was the one who was sorry. I wondered if Ginny had a hand in his apology. Shrugging, I decided it didn’t matter. At least Harry, and maybe everyone else at the small school, knew that I could handle myself.

The weekend passed, and I didn’t notice much. Hermione sent me a few pictures of the dance. They held no interest to me, but at least they were having fun.

On Monday, it seemed that Draco had gone back to ignoring me. At least that’s how it appeared for about the first half of Snape’s lecture. Then every so often I’d catch him staring at me, or my notes. His eyes would quickly dart down when he realized that I had noticed his gazes. It left me frowning and struggling to focus.

It was Wednesday that Hermione and I talked about the calculus test coming up on Friday. I glanced over to Draco, wondering if he’d need help or a study partner for the exam. I wondered if he’d be too proud to ask. Or if I’d be too stubborn to offer.

“Go over there and ask,” Hermione nudged my arm, picking up on my train of thought.

“I shouldn’t,” I shook my head. “Besides, you’d be a better tutor than I am,”

“Yes, but Draco doesn’t like me. You on the other hand,” An amused smile lingered on her face.

“We’re friends,” I insisted. “That’s all,”

“More than it was last week,” She pointed out. “Draco’s always been a stuffy prat, but I see how he is with you. He’s almost... normal.”

My eyes shifted back over to his lunch table, where he was hunched over a book, tuning out the dark-haired girl beside him as she prattled about something adamantly. Something the girl said must have caught Draco’s attention, perhaps she warned him about my gaze, because his eyes met mine. I looked down quickly, my cheeks flushing.

“He’s coming over,” Hermione whispered.

“Stop staring,” I hissed under my breath, breaking my own rule by looking up.

“Can I talk to you?” His voice was quiet and guarded, his eyes sliding over my company. 

“What’s up?” I asked casually.

“Alone?”

I looked to Hermione who was saying if I didn’t go, she’d never forgive me with a single look.

“Sure,” I stood, gathering my things and followed him out of the cafeteria and down the halls, to the library. “Did you want help for the calc test Friday?” I asked softly as we sat at the same table as our previous encounter.

“Well, yes,” He chuckled softly. “I... also wanted to talk to you... about last week, and...” His eyes refused to meet mine. I waited in silence for him to continue. “This... this doesn’t have to be anything, and I know you’d probably rather it weren’t... but I’ve never actually...”

I raised my eyebrows, leaning closer to him, the butterflies in my chest growing more restless with each second that passed. They had begun to arrive on the day of the fight, and now it seemed like they were taking flight for the first time.

“You came here a month ago... and in that time have managed to capture every guys heart in this school and then proceeded to turn most of them down. You’ve gotten into fights and out of trouble and you’re really someone I should avoid, but... I don’t want to, not anymore.”

“You think you should avoid me?” The question was soft on my lips. His eyes flashed to mine in brief panic.

“Again, not what you think,” He sighed and scrubbed his face, then proceeded to wince at the pain that no doubt was triggered by his action. “I should avoid you because if I’m being honest, I’m not much better than Harry, and I wouldn’t be someone you’d want to be with. And it would make it easier for the both of us if I avoided you.”

“Cards on the table then?” I mused softly and he nodded, begging my candor. “I know what they say about you. And I have my own opinions, but...” I paused and smiled. “You are the first guy who hasn’t acted like an arrogant jackass to me,” Then mended, “At least in a way that hasn’t made me want to deck you,”

“That’s comforting,” A smile reached his eyes this time.

“And... if it had to be anyone... I’d probably want it to be you,” This surprised him, told by the expression on his face. “In terms of intelligence, I feel semi-confident to say that you wouldn’t drive me mad with your lack of knowledge, because most of the kids at this school are so dull,” I muttered then continued. “You’ve been kind to me, and never pushed me into doing anything I haven’t wanted to do,”

“So, you wanted to beat the shit out of Potter then?” The same smile turned to a grin.

“It was bound to happen eventually,” I chuckled softly. “You gave me a valid excuse, to which I thank you,”

“Shouldn’t I be thanking you? For ya know, being my knight in shining armor coming to my rescue?”

I laughed at his words and shook my head at his antics.

“Does that make you my damsel in distress?” It never occurred to me how easy it might be to talk to Draco, considering we’d barely said a word to each other since my arrival.

“If I must be,” He feigned distaste, the smile not leaving his face long enough to convince me of his façade.

A silence fell between us.

“Is this something then?” His words were riddled with uncertainty.

“It’s not nothing,” I offered. “But I don’t know what it is yet.”

“Would you be willing to see what it is?” Draco’s voice turned hopeful.

“If you’re willing to be patient,” My eyes met his grey ones, storms above the seas held in them. “I don’t really... date. Flings and a list of exes isn’t really on my bucket list ya know?”

“Understandable,” His smile returning. “Not that I prefer them either,”

I sighed softly. “People are gonna talk, if they’re not already,” It was a defeating thought.

“Let them talk,” Draco shrugged, lost in thought. “That’s all they do. No matter where you go,”

“It’s a bit worse in a small town,” I challenged.

“I’ll give you that,” He chuckled. “But things are a bit less scandalous in a small town,”

“Granted,” I thought of New York and how the smallest things morphed into rumors and gossip that took down empires. Here, in the middle of nowhere our problems seemed almost trivial.

“So,” He raised an eyebrow at me, awaiting my verdict.

“So,” I mimicked. “This... this can be something,”

 ______________________________

Draco had never once thought of dating. Ever. Whereas Pansy couldn’t wait to have her next summer love, Draco... he was reserved. Not that he ever held it against Pansy, and of course he was there to curse the name of her exes with her, but him dating? It was laughable.

He could claim that ‘you weren’t like other girls,’ but it’d be a lie. You were just the perfect mix of being like other girls that appealed to him so much. The girls he had passed in the halls for years and never once felt attraction to were now suddenly a bit more interesting. Granger had calculus with you and was very good at the subject, sharing your passion for it. Ginny had the same fire in her eyes as you did when you were angry. Even Lovegood seemed less like a spaz and a bit more down to earth in the few passing moments that he saw her when picking you up from art class.

“I might warn you,” he whispered gently the next day, hand in yours as you headed to the cafeteria. “Pansy has been dying to talk to you... so heads up,”

A laugh fell through your lips as he opened the door for you, the cafeteria, once buzzing solemnly was now almost hushed as eyes turned to the couple at the door.

“Oi! Malfoy!”

Draco tensed at the curt calling of his name but relaxed when you smiled and waved to Ginny.

“Come sit with us,” The redhead offered. “No need in you taking Y/n away from us,”

“Get Pansy,” You smiled, letting his hand go as you went to drop your stuff at the table before heading toward the lunch line.

“Can I talk to her now?” Pansy demanded.

“She’s all yours,” Draco chuckled, trailing behind his dark-haired friend, a smile resting on his face as you entertained all of Pansy’s question with unbelievable grace.

Tensions were high as Draco sat with you at your usual lunch table, Pansy on his other side, but it seemed that you, Ginny, and Hermione had the boys under control, so nothing more than loathsome glares were exchanged before the conversation settled into something pleasant.

It took a couple weeks, but the bruises on your hand and his jaw faded, then soon Harry’s broken nose was healed, and it was as if nothing had ever happened. As if it were preposterous that your group ever had animosity against another.

True to your word and his, it wasn’t exactly dating. He dedicated a lot of his effort to figuring out what you were comfortable with and what you weren’t. Something that appealed to both of you was holding hands in the hallways. The gawking faces of those around you seemed to keep a smile on your face. You had tamed the rich prat and he had tamed the spitfire in their eyes. And perhaps he was a bit kinder to those around him. And maybe you weren’t as volatile. Maybe you had finally settled into the small town.

Slowly it seemed, you sifted into the role of a girlfriend—well, whatever the equivalent was for you and him. It took some coaxing and a compromise, but you allowed him to pick you up and drive you to school—three out of five days of the week. He looked forward to those mornings and didn’t mind leaving earlier as long as you were at the end of the road under his tires. You were defiant about him paying for things, mundane things like lunch or random gifts, so he tried to keep it at a minimum, or at least didn’t let on how much he had spent on you.

Draco was never one for physical affection. His parents had been distant and reserved. Closed off. He wasn’t bitter about it, but he was worried that it might affect how he was around you. But it seems that you were a bit standoffish as well. The abrasion faded over time, but it was still never over abundant. You held his hand, that was easy and almost routine for the both of you, and though he hadn’t kissed you yet, displays of make outs in the halls never appealed to any part of him. Ever.

But he wouldn’t forget the first time you kissed him. It was a quiet night at your place after you two had studied for Snape’s final. You declared if you looked at another carbon bond you were going to scream, so you slammed your binder shut and led him to the old sofa and pulled him down, both of you nestled beside another as you flickered through TV stations, settling on something that held half your interest.

His arm draped around your shoulder, a gentle sign of affection that you returned by resting your head on his shoulder, your arm stretching across his stomach, holding him. His hand absentmindedly played in your hair, earning soft sounds of agreement from your lips as he continued. Your exhausted face in the TV light held all of his interest. The way your eyelashes fluttered eleven your eyes changed focus, or the way you worried your lip now and again almost thoughtlessly. Never knowing that it drove him mad.

Draco called your name softly, earning your attention. Your faces were inches apart and he could feel your soft breaths mix with his. Your eyes searched his for something—what exactly he wasn’t sure. But you must have decided that whatever you found was enough, because you leaned up and closed the distance between your lips and his.

He smiled at the moment and the ones that followed. The desire that built in his chest and the gentle pant of need that left your lips, flushing across his as you pulled away.

“Thank you,” You had murmured.

He smiled at you simple gratitude and wondered why you thought it necessary. Did you believe that he didn’t want to kiss you? That you weren’t constantly in his psyche? Imagining how soft and warm your skin must be? Wondering if the rest of you was worked and scarred like your hands from years of use?

Not knowing what you were thinking—or why he was for that matter—he pulled you into his lap as the two of you sat on the couch, cradling you close, letting you know that he craved your affection though he wasn’t the best at portraying the ideal.

You had fallen asleep in his lap that night. When your dad came in to check on the two of you, Draco thought your father would be furious but instead he smiled and suggested that Draco carry you to your room so that you could stretched out on your bed and sleep for the night. Those were the few moments that Draco had ever been in your room. It was one of your fathers rules—which he humbly agreed to. The sight made him smile. It was perfectly you. An organized chaos of all of your favorite things.

You barely noticed him setting you into your bed and pulling the covers over your shoulders after removing you shoes.

He preferred your home over his. It took about two months before you coaxed him into the idea of meeting his parents formally. Draco was terrified, knowing that his parents disapproved just about everyone in the town they lived in, save a few families. He wasn’t sure how they felt about the divorcee and his daughter living on the outskirts of town.

“You understand how much of a bad idea this is?” Draco hissed as he walked you up the front steps of the pristine farmhouse—it was the last attempt he made before it was too late to back out.

“They’re just your parents,” You took his hand, saying the words nonchalantly.

“That’s why I’m worried! They’re my parents!” He dismayed.

“Dray, love, it’s gonna be okay,” You reassured, and he couldn’t argue with the honesty in your eyes.

You’d never stop surprising him. He didn’t think ever. He knew his parents were hard people to entertain. There were thousands of unspoken rules that they forced him to follow and you picked up on them as easily as you knew calculus. Sit one way, speak another, you blended in flawlessly. Your persona differed from the one he knew, but it was still perfectly you.

“And you moved here? From New York?” His father eyed you skeptically.

 “Father—” A cold look silenced Draco.

“Yes sir,” Your smile was sweet and conniving.

“Was the city not satisfactory for you?”

“It had a certain charm,” You spoke softly. “But I didn’t want to give my teenage years to a concrete jungle when I could call here my home,”

“Well,” Draco’s mother cut in before his father had a change to reply. “You sure do have quite a spirit in you. I can see what our Draco likes about you,”

You smiled and looked over at him. The blush on your cheeks matched his.

“Thank you,”

Lunch came and passed. If it was out of the ordinary in any way to you, you gave no sign.

You did however, pause, gazing at his grand piano that sat in the drawing room, your face pensive.

“You play?” He mused, curious. You hadn’t let on if your hidden talent. 

“Not very well,” You muttered back. “It’s been years.”

“Y/n, do you play my dear?” His mother cut in. “You must play for us,”

“I...” Glancing at the piano, you caught your lip in worry.

“Mother, if she isn’t comfortable, she doesn’t have to,” Draco defended.

“No, it’s alright... you must forgive me, it’s been a few years since I’ve played properly.”

The shy smile on your face didn’t fade as you made your way to the instrument. He shadowed you all the while, asking one more time before you began to play.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Your smile turned warmer. “It’ll be alright.”

Draco watched as you placed your hands on the glossy white keys and fell into a pattern as they searched for the next note, the next chord, the next verse. And you kept forging ahead until your piece had come to an end. Draco should have known that you’d lie about having the talent tucked away.

“That was lovely,” His mother fawned from somewhere behind. “Draco you must play with her,”

The eyebrow you raised at him informed him that maybe he also hid the talent from you unintentionally. Who did you think the piano belonged to?

“Any ideas?” He muttered softly, placing his hands on the keys next to yours.

“Moonlight Sonata?” It was a simple request, and one that he knew decently enough to nod.

Draco began the repetitive harmony as you waited for the melody and joined him. Your fingers played in time and in tune as the song unfolded—your hands trailing along the treble clef and his adding in the deeper bass tones.

It wasn’t until one of his hands ran into yours that the dance faltered, and four hands banged on the keys in frustration. Draco laughed at the simple fact that you had the same response to making a mistake as he did while playing. Your soft laughter joined his.

Someone cleared their throat behind him, and you both turned, meeting the scrutinizing gaze of his father. Draco looked down anxious and respectful and you followed suit, your hand finding his in reassurance.

“Perhaps if you two had more time to practice together, you two wouldn’t be tripping over another.” His father mused.

“Father?” Draco looked up. “Does that mean?”

“Yes, she is welcomed here any time she wishes.” His father gave a small smile.

 Relief flooded through both of you. Draco might have even slouched momentarily. 

.

Masterlist

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this is for @anythingforour_moony’s writing competition!!

Prompt: “Who ate my pudding??”

If there was one thing that Remus Lupin loved more than life itself, it was chocolate. Chocolate bars, chocolate cake, chocolate pudding, you name it, he would eat it practically inhale it. Not only would he gulp down anything with the slightest trace of chocolate, he would hoard it. He had secret stashes hidden all over the school. Throughout his five and a half years at Hogwarts, his stashes had remained undiscovered.

Or so he thought.

Without his knowledge, one silver-eyed, mischievous Sirius Black had discovered his little secret months ago. Actually, if he was being honest, he found it rather endearing. The image of one Remus Lupin, engulfed in that adorable green sweater of his, tawny curls falling onto his face, amber eyes gleaming with that enchanting golden tint that Sirius often found himself mesmerised in, happened to be the main source of Sirius’ serotonin regardless, but adding that to the image of Remus Lupin, curled up with some chocolate from his secret little stash, perfectly content, was even more adorable, if that was at all possible.  

Yeah… Sirius would really have to do something about this crush of his.

And so, Sirius hatched a crafty scheme: he would steal Remus’ chocolate from his stash. Not to eat! Oh lord, no. Maybe just to hide for an hour or two? At least until Remus noticed it was gone, which surely wouldn’t take long; the guy was obsessed. Once Remus had figured out that Sirius had stolen his chocolate, he would probably be rightfully mad. And then he would hopefully start spewing something about morals and boundaries or something. And maybe that, in turn, would help Sirius see that maybe being with Remus wasn’t all he’d thought it up to be, and maybe this silly little crush of his, could finally come to an end. Sirius’ main aim was just to find a way to make Remus mad, and stealing his chocolate was apparently the best way to go about that. 

The plan may have been long-winded and, frankly, ridiculous, but Sirius was desperate. He couldn’t go on like this – just being in the same room as Remus was enough to give him the complexion of a tomato, and surely someone would notice that soon? It was too risky; no one could ever know.

Little did Sirius know just how hard he had fallen.

That was how Sirius found himself sitting in the common room, absent-mindedly watching Peter try desperately to Vanish a table, and James hurriedly scribbling a Potions essay. However, the only thing he could concentrate on was the fact that Remus had just disappeared into the dormitory and was bound to discover what he had done any second now.

Not long after, his suspicions were confirmed. He heard the dormitory door slam, the sound echoing through the tower, followed by the sound of footsteps crashing down the stairs. Remus skidded to a halt at the bottom of the staircase. Sirius’ mouth was dry with anticipation; he could feel his heart about to burst through his ribs. He had no idea what Remus’ reaction would be, but he was notorious for being incredibly overprotective of his chocolate.

Sirius did not fancy his chances.

Remus was annoyed, to say the least. He had had a particularly good day, so imagine his disappointment and frustration when he hurried towards his trunk, only to find that the chocolate pudding he’d been eagerly looking forward to all day, had disappeared. And Remus knew he hadn’t misplaced, or already eaten, the pudding. There was only one possible explanation. One of those three idiots had eaten it. He wasn’t as angry as he could have been, mostly because he genuinely had had a great day, but he was irritated, nonetheless.

That was how Remus found himself storming down to the common room, ready to have a serious conversation with his friends about respecting boundaries. However, not everything goes to plan. When Remus reached the bottom of the staircase, his gaze landed on one Sirius Black. Remus, as so often happens, was mesmerised by the grin which seemed to light up any room, the eyes which seemed to be swirling in the ocean depths, and the hair which seemed to catch the sunlight, shimmering with the slightest movement. Sirius’ charm was infuriatingly distracting, and Remus couldn’t help but to lose himself in those breathtakingly bright eyes, which were gleaming like the moon.  

Come on, Remus, snap out of it. Feeling his face start to heat up, Remus took a deep breath. There was a more important matter at hand.

“Alright, which one of you was it?”

“What’s up, moony?” James replied without looking up.

“Who ate my pudding??” Remus narrowed his eyes at the three boys and seemed to notice Sirius’ eyes widening. As he watched, Sirius ducked his head behind those glistening curls of his, refusing to meet Remus’ gaze. This was unusual only in that the other two boys had looked up at the mention of Remus’ chocolate. It was the reaction of a guilty person. Remus knew it, Sirius knew it, and he was pretty sure James and Pete had also figured it out. 

‘Sirius?’

‘Hmm?’

Sirius still refused to meet his eyes, which only made it all the more obvious that he was guilty.

Remus waited expectantly, hoping that Sirius would say something; this was awkward enough as it was. Finally, Sirius glanced up.

‘Erm… I’m just gonna go take a quick shower… yeah, I haven’t had one since quidditch practice…’ Sirius stood up hastily, but found his way blocked.

‘Sirius Orion Black. If you have done what I think you have done,’ he warned under his breath, enunciating every syllable to ensure the message was crystal clear, ‘I will send you straight to Filch’s office myself, and tell him what really happened in the girls’ toilets yesterday. You can’t fool me.’

Sirius gulped. Although he was aware that he was currently in deep, deep shit, a part of him desperately wanted to make a ‘straight’ joke in reply to Remus’ threat. However, Sirius felt that may not bode well with the fuming werewolf, who was currently glaring into his soul. So, instead, he did the only reasonable thing he could think of; he ran. Scanning for all possible exits and realising the portrait hole was blocked by a giggling group of girls, he sprinted straight for the stairwell. Taking the steps three at a time, his heart pounded nervously as he heard Remus in close pursuit. He slammed open the dormitory door with enough force to make it rattle in its hinges and dived for his bed. Rolling across the bed, Sirius fell through the drawn curtain on the other side and landed on his feet. Although he personally felt that this was a move worthy of James Bond himself, there was no time to dwell, because he had probably pissed Remus off even more, if that was possible.

Speaking of Remus, Sirius had no idea where he’d gone. He could swear his pursuer had been mere footsteps behind him moments ago. Narrowing his eyebrows, he approached the dormitory door cautiously, when, out of nowhere, Remus barrelled around the corner, straight into him, and rugby tackled him to the ground. Winded from pure shock, Sirius could do nothing but flail desperately as Remus wrestled him onto his back and pinned his wrists above his head.

Suddenly, all the anger and all the panic evaporated. Their faces were mere inches from each other, and Sirius could hardly breathe. Remus was staring into his eyes, and Sirius noticed how the amber seemed to darken and his pupils seemed to expand.

But he had no time to think, because he could feel his heart pounding faster and faster, even though he had stopped running. He would have guessed that it was because of the pure intensity that comes with someone laying on top of you, pinning you to the ground, and staring deep into your soul, seemingly getting lost in your eyes, but his brain could barely comprehend what was happening.

Wait. No. That pounding he had felt? That wasn’t his heart. That was Remus’ heart. What? Why would Remus’ heart be beating faster? Shut up. Suddenly, Sirius became hyper-aware of Remus leaning closer to him.

‘Erm…’ he managed to mumble, now oddly self-conscious of how his breath smelt.

‘Tell me to stop.’ Remus whispered, so softly that Sirius could barely hear. Tell me to stop what?? What does that even mean?? What is he doing??

Remus was now so close that their breaths were mingling, and if Sirius moved slightly, he could probably have brushed their noses. Why the hell would I move slightly?? Are you crazy?? Let’s just see what he does.

