#the last brush stroke I did would change color

[banditblvd]

youidraw.com was lowkey a little disappointing

[azrielsrealmate]

never just a best friend

azriel x reader

summary: your best friends offers a massage after a stressing day, only that his hands end up slipping to dangerous places.

warnings: smut

word count: 2k

Your feet ached, your head throbbed, and your skin itched in places you couldn’t reach to scratch. And your back—God, your back hurt.

You just needed a break. A break longer than the eight hours of sleep you rarely had time to get.

Azriel’s gaze from where he sat at the edge of your bed made the back of your neck burn. So you hurried to pull your shirt over your head, and the feeling disappeared, knowing he’d look anywhere but at you while you changed. You almost sighed in relief, almost rubbed the space between your brows. But instead, you unclasped your bra and slipped into a shirt several sizes larger than what you usually wore.

You hadn’t deliberately chosen Azriel’s shirt to breathe in the comforting scent of cedar and mist instead of the tobacco and beer your idiot ex had left lingering everywhere. You really hadn’t. But it was a relief you hadn’t known you needed.

“What happened?”

A simple question, but spoken in that voice, deep yet so soft, like silk brushing against clean skin, it almost made you sob.

What happened wasn’t the question; the question was why you felt so easily overwhelmed. You turned to look at him, and the caramel color of his eyes softened as he read how overstimulated you felt. He stood up, and even from the distance between you, you could clearly see how tall he was.

He crossed the space in mere seconds, and his scarred palm found your cheek, cradling it tenderly. Your eyes closed involuntarily. The warmth of his hand melted your mind, sending the hot liquid of it out of your body in the form of a sigh.

“What happened?” he repeated again.

You sighed.

“Adrik.” You said the name of your ex, not needing to open your eyes to know that Azriel’s features had hardened.

You spent so much time watching him that you’d almost memorized his micro-expressions.

“I ran into him at the café next door, and…” your best friend’s thumb stroked your cheek, encouraging you to continue. “Well, obviously, it didn’t end well.”

“What did he do?” Azriel asked, his voice rough. So different from how he’d asked what happened earlier. You could hear the sharp undertone clearly.

You’d been through this before.

You shook your head and moved his hand away from your cheek, your thumb tracing a small caress on his skin before letting go. You took off your pants, because you slept with little clothes, and you sighed heavily, walking toward your side of the bed.

“He just stuck to me like the worm he is.” You didn’t even want to imagine what would happen to the poor drunk Adrik if you let go of the weakening reins on Azriel. The muscles under your skin tingled pleasantly just thinking about it. Adrik had treated you so poorly, and it would be so easy to let Azriel handle him…

But, no. No. You weren’t doing this.

You sat on the bed, feeling your body tense slightly under his gaze. He studied you as if he wanted to squeeze out that feeling he knew existed in you, the one you worked so hard to push down, to extract and stretch it so he could examine it.

“What do you mean by…” his brows furrowed, finally processing your words.

You didn’t let him finish.

“Damn it, Azriel, he left after two minutes. Please, just lie down, I’ve had the worst day ever,” you pleaded, feeling a cramp run down your back. “And to top it all off, my back hurts,” you complained.

You heard Azriel exhale. It took him a fraction of a second to speak.

“I can see the tension in your muscles from here,” he said.

You rolled your shoulders, as if that would bring relief.

“It’s not that bad.”

He didn’t pay you the slightest attention.

“Where did you leave the oil from last time?” The last time he’d worked a wonderful massage on your back, you could swear it could have made you finish faster than Adrik ever had.

The silence in the room grew thicker as Azriel waited for your response. You knew he wouldn’t move until you told him. Not because he was pressuring you, but because he wanted to take care of you. As he always did.

“It’s in the nightstand, top drawer,” you replied, trying to sound casual, even though you knew exactly what it meant once he put his hands on you.

Azriel walked over to the nightstand, pulled out the small bottle of oil, and held it in his hand for a moment, assessing your state. His eyes met yours, and something in his gaze made your breath quicken slightly. It wasn’t the first time he’d offered you a massage, but this time, there was a tension between you that you couldn’t ignore, not when it made anticipation itch in your skin.