And Sirius barely had time to process what happened next, because Remus’ lips curved into a soft smirk, no I am not watching his lips thank you very muc- HOLY SHIT, and then they crashed against his.

Remus’ lips. Crashed against Sirius’ lips.

Sirius’ nervous system was going berserk, his brain was short circuiting, and all he could think about was every point where Remus was touching him.

Time seemed to slow down; everything else faded away until it was just him and Remus.

Remus’ mind had a similar reaction. He swore he could see fireworks behind his eyelids and, despite his nervousness at initiating the kiss, what if I misinterpreted it?? I’ll literally ruin our whole friendship!! Ah you know what, fuck it, he ate my pudding, we don’t have a friendship anymore, those few moments were possibly the best of his life. But then, if it was possible, those moments grew even better; gradually, as they both got over their initial shock (and, let’s be real, a little bit of *gay panic*), they relaxed into the kiss. It turned away from passionate and hungry, and more towards comforting and slow.  

Sirius’ intestines seemed to be fizzing and twisting, his fingers tangling themselves in those golden curls that he was so incredibly crazy about.

Well, he thought, that’s my plan gone to shit.

[hutchhitched]

Peeta Mellark, CEO

Written by: @hutchhitched​

Prompt 8: Peeta is a rich CEO and in love with another who disappeared before their marriage. So he withdraw within himself. But then he meets Katniss (her background is up to you) and falls in love for the second time. [submitted by @mysteriouslycraftyreview ]

Ratings/Warnings: E

A/N: I’m continuing to post the nine @everlarkficexchange prompts I took and then sat on throughout the early months of the pandemic. This is the fifth of the nine. Thanks for your patience, and I hope you enjoy. Huge thanks to @javistg for understanding the delays. While this submission fills the prompt, I have more in store for this couple.

 ______________

 Peeta Mellark tossed his glasses down on the desk and scrubbed a hand over his face. His tired eyes felt like they were full of sandpaper, and the stubble on his jaw was definitely not the look of a successful businessman, let alone the CEO of an up and coming manufacturing cooperation that was poised to break into the Fortune 500 in the very near future. Exhausted, he shoved at the pile of papers on his desk and cursed his luck. He needed an administrative assistant immediately. Like yesterday. Or two weeks ago.

 To be fair, he needed a lot more than a new administrative assistant. He’d been in a funk for the past year, since his fiancée sent him a text (seriously, a text?) and called off their wedding—three days before it was to take place.

 Cashmere’s rejection had been tough to take. He had loved her so much, still did, if he was telling the truth, and it hurt every day to go home to his empty apartment and not see her there. His friends, business acquaintances, and family all tried to make him feel better by telling him he was too good for her, but that didn’t help at all. Cashmere and he were good together for a long time. It wasn’t her fault that his ardor had grown after their engagement and hers had cooled. It sucked that her attraction to him had abated to friendship, but he didn’t regret anything other than that his marriage had never happened.

 Since his broken engagement, Peeta had retreated into himself. He didn’t spend much time with anyone, including his family or close friends who all wanted to help so much it made him anxious. He couldn’t handle their good intentions when all he wanted to do was curl up on the couch in sweats and binge shows and eat junk food. If he hadn’t been the head of a company, he would have done that every day. Instead, he went into the office and buried himself in his work before going home and heading to bed—incredibly alone. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d talked to his parents on the phone or grabbed lunch with anyone if it wasn’t for business.

 Sometimes he missed being part of the human race, interacting with others and seeing their eyes light up with joy when they laughed. He missed family dinners with his brothers and nights out at the club with Finnick, Darius, Thom, and Gale. But most of all, he missed being in love with someone. Having a relationship with a woman who wanted only him. A person to come home to and wake up with. A confidante who knew his secrets and faults and loved him anyway. More than anything, he was just really, really lonely and more than a little horny. He was an All-American adult male, after all, and it had been far too long since he’d been with anyone other than himself.

 Peeta pushed the intercom button on his phone and spoke into it. “Delly, can you come in here, please?”

 “Right away, sir.”

 Peeta smiled at Delly when she entered the room. As office manager, she’d worked her job and that of his missing assistant for too long. She deserved a raise. She also happened to be one of his oldest friends, which is why he managed to keep it together every day instead of losing it each time he thought about how empty his life was outside the office.

 “Delly, I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of the way things are going around here,” he said and idly twirled a pen between his fingers. “I think we need a change, don’t you?”

 “Sir?”

 “Delly, you’ve known me your whole life. Can you cut it out with the ‘sir’ bullshit? It’s me.”

 She visibly relaxed and sank into the chair opposite his desk. “What do you want to change, Peeta? Am I not doing a good enough job?”

 He winced at the worried furrow of her brow and chided himself for making her job harder than it already was. He made a mental note to submit the paperwork for a raise for her the next day.

 “You’re doing an amazing job,” he assured her, “but you’ve been covering for two people for months. It’s time I bite the bullet and get someone else in here.”

 “Do you want me to take a look at the resumés and send you the most qualified?” she offered. “I can go over them this evening and send them your way.”

 “No,” he insisted. “You’ve done enough. Go home. Take the weekend off, and don’t worry about anything. I just need the applicant file before you leave. I’ll review them and set up some interviews for early next week. Deal?”

 Her relief was palpable, and he tried to quell the guilt he felt for pushing her so hard instead of finding a replacement for his last assistant. She brought him the file right away, and he waved her out the office doors before she could find something else she had to do before she left. He’d flipped through several applications before his phone buzzed.

 “Finnick,” he answered. “How’s it going, man?”

 “Peeta Mellark, my man,” came the hearty response. “Haven’t seen you in months. It’s Friday. Come meet us at Ripper’s.”

 “I’d love to. I really would, but—”

 “But nothing, man. Get your ass down here. Time to rejoin the living.”

 “I can’t. Snowed under here.”

 “I will come drag you out of that office if you don’t get the fuck down here within the hour. I proposed. I will not take no for an answer.”

 “Congratulations, man, but I really—”

 “One hour, you asshole. You’ve been warned,” Finnick threatened and disconnected the call.

 Peeta heaved a heavy sigh and sat back in his chair. Finnick engaged. That was really something—something that made his insides twist and curl and hurt. Despite that, he had to go meet his friends. Finnick was the first to congratulate Peeta after he’d ask Cashmere to marry him and had been there after the breakup, too. Peeta couldn’t shirk, no matter how much he wanted to go home and hide.

 Frustrated and despondent, he packed up his laptop and files carefully before reaching into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulling a bottle of whiskey from its depths. He poured two fingers of the dark liquid and loosened his tie. When he took a sip, the liquor burned a trail down his throat enough that he tugged the tie off completely and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his dress shirt. By the time he’d finished his drink, he’d also lost his jacket and rolled up his sleeves to reveal his forearms. At least this way he looked like a regular working schmuck instead of an uptight executive who had no life outside the office.

 Fortified by the drink and a burgeoning desire to reconnect with his friends, Peeta made his way uptown to Ripper’s. Memories hit him in the gut as soon as the door opened. The sounds and scents assailed him, and a flash of evenings out with his friends and his fiancée flickered in his head. Cashmere leaning over to kiss him as his friends whooped. The taste of her lips after they both shot tequila, lime and salt clinging to her lips. Finnick grinning at him when he got his last promotion. Gale and Darius ribbing him about a new crush. Thom announcing his impending fatherhood. So many memories, and all they did was remind him how desperately lonely he was, despite his financial and professional success.

 Except that did matter tonight. It was Finnick’s time to celebrate, and he wound his way through the tables to the back corner where his friends waited.

 “Peeta Mellark! The man, the myth, the legend, right here in Ripper’s with us lowly humans.”

 Peeta couldn’t help but chuckle. “Good to see you, too, Finn. It’s been too long.”

 “That’s not our fault. Is it, boys?”

 “Who are you calling a boy?” Gale snorted over his beer. “I only see men here. At least, those of us sitting down. You and Mister Hotshot might not have reached full maturity yet, though.”

 Peeta laughed as Finnick flipped off the other guys at the table and then settled into the booth. It felt good to see his friends again. He needed to remember to make more time for them in the future.

 “So, how’s the high life, man?” Thom asked.

 Peeta shrugged and ordered before answering. Thanking the waitress, he slumped down in his seat and admitted, “Crazy busy, as always. I need a new administrative assistant. I’m working Delly to death, and she deserves better.”

 “Some of us would like to see our wives,” Darius grunted. “Should never have agreed when she asked.”

 “Didn’t realize she had to ask permission to leave the house,” Peeta answered pointedly.

 “Oh, come on, man. I didn’t mean it like that,” Darius protested. “We just have one of those marriages where we talk things through and make decisions together.”

 He knew he shouldn’t, but he envied Darius and Thom their marriages and Finnick his engagement. Even Gale had a serious girlfriend, although he hadn’t met her yet. Maybe that was why it didn’t seem too far-fetched when he spoke.

 “My girlfriend’s in between jobs. She’s a fantastic office manager. Maybe she could help you out.”

 “Seriously?”

 “Sure. I’ll have her give you a call.”

 “Thanks, man. You’ve just saved my life.”

 Finnick leaned in and grinned cheekily. “Great. Then you can afford to get drunk tonight.”

 “I really can’t.”

 “Too bad. Here’s our first round of shots.”

 ****

 Peeta woke the next morning hung the hell over. How he’d allowed his friends, in particular Finnick, to convince him to stay and then do shots was beyond him. His only excuse was that it was the weekend, and he didn’t have to go to the office today. Otherwise, his headache and significant dehydration might have killed him. He managed to stagger to the kitchen where he brewed a pot of coffee and downed half a liter of water before his phone rang.

 “Hawthorne. What’s up?” he rasped into the receiver.

 “Hey, Peet. I know it’s early, but my girl’s here, and I suggested she call you about the job. She’s game for it, so I figured I might as well hook you two up before I forget. You free to chat?”

 Peeta grunted but agreed. Reaching for a mug, he poured himself some coffee and added cream before settling at the counter. He wasn’t prepared for the snarky voice that echoed through the phone, but he immediately straightened when he heard it. The woman on the other end of the line was a spitfire and sounded exactly like what he needed to help keep his office running and give his oldest friend a break.

 “Gale tells me you need some help keeping your workplace running smoothly. I can do that for you, but I don’t come cheap. Pay me well, don’t give me shit, and I’ll make your life easier.”

 “That’s quite an offer, Ms., uh…?”

 “Mason. Johanna Mason. I’ve been keeping corporate America organized for the past ten years. You have quite a reputation. Youngest CEO at Panem Industries in ages. Survived the Coriolanus Snow purge and caught the eye of the board of directors in a good way. I think you surprised everyone when they realized you weren’t just a piece in their games. Congratulations.”

 “Thank you,” he answered, impressed with her knowledge of the business world. Gale must have given her a heads up, but he suspected she’d already known more than most. “You seem to be a player, too. I’m impressed.”

 “I’m very impressive. I’m sure you’ve heard about some of my best attributes from your friend, so let’s just move past the posturing and get to the specifics,” she announced, her voice businesslike. “I can start Monday. Gale indicated this could be temporary or long-term, depending on your other assistants. I’m amenable to either. As for my salary—”

 Peeta almost blanched at the figure but wasn’t deterred by her request. Good office managers were worth every cent they were paid, and Ms. Mason—Johanna! She was his friend’s girlfriend, after all—seemed to be exactly what he needed.

 “I have one caveat,” he insisted. “Gale is my friend, and you and he are together, but you are my employee. Our relationship needs to stay professional.”

 “Gale, honey,” she purred. “Peeta wants me to be professional. You think I can handle that?”

 Peeta cringed at the wet sounds in his ear. He’d be offended if Gale hadn’t taken the phone briefly and hissed, “She’s good for it, Mellark. You won’t regret it.”

 “Fine,” he muttered. “Can I call you Johanna? You’re hired. Thirty-day trial, and a five percent raise once you’ve proven yourself.”

 “You won’t need thirty days for that.”

 He was almost positive she was right, and he looked forward to Monday when he could offer Delly some time off to spend with her family.

 ****

 “I need that folder,” Peeta announced into his phone and scribbled a few notes on the report before him. Johanna swept into his office a few seconds later. She’d only been working for him for a week, but she’d already revamp his world. Everything ran smoother; Delly’d already put in for some well-deserved vacation, and he hadn’t been subjected to any inappropriate knowledge of his friend from his new employee. “Thanks, Jo. Can you—”

 “Already done. Meeting with Heavensbee is moved up to 1:00, and you have a business lunch tomorrow with Seneca Crane at the Capitol Grill. Both indicated their interest when I arranged the details.”

 “You are a gift,” he said, distracted by the email he’d just received about a new project in China. “Seriously, thank you for everything you do.”

 “No thanks needed. You pay me enough. I’m happy to make your life better.”

 He chuckled and sat back when she plopped a hot chocolate in front of him. “How’d you know? This is my favorite.”

 “You forget who I’m banging on the weekend?”

 “Gale, of course.”

 “And I don’t wait for the weekend, either,” she said with a wink over her shoulder. He smiled fondly as she slipped out the door and back to her desk. He understood what his friend saw in her. She didn’t take any shit, was sexy as hell, and knew how to get stuff done. If he had fifteen more like her, he’d take over the world. Not that he was too far off from that anyway.

 ****

 “You mind if I take a long lunch tomorrow?” Johanna asked as she handed Peeta several files and watched him tuck them into his briefcase. “A girlfriend of mine just got back to town, and I promised I’d meet up with her. Won’t happen again.”

 “Take all the time you need,” he agreed. “Delly can handle everything while you’re gone. It’s not a problem.”

 “Thanks, boss,” she said with a wink. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Got a hot date with my man.”

 Peeta chuckled as he shrugged on his jacket. “Tell Gale I said hi. Been a while since we hung out at Ripper’s.”

 “That’s because I make it worth it to him not to leave the house.”

 “I’m sure you do,” he mumbled as he headed for the elevator.

 “Good luck on your date!” she called as the doors slid shut, and he groaned.

 If she hadn’t reminded him at the last second, he could have argued with her, but now it was too late. He’d stupidly agreed to a setup. It was only drinks at a cocktail bar around the corner, but he had a million things to do before the next day. He didn’t have time to make small talk with a woman he didn’t know as they both sipped overpriced drinks and tried to figure out how long they had to stay before they escaped with a modicum of dignity. If he didn’t have to answer to Johanna the next day, he’d skip, but he just didn’t want to hear it. With a sigh, he turned left out of the building and made his way to meet his date.

 “Rue?” he guessed when he met the slim, African American woman sitting at the bar alone. She was lovely and smart and very sweet, but he could tell within five minutes that they weren’t right for each other. He offered a second round, but she declined politely.

 “You’re a great guy,” she said with a kiss to his cheek when she slid from her stool to the ground. “I’m glad we met.”

 “Likewise,” he nodded. “Best of luck with your startup.”

 He watched her walk away with a half-smile on his face and a hint of regret. It wasn’t that she’d passed on him. That wasn’t it at all. Despite being a perfectly attractive woman, there wasn’t a spark between them, and he’d been too deeply in love before to settle for anything less. With another huge sigh—they seemed to be becoming a habit—he grabbed his suitcase and coat and headed home to his empty penthouse.

 He hated being lonely.

 ****

 “Johanna, can you come in here, please?” Peeta waited for her reply, but when he got nothing, he walked to his office door and poked his head out. “Jo?”

 Delly glanced up from her desk and replied, “She’s still at lunch. You told her to take the time, remember?”

 “I do, actually. Sorry. It slipped my mind.”

 At that moment, the elevator door opened, and his employee walked down the hall, chatting happily with another woman. She drew up when she saw him and narrowed her eyes.

 “It’s not even 1:00 yet. Surely, the place didn’t fall apart with me gone only 80 minutes.” Johanna rolled her eyes at him and waved to her companion. “Peeta Mellark, this is Katniss Everdeen. Katniss, Peeta. I left something in my desk for her. She’s not staying.”

 The woman in question glanced back and forth between him and her friend uncertainly. She was slight and unassuming with storm gray eyes and thick, dark hair worked into a loose braid. A few strands of hair escaped and framed her face, which was far prettier than he’d realized at first glance. Quickly, he snapped to attention. Stepping toward her, he extended his hand and waited for her to shake it. When she did, electricity sparked through him.

 “Ms. Everdeen,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Any friend of Johanna’s is a friend of mine. Welcome to Panem Industries.”

 “Sheesh! She’s not interviewing for a job,” Johanna snickered. She’s just here to get something from me, and she’s Gale’s friend, too. I’m surprised you haven’t met before now. Those two have been thick as thieves since they were tweens. You really haven’t heard of her before?”

 “Why would I have?”

 “I thought you and Gale were tight?”

 “We are tight. What does that have to do with anything?”

 Katniss smiled wryly and spoke in a smoky voice that shot straight to his groin. “Gale and I were best friends for years. We had a rough patch when he developed feelings for me in high school. Didn’t talk much through college, but we worked it out. I think Jo’s just surprised he didn’t mention me to his friends.”

 “You okay there, boss?” Johanna asked, her eyes wary as she observed him.

 Peeta shook himself, aware that he’d been frozen as Katniss’ voice washed over him. “Fine! I’m fine. Katniss, it’s wonderful to meet you. Johanna, I need to see you in my office when you’re finished with your friend.”

 He moved quickly and closed the door behind him. Walking on unsteady legs back to his desk, he sank into his chair. Needless to say, he was unsettled. Something about those smoke colored eyes and husky voice had reached inside him and pulled feelings to the surface he hadn’t felt in ages, and it was disconcerting in a way he wasn’t quite ready to admit. Flustered, he turned in his chair and gazed out over the city until Johanna entered his office. It was only then that he could expel Katniss from his mind.

 ****

 “You know, it’s bad enough that you foisted your girlfriend on me as an employee,” Peeta teased as he downed another whiskey. “The least you could do is pass on your best friend’s number. No, scratch that. The least you could do was warn me your best friend from high school is smoking hot now.”

 Gale tipped his head back and laughed hard at his friend and Peeta’s obvious attempt to weasel Katniss’ number from him. Finnick and Thom hooted their amusement, and Darius waved to the waitress for another round of drinks. Peeta hadn’t meant to end up at Ripper’s again, but he’d been off kilter all week. When Finn had asked, Peeta shrugged and went.

 “You only like me for my girlfriends,” Gale teased and clinked his glass with Thom. “To be fair, they are pretty spectacular. I have great taste in women.”

 “Says the most modest man alive,” Finnick crowed. “You like them wild, and there’s nothing wrong with that.”

 “Wait,” Peeta blurted. “Wild? Katniss?”

 “Not in the traditional sense,” Gale drawled after a long pull of his beer. “Nothing like Jo. She’s amazing—completely herself, likes to party, will rip me apart with her bare hands if I cross her—but Katniss is something else. Feisty but stealthy. She can skin a squirrel and look like an angel doing it. I’ve never been able to explain her to anyone. She really has no idea the effect she has.”

 “But you dated? You two?” Peeta prodded. Something about the thought of Gale kissing the woman he’d met made his stomach clench.

 “Not for long. She wasn’t much interested, but I would have given my left arm for her back in the day. She’s only improved with age. I’m lucky she still bothers with little old me.”

 Peeta snorted and flicked his eyes to each of his friends. Gale may not have been the best-looking guy in the group—Finn pretty much had that locked no matter who was around—but Gale’s tall, dark, and brooding nature made him pretty popular with the opposite sex. He hadn’t had trouble meeting women in ages. Unlike Peeta, who’d had terrible luck with women both before and after Cashmere. Couldn’t get them to look at him instead of his money now that he was wealthy, and he’d been dismissed for being way too nice when he was younger. His former fiancée had been an exception, but then he couldn’t get her to stay, with or without his bank account.

 “But seriously, dude. Help a guy out. I’ve been single for ages,” Peeta wheedled, but Gale just shook his head.

 “If she asks, I’ll give your info, but there’s no way I’m gonna try to set her up. I value my life and limbs too much to intervene.”

 “You just said you would have given your left arm for her!”

 “Back in high school and college, man. Not now. I need them both for the work I do.”

 Peeta conceded then. It wasn’t like him to pump his friends for information about women, and he wasn’t going to start now. Maybe she’d come by work again with Jo, or maybe Johanna would—

 No. Johanna would not. That was a terrible idea, so Peeta shoved Katniss Everdeen from his mind and sipped his drink. If nothing else, he could use a night out with his friends.

 ****

 Later that night, when Peeta lay in bed alone, his penthouse dark and empty, and his heart shriveling with sadness, he allowed Katniss to flutter through his thoughts. If he imagined her in love with him, no one could prove it. Just like there were no witnesses when he reached into his sleep pants and palmed his half-hard cock.

 He hadn’t masturbated with anyone particular in mind for a very long time—not since Cashmere and he had been a couple. There was something intensely erotic about stroking himself with mental images of a specific woman smiling at him, touching him, taking his dick in her mouth and sucking until—

 “Oh, fuck,” he hissed as he swelled and hardened. “Katniss. Yeah, just like that.”

 He fumbled in his bedside table for some lube and was so worked up he squirted half the bottle onto his pelvis. Rubbing his hand in the fluid, he groaned when he wrapped his hand back around his erection and tugged. His hips bucked, and his headboard slapped against the wall. Startled by the sound, he bit his lip and shook his head.

 It seemed wrong to jack off like this when he barely knew her. Stranger fantasies were fine, but this was one of his best mate’s long-time friends. Johanna would rip him apart if she knew what Peeta was doing and leave the leftovers for Gale to destroy.

 God, he didn’t care, he realized. Something about Katniss Everdeen made him want to throw caution to the wind. He’d been a goner since he first heard her voice, and he’d paid his dues with his loneliness. One night of lustful thoughts and indulgence seemed like a just reward for being single for so long. He’d only met her once, but there were all the tell-tale signs of a massive crush. Except, yes, he was attracted to her, but he also wondered if he might have a case of love at first sight. She invaded his thoughts constantly, and he ached to see her again.

 Until that could happen, though, he needed some relief. Closing his eyes and tossing his head back into the pillow, he moved his hand until he gained a steady rhythm. The wet squelching sounds of the lube on his skin echoed through the apartment and stirred mental images that made his breath come harder and faster.

 In his fantasy, her lithe body bounced on top of him, riding him with abandon and wanton pleasure painting her face. Her small breasts jiggled prettily with dusty nipples pert and pointed and inviting his mouth to lavish them with attention. His fist tightened, he jerked harder, and then—

 He whited out, stars bursting behind his eyelids, ecstasy flooding his body, and all the tension draining through ropes of thick fluid painting his torso. Dazed, he lay there for several minutes, doing nothing but enjoying the lazy tingle in his veins and the dopey grin turning up his lips with delight. His spent cock filled his right fist, and he squeezed it a few times to keep the buzz going.

 When he could think clearly again, he opened his eyes and snorted at the mess. He was sticky and sweaty and slick with his cum and lube. Covered in his ejaculate, he stumbled to the bathroom on shaky legs. He meant to rinse off and then drop into a dreamless sleep, but he ended up hard and wanting a second time as the water coursed over him. Turning the temperature to cold didn’t help either. Only another round with his fist calmed him enough to fall into a restless, dream-filled slumber. His body insisted on round three the next morning.

 Within a few days, a pattern emerged. He woke hard, masturbated, and then went to the office where two women ran his world. When he returned home, he beat off again, sometimes two times, before he was able to sleep. By the second week, Peeta had to admit his feelings for Katniss weren’t going away.

 His only choice was to get her to fall in love with him, too, or his name was Peeta Mellark. CEO of Panem Industries, captain of industry, jilted fiancé, and desperately in love with Katniss Everdeen. Johanna was going to have a field day with this.

[bizlawgal]

I wanted to share a prompt! Hope is ok ❤️: Emma is norman's bodyguard. And he's so cute 😳. But she has to focus because she's a professional 😎. But he's so sweet and treats her like she was a princess! But he's also super important and she needs to give the 100% to protect him. But the way he calls her, it's just... Would be people surprised if she falls for him? What would people think if she tries to take him for her 🤭😏.

This took a while. 

Here’s Lyn’s first contribution to the N/E tag for 2021 on Tumblr.

I personally enjoyed writing this because it’s so angsty, but it’s a dessert with a cherry on top for an ending. 

I. There was no fitting person for the job other than her.

With a slender built, an agile reflex, and a taste for anything below the surface of safety, she was more than willing to accept the terms and conditions that came with the job.

"Oliver tells me you're experienced in this line of work," said Ray, the person-in-charge with most of the personal bodyguards assigned to the Minerva Family. "You do know that individuals who prefer this line of work are the ones who have —"

"— nothing left to lose, I know," she continued. This line was something she had memorized long ago. "No one will be looking for me if I do lose my life somewhere along the line. I have no more family to go back to."

Her father had died a couple of years back. Incarcerated for a murder she knew he did not commit, and died a sorrowful death behind bars because of an undetected disease.

Since then, she had taken a liking to the profession of looking after people; being a bodyguard gave her a purpose to live, and another way to make amends with her helplessness.

Ray's face echoed skepticism. "As long as you won't die before the person you're in charge of, then there won't be any problems. At least during this coming election period. Your service is of utmost importance."

Emma released a deep sigh upon learning that she had finally landed this job. "Who am I in-charge of protecting?"

"The heir of the Minerva Family," he answered as he flipped through her folder full of credentials one last time. "Consider this as your first day on the job. Here's the itinerary for today. He's a very busy person but make sure you leave a good impression."

He? She had never worked as a bodyguard for any man before, but being ever-so devoted to what she did for a living, she shoved the underlying curiosity in her mind.

Emma nodded submissively as she extended her hand to claim the supposed itinerary and immediately implanted the details inside her head. The idea to process everything in an instant was something she was good at.

"Memorized it?" Ray quipped, a challenging smirk making its way to his lips.

"Yes," she beamed, "I’ve memorized it by heart."

"Do you still have any inquiries about what your job will be? About the person you're in charge of?"

She shook her head in an absolute stance. "I think I'm well-informed."

"Good, because here comes the Minerva you're in-charge of."

She heard the simultaneous clicking of heels against the marbled floors, and when the door to the room opened, she swang her head to officially meet him with a smile.

Instead of a smile on her lips, she only registered an expression of awe; lips parted in wordless wonder and eyes widened with a different kind of expectation.

He was the first to move on, reflecting the same enchantment on his face, and spoke, "You must be —"

"Emma," she supplied. "I'm Emma Mikhaylov, and starting today, I'll be your personal bodyguard, Sir Minerva."

He smiled, and she was sure that it might've made her heart twitch a bit. "It's nice to meet you, Emma. Are you aware of our itinerary for today?"

She looked over at Ray, and back at the heir. Her breath hitched upon answering. "Yes, sir."

There was one thing that Ray failed to mention.

Norman Minerva, the heir to the family of politicians, was a damn well-proportioned, good-looking man.

II.

"How are you supposed to protect me if you're the one behind the wheels?"

It was another one of his comments that initially swayed her to think that he wasn't just one of those old money brats from a political dynasty.

It had been three months of being his bodyguard, and she couldn't deny that he was suspiciously treating her better than how he did with others.

Without taking her eyes off the road, she answered, "It's my job to chaperone you, too."

He subtly scratched his head. "Do I have to spell it out for you that I want you next to me? We could've asked Ray to chaperone us, could we not?"

"Ah, but Ray is out doing his own chaperoning for your sister."

He snorted. "There is no winning that. He fancies my sister, after all."

Emma chuckled lightly. "Miss Anna is really lovely. I doubt anyone would second-guess their attraction towards her, sir."

"Emma." There was a sternness to the way he said her name that made her slightly jolt in her seat. "I've told you a thousand times to simply call me by  my name."

"It's inappro—"

"It is not," Norman sighed heavily, thinking how many times they've had this conversation. "I already told you that I do not think of you merely as my bodyguard. I simply enjoy your company and I think you know by now that I fancy you. We should try to be more casual."

This brought out another laughter from her, yet it was laced with awe and disbelief. She hoped that he couldn't see how hard she was trying to gulp down her nerves.

"That isn't part of my job description, si— Norman. What you're suggesting is highly inappropriate."

Norman raised a skeptical brow from the rearview mirror, and she tensed in her seat when his eyes bore into hers. "But you find Anna and Ray's illicit affair romantic? What makes my attraction for you different from theirs?"

Emma took a deep breath and internally reminded herself that she was a professional. This was not something she should be entangled in, especially since her sole purpose was to keep him safe until the elections were over.

She was simply thankful that they had arrived at the first one on his itinerary. "Would you look at that? We're here! Wait for me to open your door, okay?"

"Emma, you don't have to —"

She whipped her head and raised a finger. "No buts. This is my job."

It was when she got out of the car and paused for a second did she let the facade fade from her face.

Just being in the same space with him was getting harder and harder each day.

III.

It was rare for her to curse, but given the scenario they were in, it was hard not to.

"Damn election period," Emma hissed at the side, aiming the gun towards the door.  

The Minerva Estate was breached and unidentified men were detected rummaging within the massive palazzo. Ruckus could be heard from the outside of the walls, and the more it came, the more fear resonated between her fingertips.

"Emma!" Norman cried out from within the confines of his walk-in closet, drenched in his own fear and misgivings. "Let me out this instant!"

It was rare of him to question his lack of strength or physical means to pry a door open; this was one of those rare occurrences.

"No can do, Norman," she vocalized it with depth, making it known to him that there was no way she was letting him out for the sake of his safety. "Stay right there. It's for your own good."

In a hysterical voice, he rebutted, "And what about you? Why can you not hide here with me?"

She found the whole thing utterly ridiculous. "Are you insane? I'm your bodyguard, remember? It's my job to keep you safe!"

"And what will I do if you die trying to protect me?" His words were more of a plea than a question, knotting within the hollows of his stomach.

"I cannot lose you, Emma."

She hissed at the words, and begrudgingly closed her eyes before snapping her view at the walk-in closet.

"And I cannot lose you!" She almost screeched it — everything that she had been bottling inside for the sake of her sanity, eating away every bit of suppressed emotions that she carefully placed at the back of her heart. "I will not allow anything or anyone to bring you harm. I can’t let another person I care for die! This is my job —"

"Who cares about this job —"

"— and this is what I feel for you! Do I have to make it more obvious?" She gritted her teeth and sucked in what was left of her confidence and her time.

He couldn't see her face, but as she spoke, he could imagine her smiling, the one that was ever-so bright in his eyes and never wavered.

"I'm keeping you safe not only because it's my job, but also because... I love you."

The sounds of constricted breathing inside the closet kept crushing her from the inside.

"Emma, I —!"

It left him no room to speak when he heard the door to his room opened, and the succession of gunshots took place.

Seconds turned into minutes, and minutes turned into hours.

Silence consumed him, yet successions of calling out her name proved no merit.

She never answered.

IV. 

"You are an idiot! An idiot, I tell you!"

Emma winced, not only for the pain inflicted on her by the graze of a bullet but also for the commotion caused by the man that had just barged through the door.

One look at him was enough of sedation for her; he was unscathed and safe.

She was about to lift herself up, gradually moving to position herself to sit on the bed, when his pair of arms reached out and enclasped her in an embrace.

His smelt of honeydew mixed with smoke, and she could feel the debris of wherever he had gotten himself into while she was asleep, against her cheek. Hearing his raspy shivered breathing against her ear struck every nerve on her body and the amount of tension on the tips of his fingers indicated that he was beyond worried for her dear life instead of his.

If they weren't surrounded by a mountain of eyes that would dare scrutinize this shared moment between then, she would've tackled him to the ground herself.

"I'm glad you're ok—"

"You idiot! Don't ever do that again!" His voice was demanding — pleading even, and seething through her skin. "I thought... I thought I lost you!"

His arms remained tightened around her, and she could only eye Ray with green eyes full of hesitancy. He only shrugged, but the way he cradled the smirk on his lips wasn't enough to deceive her.

She was merely her bodyguard.

She had no rights to him.

"Earlier," he voiced out, trembling, "You told me what you felt. What was I supposed to do inside that closet you locked me in, Emma?!"

The way he held her instigated that he no longer held any plans of letting her go.

"I wanted to keep you safe, si—"

"Do not call me 'sir'. I am simply Norman to you, and you're simply Emma to me."

His eyes are stained with unshed tears; only remorse for moments that he thought he'd never have with her again. "Will you let me hear it again?"

Emma seemed lost. "Hear what?"

His face softened with the memory. "What you told me earlier. Let me hear it once again. Let me know that it wasn't just a hallucination on my end."

That unexpected confession of hers from earlier earned her a bright, rosy blush all over her face.

"I-I have feelings for you."

Norman gave a low chuckle. "I guess that's another way of saying it. But I'm in love with you, Emma. From now on, stop being my bodyguard and simply be with me instead. Please, consider it." His smile came off sheepish. "I can't handle your constant disregard for your own safety for the sake of mine."

"B-but who's going to guard you?"

"I'll take over," Ray interjected, arms crossed over his chest. "It’s not as if I haven’t noticed the way you two have been acting for the last couple of months. Also, it's high time you stop being so reckless, Emma! You shouldn't have handled that situation all on your own. You could've called for back-up in his room!”

Emma nearly winced at Ray's reprimanding; he was right on the dot. She placed her sights on Norman and said, "But I'd still like to look after you. I've... grown to like it."

"Emma," he said her name a soft and gentle as he always had, and she knew that what would come next after her name were words meant to last a lifetime.

"I might not be as strong as you are with a gun, or as fast as you are when you run, but I'll look after you all my life, just as you'll look after mine. I’ll be your family. We’ll be a family."

Emma tried to suppress the grin on her face, but it failed spectacularly, and now she was facing him with immense joy, intertwining her fingers within his. His touch his warm and inviting, and it allowed her to further lament why she never allowed the idea of ever becoming his and him ever becoming hers.

"And we'll be equals?"

She searched his sights and he responded with the same amount of affection in his eyes; in his hold, she’d always be home.

"We were always equals."

[theawkwardterrier]

Taking Care

Steggy Week 2k20, day 2 Prompt: Tropes, cliches, and symbols

Summary: Peggy gets sick. Steve shows up to help.

AO3 link here. Thanks to @steggyfanevents​ for organizing!

Peggy’s immune system is notably strong and she’s far more likely to be the one nursing others than to need nursing herself. But this means that when she actually does start feeling under the weather, she ignores it, certain that it will simply pass or that she can overcome it by sheer force of will.

She’s actually able to pull it off for a few days, but once her eyes start watering so much that it takes her three times as long as usual to read anything and her coughs and sniffles become the soundtrack of headquarters, Phillips tells her that the war isn’t going to be lost if she takes a few days off to get well and sends her home.

“Perhaps I am a bit under the weather, but I can still—” she begins in protest but when she needs to take out her handkerchief partway through the sentence, Phillips simply points her toward the door and she actually complies.

She manages to fall asleep for several hours before waking jerkily, somehow less rested, her head muddled. The thought of food appeals not at all, but she is absolutely parched; she lies for much longer than she would ever admit trying to convince her body to stand and go to the tap.

Tea sounds absolutely wonderful at the moment but she can’t guarantee that she won’t fall asleep at the tiny table while the water comes to a boil, so she contents herself with several glasses of water. She is turning to return to bed when there’s a knock at the door.

Peggy doesn’t typically receive visitors here - in fact, she barely receives herself in the tiny efficiency she’s been renting for the past months. There’s a war on, after all, and she essentially uses this as somewhere to catch a few hours’ sleep before returning to headquarters. She isn’t even certain that anyone knows this address. Then again, it would be just typical of today to have someone coming to inform her of a fire or a gas leak while she’s in this state.

But to her surprise, when she calls a polite if stuffed-up, “Who is it?” through the door, the response is, “Steve Rogers.”

“I thought you were in Amsterdam,” she says, opening up and stepping back (it comes out as “Absterdam;” Phillips really was probably right to send her home.)

“We were until this morning,” he responds, following her inside and closing the door behind himself. “Only got back a couple of hours ago, but when I went to track you down with some documents, they said that you’d gone home sick so I—” Fully inside now, he peers at her more closely, and she thinks she should probably be embarrassed, but she barely has the energy to hold her dressing gown closed around her body so more complex emotion will have to wait.

“Right,” he says, his tone changing to a decisive firmness. “Okay. Back to bed.”

“But I—” she protests, mostly out of habit. The thought of even the thin single bed that came with the flat is so tempting that it should be featured in a Greek myth.

“I don’t think so.” He reaches over and gently touches her shoulders with both enormous hands, turning her around and directing her over to sleep.

“You aren’t meant to boss me around,” she tries, but it comes out around a yawn.

“I’ll keep it in mind for the future,” he says, and even through her muzzy head, she thinks there’s affection in his voice. “But maybe just listen for now, huh? I’m kind of the expert.”

The memory of that very lengthy file of his from boot camp comes into her head, but she can’t hold the thought there. Before she even has time to pull up the blanket, she’s crumpled into sleep.

When she wakes up again she isn’t certain of the time, though she feels much more clear-headed overall. A glass of water sits beside the bed, and she manages to sit up (the blanket slides off as she does; apparently someone put it on her) and drink it down without much dizziness.

“I can get you another,” comes Steve’s voice. “Or I can try my hand at a cup of tea.”

She looks around and finds him sitting at the table - the only place to sit, really - with a newspaper in front of himself. She clears her throat. “Do you have any experience with that?” The words come out clearly, which she considers a fairly good sign.

“Not really. It’ll probably be a good thing that you can’t taste much.”

“I’m actually—” she considers, realizing it with surprise for the first time herself. “I actually feel a bit peckish.”

“Good sign,” he says, standing. “Just a minute.”

“I don’t have very much here at the moment,” she points out, and then feels compelled by some lesson of hospitality or politeness or normalcy which her mother tried to impart to her to add, “I’m not about often. I usually end up in the mess back at headquarters or finding a bit to eat on the way between here and there.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s not as if I could cook you up anything edible even if you had a full fridge,” he says easily teasing, as he comes over to her with a bowl of consomme and a saucer with a bread roll sliced thin and slightly charred from toasting it over the open flame of the stove. He hands her the bowl, places the roll beside the clock on the nightstand.

She studies him more carefully as he brings one of the kitchen chairs closer to her bedside. He had arrived in full uniform, but now his jacket hangs on the back of the chair he had been occupying, his sleeves are rolled to the elbow and he has his tie loosened. His hair is a bit disheveled. He looks wonderful, and she tries to forget how wrecked she must come off just now.

“Where did this come from, then?” she asks, taking a careful spoonful of the broth. It is a touch salty, noticeably warm but no longer steaming, and feels wonderful moving down her throat. She takes another sip.

“I ran over to the place around the corner. Told them I had a sick friend, and they threw in the roll for free.”

A sick friend. She rolls the words around in her head as she bites gingerly and thoughtfully into one of the small rounds of toast. Thinking of herself as sick is unfamiliar but it’s currently true and she can accept it as fact. Friend, though…

She and Steve have been courteous to each other since the incident with Private Lorraine, but don’t spend extra time together. Sometimes, though, their eyes will meet across the table during a strategy session, or they’ll each choose to deliver something to the other that isn’t strictly their responsibility. Just in those occasional moments, when she allows it, she remembers how determined he is, how quietly funny, how sharp and kind.

She thinks it might actually be nice to become real friends with Steve, but she doesn’t know that she’ll be able to forget the time when she thought that they might become something more, doesn’t know that she can stop herself from still hoping for the future.

“You must be a bit of an expert in the sickbed experience,” she says, eager to change the topic, only realizing once she has that it might be rude or bring up painful memories. Thankfully, however, Steve only laughs.

“It’s a little strange to have nearly gotten through winter with nothing happening. I keep expecting the flu or a nice case of pneumonia to sneak up on me.” His face twists into a slight sadness. “I was lucky, though, back then. My mother took really good care of me. Made sure I always had books and pencils, someone to call if she had to work, soup and crackers when I needed them...A couple of times, when things had been really bad, she got me an orange. We couldn’t afford it and I know that she missed dinners because of it, but she insisted on it so that—so that when I could taste again, that would be the flavor waking me up.”

The soup glides over the tenderness growing in her throat. Here, again, is the reminder of why Erskine was drawn to him, why she’s been drawn to him: because without considering otherwise, he uses the protection given by the serum to help those who need it, because he won’t ever forget the way it felt to eat an orange gifted by someone who scrimped and hurt for it but did it anyway because she loved him.

“I don’t expect you were the most compliant patient, if you’re being truthful,” she comments once she’s swallowed.

“What tipped you?” he says, mouth curling up into a grin. He spreads his hands. “I would have been an angel and stayed in bed, but when one person works twelve hour days, it's up to the other person to make sure the house is clean. Plus, Bucky's team really needed a second baseman."

She laughs too, though it turns into a bit of a cough at the end. As she catches her breath, she looks into the dwindling depths of her bowl. "I'm reminded just now," she says, "of how hard it can be to ask for the help you need, to give up control and let someone take care of you on occasion."

There's a quiet in the room with them, a ticking clock silence. Then Steve says slowly, "That's always been pretty hard for me too. But I think it's something I could get good at if I had the chance. If I came across the right person."

When she looks up, he's already there waiting for her with a steady gaze. An understanding passes between them, but after what's happened before, she needs more than that.

"I think it's something I could learn as well. Leaning on someone." She reaches over, covers his hand with hers. "I hope we both have the chance for it."

"So do I," he says softly, holding on until she yawns again. "Okay," he says. "Time to sleep again, I think. Doctor's orders, probably."

She screws up her face, but is actually tired enough to comply, lying down and letting him clear away her dishes to wash.

"I'll stay around until you wake up," is the last thing she registers before she drifts off. And even though she knows he must have a thousand things to do over at headquarters, when she wakes once again, he is still there, just as he is each time after.

[eat0crow]

Jasonette Prompt! Mari and Jason first meeting but it’s after a bunch of thugs tried to jump her (she beat them uppp). anyways they’re both in civilian form and she’s validly untrusting and he calms her down.

Bullies count as thugs, right?

116%

Partly by accident, mostly by self-preservation, Jason figures out that, in order to get everyone to stop looking at him like the poor-orphan-charity-case Bruce Wayne had taken in, he needs to instead get them to write him off entirely.

It’s a genius plan. Gotham Academy is nothing if not judgemental. All he has to do is wear his uniform loose, his tie undone, tell everyone exactly how little he thinks of their petty power plays, and get into a screaming match with his xenophobic history teacher about how people working minimum wage, “Absolutely should be making a living wage. Screw you, you bootlicking capitalist fuck!” within the first month of school. Honestly, he’s surprised he lasted that long.