“Take off your shirt,” he instructed, his voice soft but firm. Your heart skipped a beat, and you hesitated for a moment, but seeing the calm in his eyes, you made up your mind. Slowly, you removed your shirt, revealing your body covered only by a tiny black thong.

Azriel swallowed, his eyes darkening slightly as they roamed over your figure. You felt a warmth spread across your skin under his intense gaze, but you remained still, waiting for his next move.

He approached, leaned in, and his large, warm hands grabbed your hips, quickly dragging you until you were sitting where he could rest his hands on your shoulders first, beginning with a light pressure. His touch was firm but gentle, and he began working on your tense muscles, gliding down your back with expertise. The oil, warm against your skin, made it easier for his hands to move as he focused on relaxing you.

A sigh escaped your lips as you felt a knot dissolve under his fingers. He leaned in closer, his breath brushing against your ear.

“Let go of all that tension,” he murmured, his voice rough with concentration as his hands traveled down your back to the curve of your waist, his thumbs pressing gently at the base of your spine.

A low moan escaped you, and you closed your eyes, allowing the pleasure of the massage to envelop you completely. Azriel continued, his hands moving confidently, exploring every inch of your lower back, dangerously close to the edge of your thong. His touch was addictive, and though you tried to stay calm, you felt your body reacting to every caress, every calculated pressure.

“You have no idea how beautiful you look,” Azriel whispered, his voice vibrating against your skin as his hands paused for a moment, just above the line of your thong. The heat in his voice made you shiver.

Opening your eyes, you turned your head slightly to look at him, finding his face close to yours, his eyes locked on yours. The tension in the room became almost palpable, and in that instant, you knew you had crossed a line.

Azriel lowered his hands, sliding them down your hips to the edge of your thong, slowly—too slowly.

He stopped in the curve of your hips, squeezed the flesh, in his hands, feeling and appreciating them. And slowly, he guided one hand toward your abdomen, the other toward your ribs.

You whimpered slightly, needily, your breath heavy.

“Be patient,” he murmured against your ear, your eyes fluttering closed. You felt the warmth of his hand move up to cup one of your breasts, relishing its size. Your brows arched. “Az…” you sighed.

His other hand slid down to slip under the fabric of your black thong, finding there a wetness that made him hum in satisfaction.

“So wet, all this for me?” You moaned again, struggling to keep your eyes open.

His scarred fingers explored your wetness, tracing a line from your entrance to your clitoris, spreading all your arousal. He drew a circle on your clit, torturously slow, tentative, you might have said if your brain weren’t mush.

Your back arched again. “Azriel,” you moaned his name, and he, in turn, growled in your ear.

“Do you like that?” he asked, and you realized he wanted an answer when he stopped his fingers.

“Yes, yes!” you pleaded, almost desperately.

Azriel let out a low sound, almost a growl, upon hearing your response, satisfied with the power he had over you in that moment. His hand remained still, his fingers barely brushing your clit, enough to keep you on edge, but not enough to give you the relief you so desperately craved. The tension in the room was palpable, each passing second seemed to stretch time, amplifying the desire that wrapped around you.

“If you enjoy it so much,” he murmured against your neck, his hot breath sending a shiver down your spine, “then you’re going to wait a little longer.”

The sweet agony of anticipation spread through your body as Azriel maintained that light, frustrating touch that made every fiber of your being burn with desire. You tried to move, seeking more of him, more of that contact that promised so much, but his hands became firm, holding you in place.

“Don’t move,” he ordered gently, and there was an authority in his voice that made you obey without hesitation. There was something about the way Azriel controlled you, how he handled your body with such precision, that made you feel vulnerable and at the same time completely safe. You felt the heat of his body against your back, his hardness pressed against you as his scarred fingers moved again, this time applying more pressure on your clit. The pleasure that blossomed from that simple touch was overwhelming, and you couldn't help but moan, arching your back to get closer to him.