So maybe he’s a little out of line, it’s not like he’s wrong. And it’s all worth it just to see the look on Bruce’s face when he walks into the principal's office. The man’s eyebrows are practically up to his hairline by the time he hears that Jason, in the face of his teacher's warning, had the audacity to ask, “What are you going to do? Expel me? unfucking likely.”

“It’s not like I’m actually going to be expelled,” Jason says. “Half the school’s annual budget comes from the money you donate. If I’m expelled I’ll have to go somewhere else. You’re not going to invest in a school I’m not attending and they’re not going to those funds.”

With unmasked glee, Jason watches the growing horror spread over his principles face-he’s a smart brown-nosing man after all. He knows exactly what kind of trap he’s walking into. It doesn’t matter that Jason’s history teacher is glaring the man down, looking like he's’ just bitten a lemon. Nope, Jason is not going to be expelled.

“Jason,” Bruce, simply sighs, looking far more put out than he has any right to be.

They settle for him being suspended for the rest of the week with detentions taking place after school on Mondays and Wednesdays for the next two months.

As all interesting gossip tends to, the rumor makes its way through the school before the day is even over-rich kids have way too much time on their hands-by the time Jason comes back the following Monday everyone seems to have decided that he’s a troublemaker unhinged just enough to be dangerous.

It marks the end of people trying to suck up to him, they all seem to have collectively decided that if they mind their own business and leave him out of it, he’ll do the same.

The thing about Jason Todd- fourteen-year-old high school freshman- is that he’s really bad at minding his own business. Like Dick’s Discowling suit levels of bad at it. He's a Robin, after all, you couldn’t be a Robin if you were actually able to keep your nose out of where it shouldn't be. It's practically a rule.

Never once has Jason ever had any fondness for bullies, it doesn’t matter if they were school kids or criminals or one percenters-looking at you Jeff Bezos, looking at you. He’s seen enough of them growing up in the Narrows, and maybe, it’s because his dad, the utter asshole, had been a bully. Maybe he just spends too much time fighting against people who think they can get away with pushing their weight around. It doesn’t matter.

Jason Todd could not bring himself to turn a blind eye, which is why by the beginning of his second semester he’s gained the title of actual-punk-you-know-the-kind-who-fight-the-man with his biweekly detentions being upgraded to triweekly and extended indefinitely. The number of fights he’s gotten into in the last couple of months has easily erased whatever Golden Boy standing Dick had established. Jason is confident that the only reason he’s yet to be kicked out is the fact that Bruce had almost doubled his donations.

So really, when he hears raised voices and the distinct sound of someone being thrown against a wall just as he’s leaving detention for the third time this week, he has to investigate.

Disgust is the first thing Jason can register when he turns the corner because there’s a ring of five students- two girls, three guys- all crowded around the new girl from France. Jason’s pretty sure he shares a class or two with her, maybe. She's easy to miss, small as all hell and stick thin.

This, this isn’t a fair fight. Or a fight she even has a chance of winning. Jason has a bad feeling about this.

But-

But Jason takes a closer look. Her back is pressed against the side of the building, yes. Her bag has been thrown to the ground and she’s shaking but that stance, it definitely doesn’t belong to someone who doesn’t know how to defend themselves. Sure these idiots have her backed into a corner, one point them, but her feet are firmly planted on the ground, her back is straight. She’s not going to run, at least, not before she throws a punch and, judging from the way she’s holding herself, a good one too.

Jason doesn’t really know how to approach this. This girl looks like a deer caught in headlights who will spook the second she hears a loud sound. Getting a teacher would be the most sensible thing to do. It would also require leaving, Jason isn’t confident enough in the situation to do that.

He’s almost talked himself into it, sure it might be a little off-brand for him but this seems slightly out of his depth, when Idiot Number Three, the smirking brunette addition, makes a move toward Marinette-Jason only just remembers her name-and Marinette lashes out.

Dead silence overtakes the yard as the girl goes down, her body crumpling to the ground like a wet paper towel. Marinette’s fist is still curled, her arm still outstretched. She looks like she can’t believe what she just did. Everyone stands frozen for one disbelieving moment before one of the guy's snarls, lunging to grab Marinette’s jacket.

If she was a deer in headlights before, Jason isn’t quite sure what to call her now. She looks like she’s on the cusp of a panic attack, frantically babbling a mishmash of jumbled up words. Jason sees what she’s going to do a second before the bully does, but by then it’s too late.

Marinette, with way more force than someone her size should have, brings her knee up and kicks her would-be attacker in the balls. Jason does not want to feel sympathy pains. He doesn’t, but still, if the way Idiot Number Five falls to his knees is any indication...well.

Idiots Numbered One, Two and Four run off without much fanfare taking their downed Idiot Number Three with them. Jason has a distinct impression they’re going to snitch and Marinette, who was only defending herself and is in no way capable of explaining her side of the story right now, is going to be in a hell of a lot of trouble.

Nope, not on Jason’s watch. He makes his way over. Closing the distance in three precise non-threatening strides. “So I’m thinking, this isn’t exactly what you had planned,” he says lightly.

“Fuck you, Todd.” Eloquent as ever Idiot Number Five.

“No thanks. You seem like you’re having enough fun clutching your balls for the both of us,” he says cooly, crouching down just enough to make eye contact. “Between you and me, I would run if I were you. Before she decides to come and knock your teeth in.”

“Like she would,” the bully scoffs.

“We both know she could and you know I would let her. Hell, I would help her if it kept your mouth fucking shut.” Jason cracks his knuckles, casually pressing his elbow further into the prick's collar bone. “Fuck, I kinda want to do it too. You really piss me off.”

At least he has the good sense to take Jason seriously. Jason can’t help the satisfaction that comes from watching him get to his feet and limp off. Some things really are poetic. Serves the bastard right, even if he promises that, “I’ll get you back for this, Todd.”

Jason snorts, as if he’d worry about what some schoolyard bully was going to do. Have you seen half the lunatics he fights on a monthly basis? “You good?”

“I-no!” Marinette cries, sinking to her knees in shock. “I am so going to be expelled. God, I’m going to be deported. I’ve only been in Gotham for a month! One whole month and already I’ve

messed this up. Momma is never going to let me out of the house. That’s if they don’t send me to jail. Oh, they’re going to send me to jail, aren't they? I can’t go to jail, orange is a terrible color!”

That's ... a lot to unpack. Jason feels something flutter in his chest. He has the strongest desire to comfort her. So, he does the only thing he can think of, he reaches out, wraps his arms around her waist, and promptly gets punched in the face. Hard.

He staggers back, clutching his eye, Jason barely registers Marinette’s steady stream of. “I’m sorry, so sorry I didn’t mean to hit you.”

Self-consciously Jason shrugs, he’s had far worse. The only thing in danger is his ego. “It was my fault. You were literally being threatened a minute ago, I shouldn’t have touched you. Sorry about that.”

“I’m panicking a bit,” Marinette says, pulling at the end of one of her pigtails. “I’m not usually...I just-I don’t want to be expelled.”

“You're not going to be expelled, Hermione,” Jason says dryly. “Yeah, those bastards are going to snitch but you were just defending yourself. They got what they deserved.”

“Do you think anyone’s going to believe that?”

Jason takes a moment to look Marinette over. There is so much earnest hope on her face that Jason...he feels really bad but... “Of course not. You kicked Pattrick Thomson in the balls, his dad’s on the school board. There is no fucking way any one of these teachers is going to believe that he actually got what was coming to him. No matter how much of a prick he is.”

“I’m doomed,” Marinette cries.

“You’re not doomed.” Jason catches Marinette’s look of pure utter disbelief and continues, “You’re not going to be expelled because you’re not the one who is going to be taking the fall for this.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Deadly,” Jason says scooting down to sit next to Marinette. He makes sure to leave a good foot between them. One black eye is enough, thank you. “Unlike you, I won’t get expelled, trust me this isn’t anywhere close to my first fight. If they could have axed me, they would have like a month in. The good news is that this is the one corner of the school security cameras can’t see. So as long as we make our story sound believable, no one is going to question it.”

“I’m pretty sure they’re all going to find it sketchy when no one can agree on who threw the punch.”

“See you would think that but, no offense, you’re a literal wafer cookie. A strong breeze could blow you over. No one is going to believe you took down those idiots. Not when it’s so much easier to blame the one who’s admitting it.”

“I did take them down,” Marinette says, narrowing her eyes.

“And it was badass, but for this to work, we need to milk as many of their sexist assumptions as possible. So,” Jason starts, pressing his hand a little further against his eye, there’s a bit of blood slipping onto his fingers. Marinette got him good. “This is what we’re going to say. We’re going to keep it simple. Tell them that those guys were picking on you and I came over to see what was happening. Things got heated, Thomson punched me in the eye and I bumped into what’s-her-face. You were panicking and didn’t really pay attention until you saw me knee him in the balls. Short, sweet, and believable.”

“What are we going to say when they ask about why everyone is blaming me and not you?”

“Well, why were they bothering you in the first place.” Jason shrugs reaching out to grab some of the stray papers that had fallen from Marinette’s bag. “Just use that. Trust me, Thomson’s going to jump at the chance to save face. Once he changes his story the rest will follow.”

Marinette grimaces. “It feels wrong.”

“Please,” Jason snorts. “They’re rich, they’re cheating at life. They’d get away with murder if they dropped their wallets. You could tell them all exactly what happened word for word and the teachers would still only hear their side of the story.”

“That’s awful.”

“That’s Gotham.”

Marinette falters, as if she wants to dispute the inherent corruption of this city. She stares at Jason, who would probably be blushing if it wasn’t for the excruciating pain coming from his right eye.

“You’re sure.” Marinette bites her lip, nervously picking at her nails. “You’re absolute, one hundred and twelve percent sure you won’t be expelled.”

“I’m one hundred and sixteen percent sure,” Jason says and then Marinette smiles.

It’s a nice smile, Jason doesn’t think he’s ever experienced the full force of someone's relief before.

“Thank you.” Sincerity is dripping off every word, so much so it almost aches. “I-you’re really nice Jason.”

Marinette knows his name. That’s-not necessarily surprising given the act that yeah they do share classes, probably. It’s just this is the first time they’ve talked.

“It’s cool,” Jason says leaning further back into the wall. He can hear people coming, it won’t be long before they have teachers to deal with. Jason might as well get comfortable. “You’re Marinette, right? I think we have English….Math..something together.”

Marinette nods, scooting closer to him. “Yeah, I’m Marinette. Marinette Dupain-Cheng. I sit three rows over in Math and two seats up in English.”

“It’s nice to meet you Marinette. Officially.” Jason takes the hand off of his eye and holds it out to her. “Jason Todd.”

Slowly, Marinette’s smile slowly morphs into a look of pure horror. “You’re eye!”

[muddyhippy]

A Tangled Problem

So today is my birthday and I am still working on Night Terrors chapter 6 which fighting me rather impressively but I had this little scene pop into my head and demanded to be written. 

Please enjoy this little bit of fluff from the Lily ‘verse! 

Lily padded into the common room still quite sleepy but with a single goal in mind. She’d got up out of Jonny’s bunk whilst he was still fast asleep determined to wash and get dressed and make a nice breakfast for everyone. She’d had another bad nightmare and Jonny had stayed up late with her telling stories and singing. He made her feel safe and cared enough that the nightmares stopped being horrible and scary in her head for the rest of the night so she wanted to let him sleep and make a tasty breakfast. Her plan was going quite well when she washed and dressed but got stuck, literally, when it came to brush her hair.

 Lily’s hair was a thick mass of candyfloss-soft silvery tangles at the best of times but last night’s upset had obviously made it ten times worse.

 Her brush got stuck and no matter what she did it wouldn’t come free.

 It hurt when she tugged and pulled and struggled. Enough to make tears prick her eyes.

 So she headed to find the one person who’d probably be best to help.

Without ceremony she headed directly to the person sat on the sofa completely absorbed in their music to the point they didn’t notice her approach until she climbed into their lap.

 Tim physically startled to suddenly have a lapful of Lily appear between his chest and his guitar and stare intensely at him.

 “Um hello Sweetness?”

 “Tim! Help!” She pleaded.  

 He tensed, fully poised to murder the shit out of whatever that had prompted this response.

 She pointed.

 Tim’s eyes alighted on her very tangled-in-hair brush caught up in her tresses. His eyes ran a quick diagnostic that helpfully returned the report ‘Ouch’.

 “Oh.” He considered why she was showing him this and came up with nothing, “Um why—?”

 “Because Jonny’s asleep,” She explained simply, “and you’ve got the prettiest hair, you tangle it all up in your goggles but it always ends up nice and untangled again so you’ve got to be good at hair-brushing.”

 That, that was an impressive leap of logic he had to give her that.

 “But Raphaella…?” He began weakly

 “She has really pretty hair too and it’s even longer than yours but it’s never tangled! Yours does so you’ve got more practice at fixing it. Please?” She sniffed, “I’ve tried and tried and it only hurts more.”

 Tim took pity on her, that snarl up did look painful and it was obvious everything she’d tried had made it worse.

 Plus, she was doing the look that Jonny warned him about, the whole ‘her-eyes-take-up-half-her-face-look’ that made his insides get twisty and him want to fix whatever the matter was.

 He suddenly understood why Jonny was willing to do as much stuff as he did. Lily was bloody hard to say no to when she looked like a particularly sad octokitten.

 “Um, alright then.” He carefully put down the guitar to give the small sad child his full attention.

 It really was a disaster. Tim considered his approach whilst ignoring the growing warmth in his chest at the idea that the little who’d joined them not that long ago apparently trusted him enough to ask for help with something personal and left her vulnerable. He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. Probably Bertie. Best not think about that then.

 “Okay Sweetness, can you turn around for me so I can get to the brush please?”

 “Ok, thank you Tim,” she pressed a heartfelt kiss to his bearded cheek before turning around obviously utterly convinced that he’d got this and she trusted him implicitly that he’d make this better.

 Fuck he hated Jonny for not being awake.

 Tim, not for the first time since Lily joined them, regretted being an only child with absolutely no sibling experience to deal with situations like this.

 Ah fuck it, he’d do his best.

 Using his enhanced vision, the patience he used when cleaning and repairing his weapons and the comb he kept in his coat pocket but would never admit to, he very carefully, painstakingly, detangled her hair.

 After half an hour he managed to free the brush from her head then proceeded to comb all her locks clear so she would be tangle free for the next five minutes at least. Maybe he’d have to ask Ashes to show Lily how to plait properly since he’d seen Ashes wear some excellent styles over the years.

 He’d never bothered to learn, he liked having long hair, it was something that was his own rebellion after school and whilst he was completing his mechanical engineering apprenticeship. It was easy to tuck it up under a cap after all.

 He’d tried not to show how heartbroken he’d been when he’d been constripted and shorn short again. Bertie had known of course and told him he was still just as handsome. During the time in the tunnels his hair had grown out again since no one was really paying attention to uniform rules in the depths of the war.

 He’d kept it long ever since. He wasn’t sure if it was out of defiance or as tribute to Bertie who’d never been able to keep his fingers out of it when they were alone together.

 Tim mentally shook himself, now was definitely not the time to start down that track. That route led to months locks in the armoury building non-stop. Or murdering Jonny repeatedly. Neither of which were viable responses right now.

 “Right then, I think we’re done, turn around for me Lily.”

 The little girl shuffled around on his lap to face him, she shook her head slightly. “It feels so nice! Thank you!”

 Little arms engulfed him in a grateful hug, enveloping him like the octokitten she masqueraded as half the time.

 “You’re very welcome Sweetness, now, let’s show you how to brush your hair without it getting all tangled up. Sound good?”

 “Yes please! Jonny helps me a lot but he doesn’t know as many tricks.”

 “Jonny doesn’t have as much patience, he’s had longer hair a few times but mostly because he couldn’t be bothered to cut it.”

 “Did he have hair as long as yours?”

 “No. Just to his shoulders.”

 “Oh.” She considered, “Mine’s already nearly that long.”

 “I had noticed.” He couldn’t help grinning.

 “I want to grow mine more.”

 “Oh yes?”

 “Yes! So I can be as pretty as Raphaella and you!”

 Tim felt both the blush and lump rise.

 “That’s, that’s kind of you to say Sweetness, but you’re lovely just as you are. You don’t have to look like anyone else to be better in some way.”

 Lily paused and thought about it.

 “Well, I won’t be exactly like you and Raphaella, my hair’s a different colour.”

 He couldn’t argue with the statement, she was a lot lighter than even Raphaella, “That’s very true.”

 “But I still want it long. I think it’ll be even nicer long.”

 Tim couldn’t help but smiling at that very familiar conviction, “Then I best show you how to look after it then shouldn’t I?”

 Lily beamed, lighting up the way she did whenever any of them took time to show her something. It was why they all, without exception, took time to show her things. They might be immoral, immortal space pirates but none of them were above wanting to feel like a hero for teaching a kid to tie her shoe laces, flip pancakes or make belt holes. “Yes please!”

 Which is why Brian walked in twenty minutes later looking for his fellow chef to find Lily and Tim in the middle of a hair brushing lesson, The child sat on the master-at-arms lap facing him, little tongue poking out in concentration, a long hank of Tim’s glossy tresses held reverentially in Lily’s tiny hand, her other carefully brushing it through as Tim talked her through the method of working in stages, his hands guiding hers, starting at the bottom and slowly working up to the roots.

 “This isn’t what it looks like—” Began Tim, colour rising dramatically in his face.  

 Brian raised an eyebrow.

 “Tim’s teaching me to brush hair properly so my brush doesn’t get all tangled up in my hair again because that hurts!”

 Tim sighed.

 “You know,” commented Brian, attempting to sound innocuous, “that looks exactly like what’s happening.”

 Lily looked puzzled, “That’s because it is.”

 “Quite right too,” Agreed the pilot, “looks like you’re doing a good job.” Brian took closer notice of their youngest crewmember, her usually wild mass of waves looked decidedly neat with that glossy sheen that only came with extensive grooming. “Did Tim do yours earlier?”

 “Yes! He’s really good! I got my brush stuck in my hair and he got it out and brushed it really nicely! I asked him because he has really pretty hair and is good at getting tangles out of it after he wears his goggles. He’s really gentle and clever at it!”

 Brian was amused to watch battle of emotions war over Tim’s face pride, pleasure, embarrassment and fury all crossed his face, clearly annoyed that this moment of softness with Lily was being witnessed.

 Brian found he didn’t care all that much for Tim’s comfort, this was more important. They were bonding over something other than guns, completely unprompted. This was good progress. The fact that Tim was obviously trusted enough by Lily for her to ask his help and that he’d clearly given it freely said at lot how comfortable they were becoming together which wasn’t bad for barely three weeks on board for Lily. Then again, last week her nightmare-stricken visit to his room that night she couldn’t find Jonny had probably cemented him as a ‘safe’ adult she could go to when the first mate wasn’t available.

 Brian hoped the rest of them would become as easy to approach eventually.

 It was nice to be reminded that deep under everything, he and his crew, at a push could remember how to be kind.

 “Right well, I’ll leave you to finish. Would you like me to start breakfast Lily?”

 The child paused looking conflicted.

 “I am more than happy to.” Brian clarified.

 “Oh um, yes please.”

 “Did you have a plan?”

 “Scrambled eggs and bacon and pancakes.”

 “Sounds good to me!” Approved Tim, feeling that she shouldn’t feel all that bad about not cooking one meal.

 Brian smile widened, pleased she was deciding to spend more time with Tim, “Me too, right then, I’ll get started, you can join me when you and Tim are done. See you later.” He left the scene as the two continued their lesson.

 “Right then, reckon you can do the rest before Brian finishes?”

 “Yeah!”

 Tim arrived to breakfast on the table, Lily holding his hand, the two looking decidedly neater than normal.

 As the others began to gently tease and pass the pancakes Brian overlooked the group, his family and couldn’t help but beam.

[haledamage]

Ari and Idyllic from the word prompts?

(how many different ways will I write these two having quiet intimate moments at dawn? The answer is all of them. They meet every day to watch the sunrise together, even when they aren’t on the road. You know, like normal people do, certainly no romantic connotations to that)

The market square was the heart of Tuskdale, and it was alive today. People from all over Golarion walked through the square, voices raised in greeting or anger or laughter. An impromptu concert had started outside one of the stalls, and music joined the barony’s chorus as well. The people were afraid, but proud, and they lived all the louder in their defiance of that which sought to kill them.

Tristian let all of it wash over him as he walked through the market. A group of children ran past, playing a game that he couldn’t begin to understand the rules to. Somewhere nearby, someone was cooking food, the scent of hot oil and unfamiliar spices wafting past him. Vendors called to him as he passed, trying to tempt him toward their stalls.

One stall in particular caught his eye, if only for how colorful it was. It was draped in dozens of brightly-colored fabrics, from rough homespun wool to delicate lace. Some was in bolts, intended to be used to make clothing, while others were scraps or strips or even sewn into quilts or little patchwork dolls.

“Lookin’ for somethin’, lad?” a voice called from somewhere under the canopy. He looked up to see a woman eyeing him shrewdly. He couldn’t tell if she was human or half-elven, but she looked to be in her 60’s, her dark hair only barely touched by gray, her brown eyes sharply intelligent. Her accent wasn’t local, as much as anyone could really be counted as a local in the Stolen Lands.

He wasn’t actually there to shop, or at least he thought he wasn’t, but as she asked the question he was struck by sudden inspiration. “Do you have any scarves?”

“A few.” She waggled a thin graying eyebrow at him. “For you or for someone special?”

Tristian blushed at the tone of her voice, but smiled shyly. “For someone very special.” And then, on a whim just to see what the woman would say, he added, “For the baroness, in fact.”

Thankfully, the merchant didn’t recoil in fear the way far too many people had been lately. She simply tapped her chin in contemplation, then nodded. “I dunno that I got anything fit for a baron, but we’ll see.”

The merchant laid out every scarf she could find in her cart and Tristian stared at the collection, not looking for anything in particular, just trying to find which one stood out from the others. There. Almost buried under a purple and turquoise patterned silk was a thin, delicate strip of cloth. It was soft and cool in his hands, nearly transparent, and it was a rich, deep gold like it had been woven out of pure sunlight.

“Gossamer,” the merchant said when she saw his interest. “Made from the silk of giant spiders. Light, but stronger than that armor she wears. She could wear that into battle and it would come out lookin’ good as new.”

“How much?”

“Just take it, lad.” The woman shook her head and pressed the cloth insistently into his hands. “People been sayin’ a lot of things about the baroness lately, sayin’ she’s cursed and whatnot, but I don’t believe a word of it. She saved my granddaughter’s life. Plucked her right outta Pharasma’s bony grasp. The Sparrow Baroness is a gift from the gods themselves, she is, and she’s the only reason any of us are gonna live to see another sunrise.” She pat his hand firmly, decisively. “So you take that an’ you give it to her with my blessing.”

Tristian still reached for his coin pouch, but the merchant would have none of it. She wouldn’t take so much as a penny from him. Determined to give her something in return for her kindness, he instead took out his holy symbol and recited a prayer to Sarenrae to bless this woman with health and prosperity. She laughed and put a hand to her heart. “Ain’t you just a peach, dotin’ over an old woman like this. You tell the Sparrow that if she don’t appreciate ya, I got three daughters who will. Go on, now, lad. I’m sure you got more important places to be.”

-------

It was cold, but not forbiddingly so, and so early in the morning most would still call it night. Tristian walked through the marketplace once again, but the crowds were gone, everyone but the nighttime guard rotation still in bed. Everyone but him and the woman he knew waited for him at his destination.

“You’re late,” a soft voice called playfully from the shadows, and even knowing what he was looking for it took a few moments to spot Aurienne in the dark, leaning against an outcropping of rocks. It was the flash of her smile that gave her away. “I thought the show was gonna start without you.”

“I wouldn’t miss it.” He sat down next to her, and this close the darkness finally coalesced into a familiar half-elven shape, still smiling, her eyes bright. They faced the cliff that was the eastern edge of Tuskdale. Sparrow Vale stretched out beneath them, still shrouded in night, but the sky was beginning to lighten a little at the horizon. “I had some things to get ready before the council meeting later this morning.”

Her brow knotted anxiously at the reminder of the meeting being held today. “More things to get ready? Did you get any sleep at all, Tristian?”

“I got enough,” he lied.

The sour twist of her lips told him she didn’t believe him. The way her hand covered his made it even clearer. “I’m worried about you. You’re helping Jhod in the clinic, you’re helping me with my investigation, you’re helping Kesten and Lander and you’re dismantling cults and doing your own research too?” She leaned closer as if to make sure he could see her in the predawn darkness, so he could understand how sincere she was. “I am so grateful for everything you do, gods know how much your support means to me, but you are not responsible for saving everyone.”

If only she knew just how responsible he was. If only he could tell her. But he couldn’t, so instead he put his hand over hers so it was held between both of his. Even here, in the middle of the night, in the depths of winter, her skin was startlingly, distractingly warm. “And neither are you, Aurienne. I have been watching you. You take each life lost as a personal failure. I only want to help ease that burden.”

“I know. I know.” Ari looked down, and he couldn’t see her face in the deep shadow but he knew what her expression would be. He knew what she would say before she said it because he’d seen her thinking it for weeks. “D’you think it’s true, what they say? Am I cursed? Maybe all of this is my fault.”

“No.” They were both surprised by the vehemence in his voice, and her eyes snapped back up to his, silver as the moon. “Whatever is at work here, it is not your doing. You are the one who is going to stop it.”

Her smile was warm, but her eyes were sad. “I wish I had your faith.”

“I have enough for us both, until you find your own.”

She didn’t say anything in response to that, simply squeezed his hand and turned back to the slowly lightening sky. Snow started to fall lightly around them, a promise of things to come but not enough yet to force them back inside. Ari moved a little closer to him under the guise of staying warm; Tristian allowed it under the same pretense.

“I got you something,” he blurted out before silence could fall too deeply over them. “I was waiting for the right time to give it to you, but… well, there's no time like the present, right?”

Her expression shifted rapidly from surprise, to fondness, to guilt. “You didn't have to--” she started to refuse, but he gently interrupted her.

“I wanted to. Think of it as a belated birthday present, if you wish.” Very belated; her birthday had been more than six months ago. He smiled disarmingly. “Close your eyes.”

She gave him a curious look, but closed her eyes like he instructed. She jumped when his fingers brushed her neck as he slowly pulled away the old, battered green scarf she wore. He waited for her to stop him, but she didn’t, though her hands clenched in her lap like she wanted to. It didn’t escape his notice just how much trust she was extending to him.

The scar at the base of her throat was nowhere near as bad or as noticeable as she clearly thought it was for her to keep it covered like she did. It was long faded, a thin but jagged line only a little paler than her skin; he doubted he'd have noticed it if he hadn't been looking for it. He knew if he touched it, she really would pull away then, but the temptation was there. Instead, he withdrew the gold gossamer bundle out of his pocket and unfolded it. She shivered when he slid it around her neck.

“Okay, open your eyes.”

She gasped as soon as her eyes fluttered open. She touched the scarf gently, like she expected it to unravel in her hands if she moved too quickly, and the look in her eyes could only be called reverence. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered in awe. “This must have cost you a fortune. Tristian, I don’t deserve--”

Ari moved like she meant to take it off and Tristian caught her hands to stop her before she could. “Shh. Yes you do. It’s yours. I knew it was meant to be yours from the moment I saw it.”

She breathed a tiny, disbelieving laugh, and whispered, quiet enough that he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to hear it, “It’s the same color as your eyes.” Before he could even begin to formulate a response to that, she added quickly, “Can I hug you? Would… would that be okay?”

He swallowed down a flutter of nervous excitement, but it still showed in his smile. “Yes. I would like that.”

That was all the permission she needed, and she threw her arms around his neck, almost knocking him backwards with the force of her gratitude. He hesitantly wrapped his arms around her in turn, and when he did he felt her relax a little. “Thank you. I've never had anything this beautiful before. I dunno what to say.”

Her hair smelled like mint, fresh and crisp like the winter air around them. It made it difficult to remember what they were talking about. He didn’t reply until after she pulled away. “You don't need to say anything. I'm glad you like it. I hope…” he reached out and carefully touched the gold fabric. It's beautiful, her voice repeated in his mind. It’s the same color as your eyes. “I hope that when you wear it, you will think of me.”

Aurienne’s smile turned sly and playful and he knew he’d stepped into a trap. As the months went by, Tristian was starting to suspect he triggered these traps on purpose. “Another reason to think about you?” she murmured, practically a purr. “At this rate, it's gonna be hard to find time to think about anything else.”

He blushed, bright enough that he knew she could see it in the early dawn light, but he smiled crookedly. “You are teasing me again.”

“Maybe a little.”

The countryside below them looked like a painting, idyllic and tranquil. From this high, they could watch the rays of the sun reach out across the forests and marshes, bathing the frosted earth with light and warmth.

It was only a matter of time before she learned the truth, before his deception and all the pain he’d caused her was brought into the light. He knew that. But this moment, Aurienne’s shoulder pressed to his, her soft smile in the pink and yellow sunrise, the gentle snow falling around them, Nyrissa couldn’t take this from him. This was his, and it was Ari’s, and it was no one else’s. No matter what came next, at least he had this.

[citrinekay]

After Atlanta, Jim joins the Bureau. Holden and Jim get a lot closer. So close that Holden feels comfortable enough to confide things he's never told anyone else. Bill notices the close bond and feels out of sorts, wasn't HE Holden's partner? Bill jumps to the wrong conclusions. Things come to a head in a heated argument between Bill and Jim. Neither man sees Holden too consumed in their argument.

Who doesn’t love possessive, jealous Bill??? This was a fun, very clever prompt. Thanks for the ask! :)

When he and Nancy’s marriage started falling apart at the seams, Bill had spent a lot of time wishing for things to go back to the way they used to be. Before he was leaving every other day for road school - before he wanted to leave just to get away from the stifling silences. Before the difficulty of raising a child with special needs leveraged undue pressure on their relationship. Before she started drifting away from him, out of his reach. 

But everything changes in way one or another, and life is all about accepting those changes. He’s tried to teach himself that truth over and over. 

Over the next several months after Atlanta, Ted oversees the expansion of the unit. All too soon, Bill’s sequestered spot in the annex is overtaken by rookies and interns, a plethora of resources at their fingertips to aid in the fresh influx of investigations. 

Along with the new transcribers and equipment added to their arsenal is Jim Barney. Ted had been impressed with his role in the Atlanta case and the Hance and Piece interviews. A few pulled strings, and he’s a part of the team just like he should have been back when Gregg was hired. 

Bill should have been grateful for the extra help from someone who already has an idea what they’re doing. Ted’s plan to fast-track the study demands that they increase the speed of the interviews, and for that, they need team members who are willing and able. 

Instead, as he watches Holden and Jim’s professional relationship grow to one of mutual admiration and respect while he and Holden’s withers, he finds himself longing for the good old days again. Back when he and Holden were alive with the spark of this idea. Back when they were on the road together, alone, nothing but the radio and each other for company. Back when they talked to each other - not necessarily about matters of the heart, but about things that counted, and with unabashed honesty that was reserved for themselves and not anyone else. 

Maybe he’s just making the same goddamn mistakes over and over again. He thinks one night as he watches Jim and Holden leave together to get drinks after work. 

Part of him is screaming that he should confront Holden. He and Jim have gone on the last three interviews together. Was it so long ago that Bill was his partner? Was it so long ago that they spoke to each other outside of group discussion on interviews? He thinks about it long and hard every few days only to realize how childish it sounds. Holden can be friends with whoever he wants. 

Early one Monday morning, Bill enters the BSU to see Jim leaning against Holden’s desk. He nods when Bill approaches. 

“Morning, Bill.”

“Morning, Jim.”

Holden glances up from the dossier on his desk. “Hey, Bill. We’re all meeting in the conference room in fifteen.” 

“Okay.” Bill says. 

He knocks on Wendy’s door, and pokes his head in. “Good morning. Are we looking at the interviews out in San Quentin?” 

“Yes.” She says, looking up from her notebook. “Have you looked them over?”

“Some. I’ve had a busy weekend.” Bill says, “It was my weekend with Brian.” 

“Not a problem. I’m sure Holden and Jim are up to date.”

Bill clenches his jaw. “We’ve got a few days. I’ll get there.”

She gives him a terse nod, and a smile. 

Muttering a curse under his breath, Bill goes over into the annex to retrieve the dossiers from his desk. They have two interviews scheduled back to back in California, a trip worthy of dedicated research that he simply hadn’t found the time for this weekend. 

Once they’re assembled in the conference room, Wendy starts going over the details. 

Bill anxiously lights a cigarette while Jim and Holden offer their opinion on preliminary profiles of the two men. 

“I think Jim and I can handle this one.” Holden says, “Bill can hold down the fort here in Quantico for a few days. Right, Bill?”

Bill casts Holden a sharp glance through the cloud of smoke pouring from his mouth. The taste of nicotine sours in the back of his throat as their gazes connect, a silent tension elongating between them like an overstretched rubber band. 

Bill clears his throat, “I thought Jim had that consult for Galveston.” 

“I do.” Jim says, “I can handle both.”

“It’s okay. You shouldn’t have to when my desk is clear.” Bill says. 

Silence settles across the conference room for a moment, and Bill hears Wendy draw in a stiff breath. 

“Jim has done the research.” Holden says, finally. 

“So have I.”

“Bill, it’s okay, really.” Jim says, his tone placating in a way that makes Bill’s teeth grind. “We understand that you have a lot going on right now with Brian-”

“Don’t bring my kid into this.” Bill interrupts, heat flaring hot in his chest before he can stop it. “He has nothing to do with this.”

“All due respect, but I think it does.”

“All due respect?” Bill echoes, acid seething into every word. “Let’s keep this professional, Jim. We’re talking about work, not family. And I’ve done the fucking research.”

“Bill, I think-” Wendy begins, her tone rushed as tension swells into the conference room, sapping oxygen from the air. 

“Wendy, it’s okay.” Jim says, holding up a hand. “Bill, I’m sorry if I hit a nerve. I was simply trying to say that-”

“No, I get what you’re trying to say.” Bill says, tossing the folder onto the table, and rising from his chair. “And I’m not distracted or unfit for this job anymore because of what’s going on with Brian. I am still as committed to our work as when Holden and I founded this department.”

“Well, that’s somewhat juvenile, don’t you think?” Jim asks, his cool tone wavering as frustration seeps into his expression. “I have put a lot of effort into getting this position, Bill. More than you or Holden will ever have to experience.”

“Jesus Christ.” Bill says, “Now this is about race?”

“Bill.” Wendy says, sternly. “I think this discussion has gone far enough.”

“Far enough? How about too far?” Jim says, casting Bill a hurt glare. 

Bill glances away, feeling a pang of regret. 

“I think it’s best if this decision is made by an unbiased third party.” Wendy says, “Myself. And I think it would be best if Jim and Holden took this one.”

“You’re shitting me right?” Bill asks, swinging a glare in her direction, “Holden and I have been doing this shit since the very beginning. These are important interviews. You don’t think that I - a senior member of this department - should be a part of this level of classification?”

“Yes. And you can be part of the discussion.” Wendy says, “When Jim and Holden get back.”

Bill turns to cast Holden glance, to see if at least one person is on his side in this disagreement. But Holden is already getting up out of his chair, and marching out of the conference room. The door swings shut behind him, rattling the length of windows that encompass the room. 

Silence blankets the room as a suffocating layer of tension builds in his absence. 

“Great.” Bill says, getting up to follow him. “Then I guess it’s settled.” 

~

That evening, Bill lingers at his desk, smoking a cigarette and skimming through the San Quentin interview files. If he hadn’t digested them before, he’s gorged on them now, stubbornly trying to prove a point to himself if not everyone else. 

I’m not licking my wounds. He thinks, taking a hard drag of his cigarette. Just doing my job. 

The annex is vacant except for him as he gets up from his desk for another cup of coffee. As he pours out the last dregs the interns had left behind, the door creaks open, casting yellow light from the hall across the shadowed bullpen. 

Bill turns to see Holden slipping inside, his hands tucked in his pockets. 

“Hey, what’s up?” Bill asks, managing an amiable tone. 

“I wanted to talk to you.” Holden says, his voice carrying in a tentative whisper across the room. 

Bill draws in a deep breath. Ripping open a sugar packet, he asks, “About what?”

“You know.” Holden says, “Earlier, in the conference room.”

Bill tosses the empty packet in the trash, and focuses on stirring the sugar into the lukewarm cup of coffee. 

“So, you’re here to lecture me.”

“No.”

“Good.”

“I just think you should apologize to Jim.” Holden says, making his way past empty desks to join Bill by the coffee stand. 

Bill takes a sip of the coffee, wincing at the stale flavor. “That’s what you think, hm?”

“Yes.” Holden says, “This isn’t about him.”

Bill stares into the black depths of the coffee, trying to ignore the heat curling up his throat as Holden’s gaze lands heavily on his temple. 

Holden sighs, and turns to lean his hips against the table. “It’s about me.”

“You?” Bill scoffs. 

“I have to admit, I didn’t think you were the jealous type.”

“Jealous. Now you’ve really got it wrong.”

The words have no more left his mouth than Bill looks up to see Holden gazing at him calmly, eviscerating honesty resting in the deep blue of his eyes. He glances away, fighting back the frustration rising in his chest. 

“Bill, the truth is, Jim and I have gotten to be close friends these last few months because I didn’t think we were anymore - not after Atlanta.”

“What?” Bill whispers, his throat thickening. 

“Look at you-” Holden says, motioning around the bullpen, “You’re over here in the annex by yourself, and have been since we got back from Vacaville. You didn’t tell me a thing about Brian until I forced you to. You shut me out.”

Bill lets out a feeble laugh, and squeezes the bridge of his nose. “Fuck. Holden, I … I don’t know what to say. I never meant to- … for us to-”

“To not be friends anymore?” Holden whispers. 

Bill’s eyes creep open to see Holden staring at the floor, his arms folded defensively over his chest. 

“Is that what you think?” Bill asks. 

“I don’t know. It’s how I feel.” 

Bill swallows hard against the lump forming in the back of his throat. “That isn’t what I want.”

Holden lifts his chin to meet Bill’s gaze, his mouth twitching with a faint smile. “You want to get out of here? Get a drink?”

Bill lets out a relieved laugh. “Yeah, I do.”

Holden shoves away from the table, nodding eagerly towards the door. 

Discarding the cold coffee, Bill grabs his wallet and keys from his office, and follows Holden out of the annex. The hallway echoes with their footfalls as they walk in stride down toward the elevator. 

“I still think Jim and I should take San Quentin.” Holden says, softly. 

Bill feels the frustration in his chest melt away as they step onto the elevator. He casts Holden an affable smile. “That’s more than fair.”

[enbyleighlines]

Prompts you say? *rubs hands with glee* XuanLi and "date night" (pre or post marraige/jin ling)?

Yeeeeeeeeeee a XuanLi prompt!!! I was so psyched to receive this, anonymous! I hope you enjoy this~

—

It’s February 19th, a Friday, and the night before Jin Zixuan’s twenty-fourth birthday. Tomorrow, they’ll have a more formal celebration. But on that particular evening, Jin Zixuan and his wife Jiang Yanli decide to take advantage of the opportunity to have a date night.

It’s the first date night they’ve had since Jin Ling’s birth, just a little under three months ago. Jin Zixuan is just a touch nervous. Though he and Jiang Yanli have been happily married for a while now, and were dating even before that, he feels an old insecurity rising from the depths of his subconscious.

In short, Jin Zixuan wants to prove himself worthy of his amazing wife.

They drop A-Ling off at Wei Wuxian and Wen Ning’s apartment. The two men are already well accustomed to babysitting two-year-old Wen Yuan, so choosing them as A-Ling’s caretakers for the night was a no-brainer. Still, it will be A-Ling’s first night without either of his parents. Jin Zixuan and Jiang Yanli take turns detailing all of A-Ling’s little quirks and habits, and his schedule for feeding. Even Jiang Yanli, who Jin Zixuan relies on to be the paradigm of calm and rational thought, seems to be just barely holding herself together.

It’s clear that they’re both just procrastinating, and soon Jiang Yanli’s big-mouthed Da-Didi is trying to usher them towards the door with an on-loop feedback of, “Yes, uh-huh, I understand, yes, okay, sure...”

Just as Jin Zixuan starts explaining how to change A-Ling’s diaper, Wei Wuxian seems to lose any lingering patience.

“Yes, thank you, I know how to change a diaper,” Wei Wuxian cuts Jin Zixuan off, laughing to ease the rude interruption, “A-Yuan here is still in pull-ups. So stop worrying, and go have fun.”

The toddler in question is at Wei Wuxian’s leg, eyes fixated on the fussing baby in his arms.

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” Jiang Yanli says. She takes a deep breath and visibly centers herself. “I didn’t mean to patronize you, A-Xian,” she adds, cupping his cheek, “I’m just...”

“This is your first night away from him, I know,” Wei Wuxian finishes, “But I’m going to take good care of him. I promise.”

At last, Jin Zixuan and Jiang Yanli have no excuses left to linger. They each give their son a couple more kisses each. He’s asleep, and doesn’t even stir at the touch of lips to his forehead.

Still, Jin Zixuan hesitates at the threshold.

Wei Wuxian takes A-Ling’s chubby little fist in his hand and makes him wave. “Bye bye,” Wei Wuxian says in a ridiculously high pitched voice, “Bye Boba, bye Mama.”

Jin Zixuan tries to snort, but he ends up smiling.

—

Even though it’s Jin Zixuan’s birthday celebration, he insists on going to Jiang Yanli’s favorite restaurant. After all, she’s the professional chef, even if she’s currently on maternity leave.

Her favorite restaurant is named after the lake it’s located beside. The outside tables sit on a large dock, right out on the water. They serve seafood, in the traditional Sichuan cuisine style. Most of their dishes have a fiery red broth, which Jin Zixuan still thinks is an affront to nature. How can a liquid burn like fire in the mouth? But Jiang Yanli loves her spice, so he keeps mum.

Unfortunately, since it’s winter, outside seating is not yet available. Luckily, Jin Zixuan had made reservations for one of the booth tables near the window. That way, they are still able to see the lake.

As per tradition, they order the hotpot to share, and admire the calm ripples of the water as they wait.