"Good girl," Azriel whispered, his tone laden with satisfaction as he increased the rhythm of his caresses. You felt his other hand slide up your abdomen, moving up to caress your breasts, squeezing them with a possessiveness that made your breath catch in your throat. His lips pressed against your neck, sending waves of pleasure through your body as his fingers continued to play with your wetness.

“I want you to come for me,” he growled against your ear, his voice a comman. And with that, his movements became more intense, more urgent. The sweet torture he’d imposed on you faded into a wave of pleasure so overwhelming that it left you trembling, your moans turning into cries of pleasure as you approached the edge. His fingertips skilfully working on your clit.

Azriel’s fingers worked with expert precision, pushing you closer and closer to the precipice of an orgasm, until you finally exploded in a wave of pure pleasure, your body trembling as you were suddenly blind and deaf from pleasure. You let out a long, satisfied moan as Azriel’s name escaped your lips in a sigh, your whole being consumed by the heat of that moment.

And even as the pleasure began to fade, Azriel didn’t stop. His hands continued to explore your body, his lips still pressed against your neck, leaving wet kisses that sent delicious shivers through your spine. The sensation of his touch, so skilled and confident, combined with the residual pleasure of your orgasm, left you breathless, utterly spent in his arms.

When you finally came down from that blissful high, you turned to look at him, finding a possessive gleam in his eyes, as if he couldn't get enough of you.

Well, you had never considered him just your best friend.

"I hope your back doesn’t hurt anymore.”

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

In Another Life

Pairing: Dean Winchester x f!reader, Dean POV

Summary: When Dean wakes up in another life with you, he begins to question your friendship and realizes that he has loved you all along. But how can he change that? (I’m so bad at summaries please forgive me!)

Tropes: Angst, Fluff, Pregnancy Fluff, Mutual Pining

Word Count: 5.5K (I have an addiction don't judge me)

Warnings: I don’t think there’s any. I’ll say mention of gore, but for one second. Maybe one allusion to sex, but not really.  Some swearing (once or twice). Dean might be a little bit OOC.

Note: This is told from Dean’s perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is minimal use of y/n. This is my first time writing for Supernatural, so please be gentle. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite!

Internal monologue is in italics

Main Masterlist

*********************************************

Dean couldn’t remember what happened last night only that the bed beneath him felt like an old friend welcoming him home. The night before ghosted across his mind, hovering just out of reach, memories of a dream barely forming from a fog of uncertainty. He fades in and out of sleep in a mist that soothes his aching body.

“Dean?” A soft voice whispers.

Dean groans and squeezes his pillow tighter against his chest to avoid waking up. He didn’t care what time it was, all he knew was that he didn’t want to get out of bed.

“Leave me alone Sammy.” He grumbles into the pillow.

“Dean.” The voice says again, this time with a happy laugh that sounds nothing like Sam.

His eyes open,  blinded by the sunlight that streams through the large windows on the other side of the bedroom.

Wait. Where am I?

“Dean we have to get up or we’ll be late for the party.”

Dean looks towards the voice and  realizes that he’s not squeezing a pillow, it’s you. You’re facing him, hair fanning out over the pillow beneath your head, eyes wide and crinkled around the edges, smiling at him.

“Y/n?” Dean says it hesitantly, arms tightening around your waist.

“No no no. Don’t look at me like that. I will not be roped into staying in bed. We can’t be late for your mom’s birthday party and you promised you would come with me to pick up the cake.”

“But-“ Dean couldn’t remember how he got here, only that something feels wrong.

“No buts.” You giggle, before leaning forward and kissing him.

Dean freezes, confused, but the soft movement of your mouth against his erases any uncertainty. He eases his face forward nudging his nose into yours to deepen the kiss. Dean doesn’t know how he got here, but all he knows is how natural it feels to be here with you. Before he can stop himself he rolls you over your back, bringing a moan from you that vibrates though his skull. His fingertips blaze a trail along your hips.

“Easy there tiger.” You smile up at him. “You don’t want to crush Zeppelin.”