“It’s a good thing you made a reservation,” Jiang Yanli says after a moment of comfortable silence, “This place is super busy tonight.”

She’s not exaggerating. The waitresses aren’t running around like headless chickens, but they have that frenzied look on their faces that suggests that they are just seconds away from doing so. Jin Zixuan watches as yet another couple arrives, pushing their way through the crowd of people gathering by the front door.

“So much for this place being a hidden gem,” Jin Zixuan replies.

“It’s good that they’re finally getting the recognition they deserve, though.” That’s just like Jiang Yanli, always looking for the silver lining.

Jin Zixuan finds himself smiling. “You’re right,” he says, “Good for them.”

Jiang Yanli beams in return. But there’s a slight crack in it, that Jin Zixuan only recognizes because he’s grown to know her so intimately over the years.

He reaches out to take her hands in his. “Do you miss A-Ling already?”

The smile falls, and Jiang Yanli laughs, kind of bashfully. “Ah, am I being that obvious?” She asks.

Jin Zixuan shrugs. “No. I miss him, too.”

All the tension drains from Jiang Yanli’s shoulders, and her smile returns, smaller than before, but still sincere. “It’s silly, isn’t it? It’s only been, what, twenty minutes? I’ve taken longer baths than that before.”

“I don’t think it’s silly,” Jin Zixuan argues, “Or... are you calling me silly?” He raises an eyebrow, in what Jiang Yanli affectionately calls his ‘Dreamworks face.’

As he intended, Jiang Yanli bursts into delightful giggles. She covers her mouth with her wrist as she laughs, muffling the sound with her sleeve. When her gigglefest subsides, she says, “But you ARE silly, A-Xuan. But not for missing your son. Just in general.”

“Just in general?” Jin Zixuan snorts. “Well, that’s fine, then.”

The waitress brings their drinks. They’ve decided to share a bottle of champagne, of Jin Zixuan’s favorite’s brand. Jin Zixuan pours for both of them. He not so subtly shows off his pristine drink pouring etiquette, which his father’s rich friends once taught him.

Jiang Yanli awards him with soft applause, even though she’s seen his flaunt this skill many times before.

Jin Zixuan chuckles, kind of embarrassed but mostly flattered. It was the exact reaction he had been hoping for. “You’re adorable,” he tells her fondly.

They clink their glasses. “To turning twenty-four,” Jiang Yanli says, “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

“To returning to work,” Jin Zixuan returns.

They both take a sip. Jin Zixuan savors his with closed eyes and an after-swallow sigh. While it fizzles pleasantly down his throat, he turns his attention back to his wife. “How do you feel, going back to work on Monday?”

Jiang Yanli laughs forcibly, and turns her face. “It’ll be nice to go back,” she says vaguely.

“You can take more time off,” Jin Zixuan suggests, “if you don’t feel ready.” He pauses, and then adds, “But I think you should go back. It will take some time to adjust, but it’ll be good for you.“

Jiang Yanli watches him, looking torn.

“I’ll support you either way, obviously,” Jin Zixuan rushes to assure her, “I’ll always support whatever decision you make, A-Li. But I know how much you enjoy your work. You obviously miss it. You’ve been cooking more food than our fridge can hold.”

Jiang Yanli nods, and bites her lip. “You’re right,” she says, “But still... I’m not sure I’m ready to be away from A-Ling for a whole day.”

“I understand. That’s how I felt, too, when I had to go back to class.” Jin Zixuan leans forward and rubs his thumb over Jiang Yanli’s wrist, underneath her sleeve, right against her pulse. “I may not have looked like it, but secretly I was a mess.”

“Oh no, it wasn’t a secret,” Jiang Yanli teases, “You’re many great things, but you’re not subtle, darling.”

Jin Zixuan laughs. “Well, I tried to hide it,” he amends, “Anyway, I was a mess, but do you know what I learned? That stupid adage that mothers tell their children about ripping off bandaids is true. The quicker you pull it off, the less painful it is. And you’re strong, A-Li. I think you’ll be surprised with how quickly you adjust.”

“I don’t feel strong,” Jiang Yanli says with a sigh, “I feel fragile.” She moves her hand to curl their fingers together.

Jin Zixuan squeezes her fingers. “You’re not,” he promises, “You’re the strongest person I know. But if you think you need another week, or two, I doubt your boss will hold it against you.” That last part is a joke, since Jiang Yanli’s boss is Jiang Fengmian, her father.

Jiang Yanli giggles again. “No, I don’t think he will,” she agrees. Then her mood shifts again, and her jaw sets in steely determination. “But you’re right,” she says, “I miss work.”

Her tone implies that she’s made up her mind. Jin Zixuan encourages her by swiping his thumb across her palm.

“I’ll go back on Monday,” Jiang Yanli declares aloud.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Jin Zixuan says, and pulls her hand to his lips for a kiss. “I can’t wait to hear about all of the hot gossip you’ve missed.”

When Jiang Yanli laughs this time, it shakes her body.

Jiang Yanli works with a lot of chatty women, most of them suburban soccer moms. Along with Yu Ziyuan, they like to spend their shifts swapping updates on whatever drama is going on in their neighborhoods. Jiang Yanli has made it a habit to share the juiciest tidbits with Jin Zixuan when she gets home. Usually she does this while they share wine, as a tribute to their gossipy mothers, who used to do the same thing when they were children. It started out as a joke, after Jiang Yanli found out about Jin Zixuan’s secret love of reality TV shows, but over time, it’s evolved into activity both of them enjoy.

“True,” Jiang Yanli says once she’s gotten ahold of herself, “I’ve been dying to know if Zhang Li ever got her grandmother’s armoire back from her ex.”

“If she hasn’t, let her know I’ll go to her ex’s place to pick it up,” Jin Zixuan informs her, “It’s ridiculous, letting him keep it that long. What if he tries to sell it? From what you’ve told me, her ex sounds like the kind of shameless man who would do something like that.”

Jiang Yanli nods sagely. “I’ll let her know. She’ll probably decline, but she’ll appreciate the offer nonetheless.”

“Yeah, Zhang Li is quite proud, isn’t she?” Jin Zixuan sighs. He’s met her — and Jiang Yanli’s other co-workers — a few times through parties and work events. They’re quite a bit of fun, for suburban soccer moms.

“Almost as prideful as you,” Jiang Yanli agrees with a playful smile.

Jin Zixuan gives a fake affronted noise. “I’ve gotten better,” he protests, half joking and half sincere.

“You have,” Jiang Yanli agrees easily. She strokes his cheek, letting the tips of her fingers trace the outline of his jaw. “But you also have a lot to be proud of. So I don’t blame you for it.”

Jin Zixuan can’t help himself; he feels himself puff up like a presenting peacock. He loves the way she looks at him like that, like he’s the center of her universe.

If Jiang Cheng and/or Wei Wuxian were here, they’d surely tease him for posturing. They still like to call him “peacock”, though it’s said with far less venom in their voice than before Jin Zixuan and Jiang Yanli got together. But Jin Zixuan doesn’t much care. His wife is right: he DOES have a lot to be proud of.

Jin Zixuan has an amazing wife, for starters. He has a vibrant baby boy, who is already developing a strong personality. He’s at the top of all of his classes at law school, since he’s actually putting some effort into his education for once in his life. He even has a plan for after graduation. His Da-didi, A-Yao, and him are going to inherit the Jin Brothers & Associates law firm from their father and uncle. Except, instead of catering to businesses, they’ll transform it into one that helps people. They want to use their law degrees to protect women. It’ll be their way of giving back, after all the women their father has hurt over the years.

So, yeah. Jin Zixuan IS allowed to be proud.

“You should proud, too,” Jin Zixuan tells his wife, his A-Li, “I meant it when I said you were the strongest person I know. If I have anything to be proud of, it’s because I’ve had you with me, supporting me.”

“Aww, sweetheart.” Jiang Yanli blushes deeply, and looks to her lap. She still gets timid whenever he tries to flirt with her, like she reverts back into the schoolgirl who had a mad crush on him through all of elementary, middle, and high school.

But he’s not trying to flirt with her or flatter her right now. So Jin Zixuan insists, “It’s true. I love you. I love you so much.”

That makes Jiang Yanli look back up. She’s much more familiar with this side of him, the side that speaks seriously, even when discussing mundane topics.

She melts, as if his gaze is warming her like sunshine. “I love you, too,” she says.

[spaceskam]

“We’ll get him back, Michael, I promise.” Isobel says as she cradles a wrecked Michael in her chest.” Ok so it’s my first time sending in a prompt, love your writing! This based on the S2 synopsis, Alex gets kidnapped and Michael is at loss, happy ending please ❤️

Also: “I’m going to find him. If it’s the last thing I’m going to do, I’m going to find him.” Alex is kidnapped and Michael won’t take No as an answer.Also: inspired by vlamis saying that all Guerin wants is to be Alex’s hero

so idk how good this is because i’m actually terrible at coming up with scheming like idk how people do it, just come up with in depth smart plans for their characters to have, i’m atrocious at it.  however i hope you enjoy!

ao3

“What do you mean?”

If anyone bothered to clarify or repeat themselves, Michael didn’t hear them.  Two months ago, he’d ended everything with Maria so he could focus on bringing Max back. A month ago, they did just that.  Three weeks ago, he marched straight to Alex’s cabin and said he was ready to work through all the pain.  Two weeks ago, he’d gone in for a kiss and Alex said it was too soon.

So he gave him some space.

And now he wasn’t there.

“Michael, are you alright?” Isobel asked as she sat on the floor beside him, draping an arm around his shoulder.  He wanted to scoff, to find something snide to throw at her.  “Am I alright?” he’d say, “the love of my life is missing and that’s all you can ask?”

Instead, he couldn’t find any words.  All he felt was heartache and worry and panic.  Alex needed him and he wasn’t there.  Alex was strong, a force to be reckoned with, and yet something had happened to him.  It could be literally anything. He could be being tortured for information or he could be dead or he could be tied up in a basement. Or he could be dead.

Please don’t be dead.

“Last time I talked to him was a week ago. Anyone hear from him more recently?” Kyle asked, keeping a cool head even though he was the one telling everyone that Alex Manes was MIA. No one said anything. “Okay. So sometime between then and this morning, someone took him.”

“Well, how do you know someone took him? Maybe he just left on his own,” Liz said. Michael wanted to thank her for being positive, but he was angrier that she was holding up the conversation over bullshit that didn’t happen.

“His car was gone, but there…” Michael could feel them looking at him, trying to figure out if he could take what Kyle was about to say. “There looked like a struggle inside the cabin. Shit was everywhere, it didn’t look like any of his clothes were gone. Front door was open. There was… blood on the floor and the counters.” Michael brought his knees closer to his chest and he tried to block out the horror of what had just been said. Someone made Alex bleed.

Or maybe Alex made someone else bleed.

Maria seemed to speak his mind, “I know Alex, he wouldn’t let anyone take him without a fight.”

“Yeah, but they still got him,” Max pointed out as if anyone needed that fucking confirmation.  Michael balled himself up even more.  This was clearly a dream.  A horrifically bad one.  One that he could wake up from if he tried a little harder and then Alex would be there when he did and they could kiss and kiss and kiss until he forgot all about this.

Michael squeezed his eyes shut, rocking slightly in place as he desperately tried to wish it away.  He just needed to wake up.  Wake up and be with Alex.  Alex wasn’t gone, no one could’ve taken him, no one…

“Michael!  Michael, listen to me, you need to calm down,” Isobel’s voice reached out to him, her hands cupping his cheeks.  This was real.  It wasn’t a dream.  The noise that pushed out of his body once he realized that was the most pathetic sound he’d ever made.  It showed on Isobel’s face.  “Oh, Michael, we’ll get him back, I promise.” She pulled his head tightly to her chest, combing her hands through his hair.

The room was silent.  It made Michael feel even worse.  Why weren’t they talking about Alex?  Why were they focusing on him instead of focusing on how to get Alex back?

“Why are you all just fucking standing here?!” Michael yelled, not moving from his place in Isobel’s arms.  He had faith that his tone and the slight shake of the furniture in the room made them realize how serious he was.  “We know who took him!  It was his fucking dad!”

“Mikey,” Liz started this time.  Great.  “Alex’s dad just got out of the hospital.  I don’t think he capable of kidnapping.  Even if Alex is dis‒”

“Oh, don’t you even act like Alex missing his leg makes him weak at all!  He could fucking kill all of you if he wanted to!  And honestly, he should because you aren’t fucking helping!” Michael barked.  More than one object shot across the room and he’d tried to lift his head, but Isobel had a death grip on him.

“Michael, you aren’t helping by freaking out.  Take a deep breath, and use your words‒calm ones.” Isobel dictated, sounding like she had so many times in their life.  Michael closed his eyes once again, breathing slowly.  At first, it was a last-ditch attempt at waking up from this fucking nightmare, but once he realized that wasn’t it, he decided to listen.  

He could be calm.  Calm meant Alex.  Alex needed him.  He’d let him down before, he wasn’t about to do it again.

“His dad probably got his brothers in on it.  Or, or at least Flint.  Guy has some twisted view that whatever he does for his dad is to protect Alex,” Michael explained, sniffling hard as he rubbed at his eye, “It wouldn’t surprise me if he tried to get Alex to go see his dad to talk about Project Shepard and Alex wouldn’t listen, so he tried to force him and then Alex probably used more force than anticipated and then…” He couldn’t say it.  It hung in the air regardless.  Everyone knew the only way Alex got pulled out of that cabin was either by unspeakable violence.

“Okay, but maybe that’s not it?  I mean, Alex did put himself in the middle of a government conspiracy for us, it could be any number of people.  Could even be an alien,” Max said and Michael was starting to regret bringing him back.

“Yeah, maybe, but it definitely couldn’t hurt to look into his dad.  Dude’s psychotic,” Kyle explained, mindlessly rubbing over where he’d been shot.  Michael took a few deep breaths, doing his best to steady his mind before he stood up.  Again, all eyes were on him.  He was getting quite tired of that.  What was so hard about focusing on Alex?  It literally was the easiest thing in the world.

“I’m gonna go find him.  If you wanna sit here blowing yourselves, fine, I’m gonna go get Alex,” Michael said.  However, he could barely take a step before multiple pairs of arms yanked him onto the couch.  It was a chorus harmonizing ‘you’re crazy’ with ‘have you lost it?!’ and he was so over the false niceties. “Let me go get Alex!”

“We can’t go in blind!” Kyle scolded, shaking his head. He was awfully close to Michael, having been the first one to stop him, and Michael was beginning to wonder why he cared.  “We need to think this through, okay?  If we just go in, alien minds blazing, then we could just get everyone killed.  We need to be smart about this.  We don’t even know if he has him, much less where or what he’s done to him.  We’ll get him back, Guerin.”

Michael swallowed back the tears that ached in his throat, “I need him.”

“I know, Michael, I know,” Isobel cooed, cradling him against her chest once again.  Kyle gave a tight smile and put his hand on his knee.

“I’m gonna find him.  If it’s the last thing I do, I’m gonna find him,” Michael grumbled, his knees coming back to his chest.  His ears filled with demeaning sentiments that they knew.  But they didn’t know, couldn’t know.  He and Alex had stayed virtually silent on their relationship.  Everyone knew they had some feelings, but mainly it was assumed to be a brief fling in high school.  Max knew that being caught with him had gotten his hand fucked, but that’s about it.  Liz and Maria knew he was Museum Guy, but that’s about it.  Isobel knew that Alex knew everything about him, but that’s about it.  Oddly enough, Kyle was the closest to knowing, and still, all he knew was that they still loved each other after a decade of bullshit and that’s about it.

No one understood how they’d spent so many years trying to navigate each other and themselves.  No one got that he’d thought about Alex every day for a decade. No one knew about Caulfield. They definitely didn’t know that the sex was so good it felt more natural than breathing.  Not just the sex.  Touching him, kissing him, holding him.  If they’d just had a few more weeks to work at it, talking would’ve come just as easy.  Alex was his, he was Alex’s.  They were all just too stupid to see it.  Too stupid to understand that he was missing a piece of himself when Alex wasn’t there.

“Maybe you should get some‒”

“I swear to god, if you say sleep, I’m going to throw you through a window,” Michael said, narrowing his eyes at Kyle who was still knelt in front of him, “Alex could’ve gotten taken a week and a half ago.  I’m not wasting time.  We start planning now.”  Kyle stared for a moment, clearly debating what to say.  Michael never stopped glaring at him as he checked around the room to make sure everyone was on board.  Kyle stood up.

“Okay.  Let’s get to work.”

*

“Are you sure this is a good idea, Michael?”

“It’s the only one I’ve got.”

Twenty-four hours after realizing Alex was missing, they were headed to the Project Shepard bunker.  To Michael, it felt like twenty-five hours too late.  They weren’t stupid and Jesse Manes wasn’t either.  If he’d taken Alex, he would’ve taken him somewhere that they’d be able to find him.  Squeezing information out of Alex was a hard task, but even if they’d managed to get every piece he knew, it still wasn’t was he wanted.  Jesse Manes wanted Michael, Max, and Isobel either dead or in captivity.  What’s better bait than Alex?

It killed Michael that it took them that long to notice Alex was gone.  He’d called him a handful of times since then and he’d thought endlessly about going over, but he thought he was being ignored for making him uncomfortable and the last thing he wanted was to push him away by being overbearing.  Turns out him not taking action for once may have gotten Alex killed.  

The idea alone had Michael ready to kill.

“So, walk me through this one more time?” Max groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.  Michael stepped on the gas a little harder.

“I bust the door in.  Let’s say there’s four guys other than Jesse, I’ll throw them all against the wall.  Max, you take the biggest one.  Iz and Liz, you two go after another one and Liz holds him while Iz gets in his mind and politely suggests he stops.  Kyle, you go after the other one.  Maria, if there’s another one, be careful, but point that gun at him.  I got Jesse and Alex,” Michael said.  

It’s what he’d been saying since the moment they decided they needed a plan.  They kept trying to tell him that he needed something more than that, but the fact of the matter was they didn’t know what they were going into and there wasn’t a way to find out.  So they all put on bulletproof vests and Max and Maria had guns on them.  Michael was a weapon in his own right, Isobel was strong enough to get into someone’s mind quickly, and Kyle had spent some time training with Alex enough to have a basic understanding of self-defense.  It was all they had to go on.

“God, this is such a bad idea,” Kyle scolded.  Michael huffed, slamming his hand against the steering wheel as he turned onto the dirt road that led to the bunker.

“You didn’t have a better one!” Michael yelled.  No one argued.

It was hauntingly silent in the car, the weight of what they were doing really setting in.  Alex’s life was in their hands.  Their plan was already half-baked at best, there was so much room for fuck ups.  All Michael knew was that he’d die saving Alex and it was the main drive of confidence.

Even when he pulled up to the bunker.

Everything moved in slow motion as they entered the way Micahel had suggested, the door flew open with ease.  It felt stupid, riddled with plausible ways for them all to end up dead or hurt or fucked up in some way.  He was stupid.  That stupidity felt amplified when there was no one in sight.  Maybe Alex really did just leave…

“I don’t think anyone’s here.  Maybe we were wrong,” Max said as if he had any part in guessing where Jesse Manes might’ve taken him.  Michael rolled his eyes, walking further into the bunker.  Maybe he wasn’t there, maybe Alex just left because he scared him away, but Michael had stressed himself out too much to leave without looking.  He was going to search this place top to bottom.

“Michael,” Isobel tried as he began looking beneath the table and the desk. He didn’t listen, closing his eyes to see if he could feel Alex.  He’d gotten really good at that‒well, especially with Alex.

“Guerin, seriously, I think‒”

“Shut up,” Michael snapped, taking a deep breath as he tried to find Alex and call out to him.  Maybe he should’ve done that first.  Then again, he wasn’t exactly known for his logical decision making.

And he called Alex, searching for him wherever he may be.  His palms began to burn as he felt something.  It was murky, it was faint, but it felt like Alex and it was close and that’s all he needed.

“Alex?!” Michael yelled, causing nearly everyone around him to jump and glare him.  But if Alex was close enough, he’d probably hear him scream better than he heard him in his head and he wasn’t about to blow that.  Still, paranoia began to feed into his already ridiculously high worry when whatever he had been feeling was yanked away, leaving that part of him cold and empty all over again.  That can’t be good.

Voices called after Michael as he darted down the hall.  He looked everywhere he could, his mind throwing open each door he passed them.  No Alex.  Michael barely had time to try to call out for him again when he reached the final two doors and spotted a trail of blood leading to one of them.

Found it.

Michael blew the door off its hinges and into pieces, already huffing and puffing and ready to destroy some Manes Men before he could even get a good look at what was inside.  He didn’t really know what he was expecting, but what he saw really wasn’t it.

The room was indeed covered in blood, but it didn’t seem to be Alex’s.  Rather, it belonged to a few other Manes Men.  In the middle of the floor, there was a pile of Jesse Manes and two of his sons, neither of which was Alex, but all of which were unconscious.  They were tied up in complex knots that coursed around their bodies and over their mouths and around their hands and feet, creating one giant human lump of flesh that was partially covered in dried blood.

“Really, Guerin?” Alex was leaned up against the far wall and, aside from the split lip, messy hair, and missing prosthetic, he looked fine.  Well, he looked annoyed.  The entire scene had Michael’s head reeling in confusion, trying to piece together the scene and how the hell it had ended up like that.  Had Alex done all that and ended up with nothing but a split lip?

“I… came to save you?” Michael said though he knew it wasn’t convincing.  His eyes raked over the scene a couple more times as the Knock-Off Justice League bounded up behind him to do the same.

“Uh-huh, I bet, my hero,” Sarcasm dripped from Alex’s voice.  That quickly reminded him that Alex was here and speaking.  Alex was alive.

Michael crossed the room in record time, scooping him up in his arms.  Alex wiggled his hands-free, bringing them around Michael’s shoulder and petting his head as if on instinct.  He didn’t even realize he was crying until Alex started shushing him.

“Jesus Christ, Alex, what the hell happened?” Kyle asked from behind them.  Michael squeezed Alex a little tighter, a silent plead to never leave him alone with Kyle again.  He could be nice and all, but Michael was pretty sure Alex needed more hugs.  From everyone.  Why was Michael the only one hugging?

Why was Michael the one being comforted?

“Idiots came to my cabin a few days ago, tried to get information out of me, somehow forgot I was specially trained to be on special task forces.  One of them sedated me, so I guess they’re not all idiots,” Alex chuckled.  He fucking chuckled.  Michael sniffled against his neck, feeling Alex’s cheek mindlessly rub against his temple.  Alex.  “I was out for a day or two, I guess, when I woke up they had me tied up in here.  Something about me being a good way to get the aliens or some shit.  Assholes took my leg, I have no idea where they put it.”

“Alex, are you okay?” Maria asked.  Finally, someone asked.  Alex hummed, his fingers weaving into Michael’s hair.  He squeezed him tight, Alex’s breath hitching a little bit.  Michael loosened his grip.  Sort of. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.

“I’m right here,” Alex whispered to him before answering anyone else.  Michael wondered if he could hear him, feel him.  “I’m fine, yeah.  You guys came at a good time, so, uh, thanks.  Been waiting here for like an hour trying to figure out how to get out of here without crawling.”

“And you… did… that?” Max asked.

Alex snorted, “Didn’t really have a choice.  So, like, I know you came to save the day, so could you guys go find where they put my leg?”

A few lackluster mumbles later, they found themselves alone. Michael was fully aware they’d hyped up this mission only for Alex to mostly have saved himself, but he didn’t even care.  Alex was okay and that was the biggest relief in the fucking world.

“Guerin, are you okay?” Alex asked softly, craning his neck in an attempt to see his face.  Michael was too terrified to let go.  Last time he let go, Alex got kidnapped.  Alex was strong and smart and could survive a fucked up situation, but Michael didn’t even want him to have to.  There was no fucking way he was letting go again.  Especially when he was missing a prosthetic and Michael was basically functioning as a crutch.

“Shut up, are you sure they didn’t hurt you?  I was so fucking worried.  I haven’t been able to breathe for, like, a million hours,” Michael sniffled, letting out a heavy groan as he tried to stop crying.  Alex just smiled at him and that felt like an incentive to stop the fucking waterworks.

“Mmm, how long did it take you to notice I was gone?”

“I didn’t.  I thought you were mad at me and ignoring me for trying to kiss you, so I was giving you space.  Well, I blew up your phone, but I didn’t want to go to your house, that was all Valenti,” Michael admitted, that shitty feeling in his stomach stirring up again.  What kind of boyfriend was he going to be if he didn’t even notice that he was gone?

“Thank you for respecting my space,” Alex said as if he wasn’t annoyed with him.  He had to be annoyed with him.

“Thank you for being a fucking badass and keeping yourself safe,” Micahel gushed, squeezing him again.  Alex laughed softly, pressing a sweet kiss to his temple.  A pathetic whimper fell from Micahel’s throat, his eyes closing as he tried to savor that stupid little touch.  He didn’t expect any more.  “I’m so sorry.”

“Shut up, Guerin, I’m okay.  You’re okay.  We’re okay,” Alex promised, massaging his scalp as he finally squeezed him back.  Michael wanted to collapse.

“I was so scared I would never see you again, that the last time I’d see you would be me being stupid,” Michael admitted.  Alex hummed softly and Michael didn’t even get a response before Max came in holding the prosthetic like a trophy.

Michael found it hard to keep away from Alex.  Even as he coldly said to leave the men on the floor and as he put on his prosthetic and as he walked towards his truck as if nothing had happened.  He didn’t want him to leave his sight.

“Michael, honey, let Alex go home.  He’s had a rough few days,” Isobel cooed all over again.  He wanted to fight and argue that they had literally all went to rescue him and they were acting like it wasn’t a big deal, but he quickly had to face the reality that it wasn’t.  Everyone was completely fine, no one had to do anything big or bad or dangerous.

Except for Alex.  And they thought it was okay for him to be alone after that.

“Alex, seriously?  You want to be alone?” Michael asked, pulling at Isobel’s hand as she held onto him.  He felt like a child. Maybe he was, he did come up with the world’s worst plan and did no day-saving.  He failed Alex.  That was shone all over Alex’s face as he stared at him over the hood of his car.

But Alex sighed, “C’mon, Guerin, you can drive.  I’m still a little hazy anyway.”

He didn’t have to be told twice.  

Michael climbed into the driver’s seat of the car and completely ignored everyone else that wasn’t Alex Manes.  He managed to clear his eyes and his head enough before he started up the car, heading to the cabin like it was second nature.

“Are you sure you wanna go back there?” Michael asked, “I mean, do you feel safe at a place they took you?”

“I’ll be fine.  Just clean up the blood and give it a few weeks, it’ll go back to normal,” Alex assured.  When Michael looked over, his eyes were closed.

“You sure?”

“Guerin, I know for a fact that I’ll be safe if you’re there with me, so stop questioning me and just stay with me for a while,” Alex told him.  He was tired and sounded a little annoyed and he probably didn’t mean it, but to Michael, it meant the world.  He made him feel safe.  Even though he was excruciatingly bad at rescue missions, even though he let him get taken in the first place, he made him feel safe.  He didn’t know what that meant for them or how long it would last, but he was going to cherish it.

Maybe he really was his hero.

[vestigialtext]

Euphorroria

[TW suicide, self-harm] 

Imagine you turn around there’s suddenly a perfectly circular swirling hole open in the floor, emanating a hazy purple glow and a kind of pulsing, reverb-drenched celestial siren song, like the single sickest shoegaze riff you’ve ever heard.

You think, huh, wow, that’s a pretty weird trip-hazard, and erect some cordons to stop anyone falling in. But you become fixated on the hole, staring in unblinking for hours. It’s curious, it’s beautiful, it’s sonically enchanting, it’s perfumed with a kind of partially floral, partially cardomomic, partially metallic scent which just encroaches on the sickly-sweet – but you still want a taste.

The hole, as it happens, is a portal to insanity.

This is how I experience hypomania; standing steady-of-foot behind the barrier, gazing at wonder to the insanity, hearing its call but keeping a safe distance.

Mania would see me leap the barrier, approach too close, and invariably slip in screaming.

Psychosis, meanwhile, would see me fall in, try to either fight it or fuck it, turn it inside out and prolapse it back through into rational reality, the fabric of which world begin to collapse as internal and external landscapes collide and splinter into one and other and I approach self-oblivion.

A full psychotic break has only happened twice in my lifetime, and frankly I’m lucky to be here writing this drivel – my second episode, nearly a decade ago, almost killed me and left me with almost impossible-to-comprehend scars I’ll bear for the rest of my life, scars invisible to the observer but forever altering my perception of the world, scars I’ve made peace with but which continue to niggle every day. Without getting deep into the nightmarish details, I tried – and, thank fuck, failed – to blind myself, resulting in bilateral scarred corneas which mean that, while my vision remains entirely functional and luckily unimpaired to any significant degree, I experience constant, curious aberrations, especially in low-light where the world melts into a sea of halos.

Importantly, I’m still alive. I very nearly leapt into the Thames on the morning of 10/03/2010, and not through depressive, I-can’t-bear-to-live anguish, but due to chasing immensely powerful delusions and hallucinations to the same place that almost cost me my sight. There’s a lot I’ve written and lot I will write about my experiences of psychosis – particularly re the corrupted internal logic that catalysed much of my bizarre, life-ruining behaviour in 2003 and 2010 – but not here, not now.

Mania, the losing control of my inhibitions and tripping headfirst into hyperactive chaos, has occurred three times in my life, but only progressed through to psychosis twice. I had my first (and to date, only quickly-controlled) manic episode age 16, following a few months as an inpatient at an adolescent psychiatric in Newcastle (remember when the NHS used to offer those kind of services lol). Up until that point, I had been being treated for major depression, which was my diagnosis until the mania emerged. I don’t quite remember the specifics – I celebrated the 20th anniversary of my bipolar 1 diagnosis last month – but one day it seems the depressive fog suddenly cleared and my mind, robbed of feel-good shit for so long, lurched as far as it could in the opposite direction as some kind of bizarre compensatory push.

Perhaps the flip was inevitable, perhaps it was triggered by a chemical predisposition to mania plus guzzling down combinations of all the anti-depressant variants that could be feasibly prescribed for the preceding three months. Who can say. Whatever the case, suddenly I was bouncing around the hospital halls like Sonic the Hedgehog, talking borderline-gibberish garbage incessantly, getting back deep into abandoned A-level art projects and attempting to start roughly 1,000 extracurricular projects simultaneously. The doctors quickly took notice, brought me down with lithium and revised my diagnosis.

Hypomania, (literally “below mania”), is something I experience on average a few times a year, hitting in waves, usually with a clear trigger. It’s a glimpse at the maelstrom of insanity without actually dipping a toe. Delusional ideas can creep into my head, but I can analyse and dismiss them rationally with a firm “No.” I now have enough insight and experience of my own sensations and mood pattern recognition to usually ward off a manic episode, typically with self-seclusion and/or self-management, sometimes with medication. Zopiclone, a sedative, has proven to be something of a magic bullet at sniping down incoming mania, so I try to keep a stash handy – I popped one Saturday gone just to try and keep the train on the rails after barely sleeping for two weeks straight.

After accepting I was an alcoholic six years ago, I’ve gone entirely teetotal, and that itself has greatly improved my ability to monitor myself, to try and regulate my own mood – previously, I’d (technically binge)-drink more or less every single day, and drown out any troublesome hypomanic episode with even more booze, remaining entirely functional (if prone to starting each day with a big purging sick and then having a couple of practically clockwork spew breaks at work) until my liver and my nervous system started wildly red-flagging at the sheer relentless demands I was asking of them, the perpetual nature of my misguided self-medication, so I decided to stop dead drinking or risk further ruining my health.

Without in any way wishing to belittle or underestimate the impact of the disease (severe, bulk-of-a-year depression episodes have also nearly killed me) I feel like depression is something even people who don’t suffer from mental health problems can at least begin to comprehend, can take a stab at imagining the experience. Perhaps not the depths – the eroding, claustrophobic mental space, the glimmer of hope on the horizon disappearing into darkness, all sensory input turning to a grey mush, the head-in-a–tomb depersonalisation – but most people can relate to being “sad”, most people have experienced tragedy at some point in their lives. Hypomania, however, is a trickier prospect to explain. But I’ll try.

I can’t speak for others who experience the condition, but in my case, hypomania manifests itself across my whole physical, mental, emotional spectrum. Although other factors come into play, the biggest single trigger for me seems to be sleep deprivation. It’s no news that circadian rhythms and bipolar disorder are intrinsically interlinked, and I have very real first-hand experience. As a shiftworker (occasional nightshift worker) who lives on the opposite side of London to my office and has a four-month old daughter, my current sleep hygiene is pretty... ropey to say the least, so I’m trying to be extra vigilant. A few nights back-to-back of little sleep (I’m talking a hour or two, at the best of times my sleep is shit anyway and five hours is a good stint) I can often feel my mood changing gears.

Simply put, when I’m hypomanic, the world is a more engaging place; more detail fills the cracks, more edges pique my interest. All of my senses sharpen up – my vision becomes cleaner, brighter, more vivid, sound seemingly has additional frequency space, imperceptible before. My senses of smell and taste overwhelm me, aromas become intoxicating and normal food takes on gourmet qualities. My energy level skyrockets without any additional external input; I have much more impetus, enthusiasm about life, work, whatever. I can literally feel my mind starting to function differently – but not necessarily more efficiently – taking shortcuts, randomly accessing memories in remarkable detail without any prompt. I can think faster, but with less focus; I’m more distractible and will happily shoot off on wild tangents with complete disregard for my goal. Depending on circumstances at home or work, hypomania is a mixed bag – any lethargy is dispelled and my agency and job satisfaction is heightened, but I might, say, approach 20 tasks simultaneously when sequentially would be more rational.

Depending on social context, I expend varyingly extreme amounts of effort to varying degrees of success attempting to mask a hypomanic episode. You know how your body never really “heals”, and scurvy horrifyingly opens up old scars and shit? That’s kind of what my ever-simmering mental illness feels like when i’m consistently deprived of sleep for whatever reason, the cracks start appearing and it kinda seeps out a bit lol. I am well aware my hypomanic demeanour and delivery can alarm people, and I do try really, really, really hard to suppress things or if absolutely required, just remove myself from situations where a lasting, detrimental opinion could be formed. I am also fully aware I can become borderline intolerable to my long-suffering and remarkably patient wife, and I try to mitigate the condition’s impact on domesticity, again, only ever partially-successfully (sorry, Kate). On any given day, high, low, or creamy middle, I’d estimate around about 90% of my effort is put towards just trying to appear normal to others, trying to blend in. I imagine many other mentally ill people are broadly intolerant to open-plan hotdesking (not to mention the insatiable clock-in-and-hit-marks demands of capitalism).

I can physically feel my body “running hotter” when I’m hypomanic, like an overclocked CPU frazzling on a motherboard; headaches spark quickly if I don’t drink enough water. I’m not especially clued up on chemical synthesis of naturally-occurring hormones etc. but I kinda get the impression hypomania is little like organic, high-on-your-own-supply MDMA.

Hypomania seems to foster within me a deeper connection to and longing to revisit all of my favourite music, art, writing, films, games, people – chiefly, I go on obsessive listening binges of records I adore. As I mentioned earlier, my hearing changes when I’m hypomanic – songs sound better, richer, more punchy. One of my fondest ever memories of mental illness (sadly ruined by slipping into psychosis shortly afterwards) was walking around out at night listening to My Bloody Valentine’s Loveless on shitty earbuds via a Spotify stream and still hearing subtle elements blossoming from the mix I’d never clocked before; layers of what sounded like processed flutes fluttering under the wall of guitars, gentle tonal ebs and flows, what seemed to be entire hidden tracks I was only just tuning in to, a secret sound world unveiled.

This might well just be wild conjecture, but I like to think maybe some bands – the bands who “get it” – deliberately bury this audio information deep within the mix, only to be decoded by specific mental setups, be they drug-indicted or naturally, hormonally occurring, breadcrumb trails left in the studio production as a little nod by whoever put the music together that they understand the confusion, the dislocation and alienation of mental illness, something extra beyond the lyrics. It might well be bullshit but it brings me great comfort. I’ve put together a playlist of some favourite tunes I suspect were written about hypomanic states, knowingly or otherwise, or instead conjure up that specific vibe.

To be honest, the hardest thing I find about dealing with episodes of hypomania is that they can feel so good it’s very hard to not attempt to stoke the sensation, prolong it, succumb deeper to it. That way oblivion lies; please stand behind the yellow line at all times.

[coloursflyaway]

not sure if you take just miscellaneous prompts but if you do; good omens, something soft and/or smutty with hands? this fandom is great for hand kink, yeah?

I’m so sorry it took ages, but thank you so much for the lovely prompt, I had so, so much fun with it ♥And since I had so much fun with it and it got slightly out of hand, you can also read it on AO3 here!

Aziraphale’sfingers are soft when they brush across Crowley’s knuckles, just a moment’stouch. They are soft like everything about the angel is, the curls ofsilvery-blond hair, the blue of his eyes, the way he looks at Crowleysometimes, when their conversation halts for just a moment, not uncomfortable,never that, just a second for both of them to breathe.

Aziraphale’sfingers are soft, leave a trail of warmth across the back of Crowley’s hand,and they mean nothing at all. Crowley knows that much, for after six millennia,Aziraphale would use his words to tell him if anything had changed, or if not,at least a gesture more substantial. Crowley knows better, but Aziraphale’s fingers are soft and when they pullaway, they have planted a seed of hope in Crowley’s foolish, loving heart.

 He picksthe angel up to get ice cream later that week. It’s a sunny day, almost toosunny for London, but Crowley has always enjoyed the sun, the warmth, so whenit takes Aziraphale a few minutes to come out of his shop after he has arrived,Crowley uses the time to get out of his Bentley, close his eyes and bask in thegolden light. It paints his eyelids red and pink, something Crowley has always found ascurious as lovely, the reminder that his useless heart is beating, blood isneedlessly pulsing through his body, transporting the oxygen he doesn’t need tocells that don’t have to produce a thing. In some way it is an indulgence tobreathe, to keep his heart beating and his blood rushing, but it’s one heenjoys too much to let go of, just like Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to denyhimself the pleasure of macaroons and frothy milkshakes.

At the sametime, though undoubtedly the only being Crowley knows to be even more prone toindulgence than himself, the angel is the last thing that made him forget abouthis heart, leave it unbeating for several minutes at least, until the weakmuscle screamed at him when being made to work once more. It had been a night like any other, spent with truffles Crowley had broughtwith him from Bruges, port wine Aziraphale had had for decades, the warmth of afire neither of them had started. His hair had been longer then, falling inginger waves just past his shoulders, and he’d been in the middle of a storyabout causing chaos during a bull fight in Sevilla when Aziraphale had leantin.

The lightemanating from the fireplace had been soft, made the angel’s skin glow golden,the ring on his finger glisten as he’d reached out with one of his hands, as ifto cup Crowley’s face. And Crowley, as foolish, as hopeful as ever, hadthought, finally. Finally, Aziraphale would kiss him, acknowledge the thing they both knew wasbetween them, finally, they’d go at the same pace, their pace, finally, they’d be what they were meant to be from thevery start.

BecauseCrowley might be a fool, might be too soft and too hopeful for a demon, buthe’s not an idiot and he has seen love often enough to recognise it when itpassed across Aziraphale’s face.Felt it every time he looked at the angel, for millennia by now.

He had felthis lips part in anticipation, all his attention, his entire being focussed onthe angel’s fingers, his smile, what couldn’t be anything but adoration shiningfrom his bright, blue eyes. And Crowley’s heart had stopped, utterly forgotten, while it seized up, readyto flood his body with love so overwhelming no one would expect a single organto be able to hold it all.

Only thatthe second that Aziraphale’s fingers touched his cheek, something changed inthe angel’s face, in the depths of his eyes, a sort of recognition sparkingthrough them like a bolt of lightening through a calm night. His fingers veeredoff their path, upwards to clumsily brush a strand of hair from Crowley’s eyes,and the demon could watch something ache so fiercely in Aziraphale’s eyes thatit had almost drowned out his own heart’s breaking.

Back inLondon, more than thirty years later, it’s the same hand that brings Crowleyback to the present, again by touch. Crowley’s eyes flutter open, leave behind crimson-tinted memories; Aziraphaleis standing in front of him, the same blue eyes, shining with affection, agentle smile on his lips, his hand on Crowley’s forearm, squeezing ever soslightly. He’s beautiful, but then again, he always is.

“I’m sosorry, dear”, Aziraphale says instead of a greeting, and he sounds it, too.“You seemed quite lost in thought, I didn’t want to disturb you at first, butthen again, it has been half an hour, so…”His voice trails off, his smile turning a little sheepish, and Crowley can’thelp but chuckle, noting distantly that Aziraphale still hasn’t pulled away hishand. “It’s quite alright, angel”, he tries to reassure, and watches Aziraphale’ssmile brighten. “Nothing but old memories, nothing important.”“Ah, well, that’s a relief”, Aziraphale breathes out, his hand lingering onCrowley’s arm until he takes a step back, presumably to get into the car. “Ihope there were only nice ones, of course, but I was looking forward to that ice cream…”

He keepstalking as he rounds the car, gets into it, and Crowley tries to listen, butfor another few moments the only thing his brain can focus on is that backthen, after Aziraphale had pulled away, a faint dusting of pink across hischeeks and the blue of his eyes dulled, it had taken Crowley three tries tocoax his heart into beating again.

 Crowley canstill remember the first time they touched, the sudden shock of warm skinpressed against his own, the tingling feeling Aziraphale's fingers left himwith, even if back then, he hadn't been certain if the cause for it had been Aziraphale'sangelic nature or the feelings that slowly and yet far too quickly developed inhis own chest.

It feelsthe same still when the angel’s hand brushes his now, handing him a strawberrylolly, the very last one that the man behind the trolley could find,inexplicably hidden in the container for another flavour in which the man haddefinitely checked before. A faint tingle, drowning out the vendor’s confused mumbling, the chirping ofbirds, the sun itself, because of how much Crowley needs this, even a touchthis small, has needed it, and will need it for the rest of his eternal life.

 A monthpasses, then another, then another, and it’s winter when they walk throughEdinburgh’s steep streets, Aziraphale bundled up in layers upon layers of whiteand beige, Crowley’s only concession to the cold being a slightly thickerscarf. “-and I am telling you, I need totake you to Salzburg sometime soon”, Aziraphale tells him, his cheeks rosy andexcitement painted across his entire face. “Before Christmas, that is, as theyhave the most charming Advent market. Especially in the evening, wheneverything else is dark, just the glittering lights, the ornaments, the music…Ah, and the Glühwein, you would loveit, I just know it. Let me take you, dear. My treat.”

There’snothing Crowley could ever say but yes, and Aziraphale must know it; still,when Crowley nods, the angel’s face lights up as if he’s been given the moonfor a gift. “Oh, splendid. Maybe next Thursday, if you’re free? Or Wednesday, maybe?”,Aziraphale answers, immediately starts to plan their trip, his excitementinfecting Crowley just a little, not because he cares about the delicaciesSalzburg has to offer, but because he’ll be able to share them with Aziraphale.And maybe it’s because of that that Crowley doesn’t notice Aziraphale shifting,changing his posture, his position, until a warm, soft hand slides into his,tangles their fingers together. It’s a shock unlike any other, making Crowleystop dead in his track, the entire universe, the universe he helped build, reduced to a few square inches of skin pressingagainst skin, warmth seeping from an angelic palm into his.

He looksdown to their hands, then up at Aziraphale, whose cheeks are even pinker now,whose eyes are still bright, but hopeful, scared. Yet, his hand is holding ontoCrowley’s, his thumb brushing across the demon’s knuckles, leaving a trail ofwarmth. “Is this alright?”, Aziraphale asks like he really doesn’t know the answer, andthe seed of hope he planted into Crowley’s heart months ago starts to grow afew vulnerable tendrils that latch onto his mind, ready to bud. “Of course, it is”, he replies, surprised when he finds that he can speak, andsqueezes Aziraphale’s hands in his. It feels right just where it is. “Justperfect.”

 They go toSalzburg on Thursday, since the weather is just dreadful the day before. It’s quite charming, Crowley admits it freely, covered in kitsch andfresh-fallen snow; Aziraphale buys them both cups of steaming Glühwein and chocolate-coveredstrawberries, and laughs so sweetly it almost causes Crowley physical pain whenthe demon presents him with a gingerbread heart that spells out Für meinen Engel in white frosting. This time, when Aziraphale takes his hand in the midst of a bustling crowd andthe scent of cinnamon, of cloves, he doesn’t have to ask for permission.

 Wintercomes and passes; Crowley hardly cares about it, spends almost a month inSicily and brings back cannoli, cassata and sickly sweet limoncello as gifts. Wholebags of them, because there are almost as many versions of them as there areshops to buy them in, and Crowley doesn’t trust himself enough to pick the onesAziraphale will like best, so instead, he gets them all. They clutter the backseat of his Bentley, so Crowley forgoes driving to hisapartment after he has miracled both him and the car back to London’s streets,instead goes straight back to the angel’s bookshop.

It’s been amonth since he last saw it, just a short, inconsequential month, and yet hisheart seizes up in his chest when he sees the familiar sign, the red-paintedexterior.  There’s no light pouring from the windows, but it doesn’t have to mean a thing,at least Crowley hopes it doesn’t. Aziraphale prefers reading by light, butneither he nor Crowley need it to see.

So, Crowleyparks the Bentley, gets out with his arms full of boxes and plastic bags, afamiliar tightness fighting to close off his throat, wrap around his chest. Hecould, should knock, and yet doesn’t, partly because his hands are clutching toall the sweet treats he brought, partly because just barging into the shop likehe belongs there is a pleasure Crowley hasn’t been able to permit himself forvery long yet. The door flies open, maybe a little bit more forcefully than strictlynecessary, because Crowley hopes for a small cry of oh, do be careful, dear! in a voice he has missed more than helikes to admit. Nothing comes.

“Angel!”,he calls out, waits for a few moments, but there’s no answer, no Aziraphale.It’s not only the lack of a reply that tells him as much, it’s the atmospherein the shop, some key component of it missing. The angel’s warmth, his mirth,his kindness, and after having been deprived of it for weeks, Crowley feels thelack of it even more fiercely, even more so now that he is somewhere Aziraphalecould be.

Gingerly,as not to damage the pastries, Crowley sets down the bags and boxes on a nearbychair, before he looks around a little, finding nothing much has changed. A fewstacks of books seem to have increased in height, a thin layer of dust hasjoined the one he already had the chance to get acquainted with, and thegingerbread heart has moved from being propped up against a couple of books tohanging from a nail Aziraphale must have miracled into the wall for this sole purpose.He likes the look of it, a single piece of Crowley to have found its way intoAziraphale’s refugium.

There isnothing to do without the angel here, so Crowley doesn’t pretend there is, justgets a fire started in the fireplace with a flick of his hand, lays down on thesofa in front of it. It’s not enough to replace the warmth Aziraphale causes to bloom in his chest,but a good enough substitute for it; if he has made it a month without theangel’s touch, he’ll survive another few hours.

 He wakes upand the fire is still burning, illuminating the room in gold and copper, andfingers slowly weaving themselves through his hair, tugging gently at theginger strands. His head is still pillowed on his own arms, but Aziraphale issitting next to him, warm and solid, and for a few minutes, Crowley allowshimself to just enjoy the caresses, bask in the affection that seems to flowmuch more freely from Aziraphale nowadays.Maybe his heart is not quite so foolish after all, maybe this is what he has beenwaiting for, a world in which Aziraphale takes his hand in the middle of thestreet, threads his beloved fingers into Crowley’s hair, has finally caught upto the demon’s speed. And even if it isn’t, even if Crowley has to wait another millennium, he’lltake it.

Eventually,because he has missed Aziraphale, not just his touch, but the colour of hiseyes, the tone of his voice, the sound of his laugh, Crowley turns onto hisback, looks up at the angel. Aziraphale is holding a book in the hand he hasn’tstill buried in Crowley’s hair, but he diverts his attention immediately,looking at Crowley with more warmth in his gaze than the fire could ever hopeto possess. “Oh, you’re awake”, he says softly, in lieu of a greeting, starts to tease hisfingers through Crowley’s hair once more. It makes the demon’s heart skip abeat, maybe two.

He hums hisanswer, blinks up at Aziraphale slowly, too warm, too comfortable to find wordsfor another few moments. “How was Italy?”, Aziraphale asks, and scratches his fingernails gently acrossCrowley’s scalp, drawing a pleased noise from the demon. “Beautiful, I’mcertain.”“Was nice”, Crowley mumbles, just so keeping his eyes from slipping shut oncemore. “Very sunny. You’d have liked it. Spent a lot of time in Syracuse,remember that? They dug out all the old Greek stuff, was nice to see it again.”

A momentpasses with Aziraphale thinking, his fingers pausing their ministration, untilCrowley sees his eyes light up, a sunset in blue and gold. “Oh, right! We met there once, didn’t we?”, he asks, and Crowley nods, amazedand pleased in same amounts that the angel remembers. “You took me to thetheatre, didn’t you? Sophocles, if memory serves correctly. An absolutelydreadful performance though, of that I am certain.”Crowley doesn’t bother correcting Aziraphale, telling him that it wasAeschylus’ Persians they saw, justlike he doesn’t tell him he can remember almost every moment of that evening,from the colour of Aziraphale’s toga to the way he mispronounced several Greekwords and almost sent Crowley into a laughing fit. Instead, he says, “The main actor forgot half his words, it was a disaster. Butwe had figs, and those prickly pear things you liked so much, and afterwardsmore wine than we should have drunk.”

Somethingabout that makes Aziraphale chuckle, his eyes glaze over for a moment with theintensity of a memory. “Far more wine, you’re right”, Aziraphale says ever so softly, rubs hisfingertips across the tattoo on Crowley’s cheek in a way that makes him almost purrwith pleasure. “There was a moment after that, when we were walking alongsidethe coast, must have been almost morning, and you looked at me… it was just asecond, but I almost thought you’d kiss me.”

The wordssteal the air right from Crowley’s lungs, make his heart stop for just amoment; the world seems to freeze, because Aziraphale might not remember theplay they saw, but he remembers the important part. He remembers them.It’s the same feeling as standing on too-thin ice, threatening to break with asingle careless step, but Crowley can’t help but barge on, never could. Notwhen it’s Aziraphale and not when he loves the angel so much, he seems to burnup with the intensity of it, the feeling drowning out every other sensation,every other thought. “I know”, he answers, and all but prays for the ice to support the weight ofhis words. “So did I.”

And itdoes. For the world starts to move again, the clock next to the fireplace tentativelyreturning to ticking, the flames starting to dance once more, and Aziraphalesmiles down at him with overwhelming tenderness in his gaze. “Just in case you’re wondering, I think I would have let you.”

 They spendthe whole night talking, Crowley only sitting up when Aziraphale discovers hisgifts and insists on sampling all of them immediately.So, as the sun rises and London around them wakes, they feast on thoroughlyterrified pastries and sip limoncello from ceramic mugs, because Aziraphaleinsists that the fine crystal glasses aren’t dishwasher safe.

And thereis a moment, when the fire has just died, its glow been replaced by sunlight,and their eyes meet over the rim of Aziraphale’s mug, in which Crowleyconsiders kissing the taste of sugar and lemons off the angel’s lips.He doesn’t.

 SaintJames’s Park is prettier in spring than any other time of year, and so it’s nosurprise they find themselves there more and more often as the seasons change. Like today, a Tuesday with no particular significance, but with a sun thatseems to shine a little bit more brightly than it did just a week ago, birds singinglove songs from their branches.

Aziraphalehas gotten a new coat just the week before, cream-coloured, the lapels a littlebit sharper, the buttons on each side shining amber, and Crowley enjoys lookingat it as much as Aziraphale seems to enjoy wearing it. They’ve settled down on their usual bench, a small carton of strawberriesbetween them, two paper cups filled with what Aziraphale deems the bestespresso in town, and the angel’s smile so bright it rivals the sun.

“You know,I’ve been thinking, maybe we should visit Warlock”, Aziraphale says pensively,while he picks the leaves off a particularly luscious looking strawberry. “Iknow he isn’t the antichrist, but over the years I did grow fond of him. Wecould just pop by, have a cup of tea maybe. Dust off those old costumes,pretend we just happened to pass by and remembered our old charge. He musttwelve by now, right? Or thirteen? Open up dear.”Crowley obliges, parts his lips and lets Aziraphale feed him anotherstrawberry, fingers just so brushing the corner of his mouth. It’s delicious,even if he isn’t as partial to food as the angel is, he could get used to it ifit was Aziraphale feeding it to him.

“Don’t youthink it would look a little strange, both his nanny and his gardener justhappening to show up on the same day after having been gone for, oh, sevenyears?”, Crowley answers, still chewing, but Aziraphale just chuckles, start towork on another strawberry. “I doubt it”, he replies, pops the fruit into his own mouth this time, butdoesn’t give Crowley the time to miss the whispers of fingertips against hislips, because Aziraphale puts his hand over the demon’s, curling his fingersever so slightly. “I’m relatively certain most of the staff and at least partsof the family were under the impression we were a couple.”

He givesCrowley a smile that could almost be mischievous, squeezes his hand before hestarts to prepare another strawberry, apparently uncaring that the demon isstaring at him from behind his glasses. “What?”“Oh, yes. You know, with all the secret meetings in at midnight, the frequenttrips to London both of us took at the same time…” Aziraphale looks up from thestrawberry, brows furrowing all of a sudden. “Why, it doesn’t bother you, doesit, dear? Because if it does, if I’d known –“ “No, no”, Crowley interrupts the angel, gives him a smile he knows looks morehopeful than anything, more like how he feels. Light. Loving. “Not at all. Ijust assumed you wouldn’t much like the implications.”

The worryon Aziraphale’s face is replaced by kindness, by tender joy sparkling from hiseyes. “Oh, nonsense, darling. Not for a moment.” He holds up the strawberry, asks,“Do you want another one?”When Crowley opens his mouth this time, Aziraphale’s fingertips brush acrosshis lips in a way that couldn’t possibly have been an accident, and hope grows,just where the angel planted it in his chest.

 With aglass of Bordeaux in his hand, the dark liquid sloshing around in itdangerously, Aziraphale leans in, alcohol having slowed down both the angel’sspeech and Crowley’s thoughts. “Y’know”, he slurs, reaches out to put a hand on Crowley’s shoulder but findshis neck instead, curls his fingers around the sensitive, cool skin. “I’m gladthat the world didn’t end, I really am. Love it here, all the food, the books,even the people, but, if, you know, in case it had all gone south, I would’vebeen happy on Alpha Centauri. With you.”

Crowley’sheart understands what he is hearing before his brain has; the seed of hope haslong since grown into a little sapling, strong and new, soaking up the words,the honesty in Aziraphale’s eyes, the warmth of his touch as he drags his thumbacross the sharp line of Crowley’s jaw. “You din’ even want to go”, he reminds Aziraphale, even as he leans inslightly, just enough to feel the angel’s breath on his skin. “No”, Aziraphale agrees, and for a moment, Crowley thinks the angel will kisshim. He doesn’t, and he’s glad for it; it will happen, but when it does, hewants to be sober, wants to soak up every little detail of it. “I didn’t. But Iwould’ve come t’ find you, if you’d left. Even up there. Always.”

 Come lateJuly, they go to visit Warlock. It hardly lasts longer than half an hour of stilted small talk, but evenCrowley has to admit that it’s nice seeing Warlock again, who must have grownthree inches since she last saw him. Apart from that, though, it seems the boyhas stayed much the same, interrupts them both, makes faces at his mother whenhe thinks she isn’t looking and tries to sneak away from the table to play somesilly game on his phone the moment he’s finished his cake.It’ll be a shame to watch him die.

But thepart Crowley will remember comes when they are about to leave, and Aziraphaletakes her hand, something they have both gotten so used to that Crowley hardlythinks about it anymore. For a moment, Mrs. Dowling’s face changes, grows soft like she is rememberingsomething she thought she had already forgotten, then she looks up from theirjoined hands up to Crowley’s face. “I’m happy for you both”, she tells them, and for the first time since theywalked through the door, she sounds sincere. “We always wondered – but thatdoesn’t matter. I’d tell you not to make the same mistakes as Tad and me, but Ithink I know you won’t.”

She looksdown at her wedding ring, her own hand that maybe should be holding another,and Crowley feels a moment of ache seize her heart. They won’t, they couldn’t, but still she wishes she knew how to tell Mrs.Dowling that sometimes, drifting apart is inevitable.

 When theyget back to the Bentley, Aziraphale turns to her, reassurance shining from hisblue eyes as he squeezes Crowley’s hand. “I couldn’t do much”, he tells Crowley, brushes his thumb across her knuckles.“But I gave her a bit of hope. Today when her husband comes home, she will atleast feel that there’s worth in trying to fix what they have broken.”And he’s right, it isn’t much, but maybe it’s enough.

 It’s a warmnight, the kind poets write whole books about, and they’re on the roof ofCrowley’s apartment building, looking up at the stars above them. It’ssomewhere Crowley has always felt comfortable, under a star-speckled sky,looking up at suns he can remember creating out of empty space. And it’s better still with Aziraphale next to him, pressed against his side,his head resting on Crowley’s shoulder and their tangled hands in between theirthighs.

“Tell meagain which ones you helped build”, Aziraphale mumbles into the warm air aroundthem, sounding soft, sounding just like Crowley feels.In love. Slowly, Crowley raises their joined hands, points them at a star, so far awaythat human eyes wouldn’t even be able to see its light. But he does, and heknows Aziraphale does, too. “That one. And – “, he moves their hands a little bit upwards, slightly to theleft, “And those two. Twin stars. They were always my favourites to make, twosuns, circling each other until they go out together. It always seemed, I don’tknow. Better, somehow.”“Is that why you wanted to go to Alpha Centauri?”

Crowleypauses for a moment, lets their hands sink down back to his lap; it’s somethinghe never considered, never thought about. He’d been desperate, close tomindless, scared, and yet there had been a million of places he could havepicked and yet he chose a set of suns that revolve around each other. “I don’t know”, he confesses, and Aziraphale next to him shifts slightly.“Maybe. I never thought about it.”“Perhaps we can go someday. Not forever, but for a holiday. Or you could showme those other stars, the ones you made. I’d like to see them.”

Crowleysmiles, even though he knows Aziraphale won’t be able to see it, rests hischeek atop the angel’s head before he looks back out into the vastness ofspace. “Yeah, sounds good”, he tells Aziraphale. “Wherever you want to go, angel. I’llgive you a ride.”

 It’s stillthe same night, if anything, the sky has gotten darker around them, andAziraphale stirs slightly against Crowley’s side. At first, the demon expects him to sit up, but Aziraphale doesn’t, even if heseems to hold his breath for a second before he speaks. “Why haven’t you kissed me yet?”, Aziraphale asks into the silence, and Crowleyexpects his heart to skip, but it doesn’t. Maybe it’s because this whole nighthas been heavy with love, with affection, maybe because they have been buildingup to this for more than six thousand years now, because every touch Aziraphalehas bestowed upon him in the last two has been a word in a silent confession. Aconfession Crowley has been waiting to hear ever since he can remember.

“I didn’tknow you wanted me to do that already”, Crowley replies softly, gives himselfanother moment or two, before he sits up a little straighter, removing hischeek from where it has been resting on the angel’s head. Aziraphale does the same, turns around to look at Crowley and it’s the look inhis eyes that finally manages to take Crowley’s breath away. He’s built stars that didn’t shine so brightly, has looked at God’s face andfound her love not as overwhelming, has lived since the beginning of time andyet hasn’t seen anything looking so determined.

Theirfingers are still intertwined, and Crowley tightens his hold on Aziraphale’shand a little as he waits for the angel to speak. For a long time, he doesn’t, just watches Crowley’s face, and the demon letshim, knows he will give Aziraphale all the time, all the answers he needs. Andmaybe it’s just that what Aziraphale needs, because whatever he finds inCrowley’s face seems to be enough. Half a smile tugs on angelic lips, and when he speaks, his voice is softer thanfresh fallen snow, than Banarasi Silk. “Oh, darling”, Aziraphale says, “I’ve wanted you to for years.”

The world around them holds its breath, and yetCrowley seems to breathe freely for the first time in centuries, his eyesunable to tear their gaze away from the angel’s face. “Oh”, Crowley murmurs; the hopeful sapling in his heart blossoming, blooming,stretching out tendrils that touch every molecule of his physical body, everyparticle of his eternal one. “I would have waited.”“I know.” Aziraphale shifts again, and Crowley thinks he sees a hint of a haloaround the angel’s head, illuminating the night just enough to make the rest ofthe world fall away. He raises the hand that isn’t clutching Crowley’s and cupsthe demon’s cheek, holding it like Crowley is precious, like he is somethingAziraphale couldn’t bear to break. “I don’t want you to.”

He doesn’t know which one of them moves first,but it doesn’t matter, couldn’t matter, because their lips meet in the middle,Aziraphale’s as soft as his gaze was. Crowley’s eyes flutter shut, block out everything that isn’t the angel’s touch,the slide of lips against lips that he has been waiting for his entire life.There is no hope necessary anymore, so it turns to devotion within the confinesof Crowley’s body, turns to love as his heart beats faster, turns to tendernessas he holds onto Aziraphale’s hand to keep himself from being swept away. The angel tilts his head sideways just enough to deepen the kiss, and Crowleyparts his lips, lets Aziraphale take from him whatever it is the angel wants.

The hand that isn’t clutching Aziraphale’scomes to rest on the angel’s thigh, even while Crowley kisses his love ontoAziraphale’s lips, pushes it into his mouth, pains it across his skin withevery single breath. And Aziraphale responds in kind, thumb brushing across Crowley’s cheek as if tosteady him, his tongue writing his confessions against the roof of Crowley’smouth, promises love as it draws soft sounds from the demon.

It’s easy to lose himself in the sensation, inthis one moment that seems to stretch forever, so Crowley does, clings toAziraphale until the sun has risen, painted the clouds around them first pink,then orange, then gold. The city beneath them has been roused, started theirday, without knowing that two immortal souls have become one above them, onlyfinding themselves well-rested, more optimistic than they have felt in weeks atleast. Above them, feeling like they both have lost any connection to the ground,Crowley only pulls away once he knows he has committed every detail ofAziraphale’s lips to memory, has heard every of the angel’s sigh, tasted hislove until it’s the only thing left on his tongue.

Aziraphale is the first thing he sees once heopens his eyes again, and the angel looks more beautiful than Crowley has everseen him look before, his skin glowing with angelic light, his lips kissed redand his cheeks dusted pink, his eyes so blue, so clear that Crowley almostexpects to see his own face mirrored back in them. His hand is still resting on Crowley’s cheek, so the demon turns his head topress a kiss to the palm, to Aziraphale’s wrist.

“I’ve loved you for six thousand years”, hemutters against the angel’s skin, and Aziraphale curls his fingers justslightly, allows Crowley to bestow kisses to the tips, worshipping each one ofthem with his lips. “I know”, Aziraphale responds, brushes his thumb across Crowley’s love-bruisedmouth before he captures it in another kiss, shorter this time, but just assweet. “I’ve loved you longer than I am even aware of now.”“I’ll love you forever”, Crowley whispers back; neither of them has moved away,so he can feel the hitch of Aziraphale’s breath against his lips, can taste thelove it carries with it. “I know. And I will love you just as long.”