Dean’s confusion makes you laugh, before he finally looks down between you. “You’re pregnant.” He whispers, noting the protrusion of your abdomen.

“I mean I think so.” You laugh in a way that makes his heart jump and buckle.

Dean lays his hand down on the smooth skin where your shirt pushes up. Why can’t I remember this? He thinks to himself confused, searching for memories he can’t recall.

“I believe we’ve talked about it several times. And it was you who decided to stay up until 4 am painting the nursery.” Your hands gently brush his hair back out of his face. “You did such a good job baby.”

Dean reaches for the memory, but he can’t seem to

 grasp it. “I did?”

“Mhmm. Look at you, you’re still covered in paint.” You smile wider picking up the hand that rests on your belly to show him the splashes of cream colored paint flecked along the back of his hand. And as you do he notices the ring on your left hand.

“Are we married?” Dean tries again to grasp for his memory but comes up empty handed. He strokes his thumb along the back of yours examining the ring.

I should remember that. How could I forget that we’re married?

“Feigning amnesia will not make me stay in bed with you. No matter how cute you are.”  You gently lay your hand against his chest pushing him back so you can sit up in bed.

Dean can’t help but notice how beautiful and carefree you look. Hair catching fire in the light from the window, t-shirt brushing against the top of your thighs, and how you smile at him with so much love it makes something catch in his chest.

“Dean?” You suddenly look worried. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “I’m just tired I guess.”

His cell phone rings where it sits on the nightstand, drawing his gaze to the alarm clock and car magazine that sit on top of the dark wood.

“You better answer that. It’s probably Sam asking us where we are.” You kiss him on the cheek, before standing up and walking into the closet on the edge of the bedroom.

Dean watches you go, his eyes tracing your familiar figure as you leave the room, before reaching for his phone.

“Hey where are you guys? Jessica’s freaking out because you haven’t brought the cake.” Sam’s  voice triggers another memory for Dean, but this one remains allusive.

“Sam?”

“Dean.”

“Um.”

“Dean are you hungover or something?”

“No. Sorry, just running a little late-“ Dean apologizes looking around the bedroom. It’s small, filled with light from the open window that shows a quaint backyard. The dresser on the wall opposite the bed has photos of him and you, photos of Sam and Jessica, and a photo of Mary and John Winchester. Dean’s eyes stop on the photo as a memory triggers at the back of his mind, but Sam interrupts the thought.

“Well come on. Dad’s not going to like it if you guys miss mom’s birthday-“

“Dad?” Deans memory spikes again and he sees his father sitting in the drivers seat humming along to a song on the radio. Another memory flashes, Dean and his father standing behind the impala with Sam looking into the trunk.

“Yes dad. Your boss. Our father. Dean are you okay? Y/n said that you were painting the nursery last night all by yourself. You could have told me. I would have come over to help-“

“I’m alright Sammy.”

But he doesn’t feel alright, something is definitely wrong.

“Okay well hurry up. I’ll see you when you get here.”

Dean hangs up the phone and sits on the end of the bed with it in his hand.

You walk back into the room wearing a green sundress. Your hair is soft again, falling over your shoulders in a way that makes Dean’s breath catch, effortlessly beautiful.

A memory of you wearing jeans and a leather jacket washes across his mind of you standing with him at the back of the Impala reaching in for a shotgun while he knocks your hand away.

“Dean?” You walk towards him, this time standing between his legs. You place your hands on his shoulders and he can’t help but turn to look at the wedding ring. “Are you sure you’re okay? Because if you’re not feeling well we don’t have to go today. I can call your dad. But I just thought your really wanted to go. You hate missing your mother’s birthday. It’s usually you that drags me out of bed.” You trail your hand against the side of his face with a worried expression, to turn his gaze back on you.

Someone deep in the back of his mind the expression triggers something and he sees a memory of you. Except you’re holding a machete in your right hand that drips blood on the floor but, the look of worry in your eyes the same.

Where could that be from?

“I don’t know.”

“Hey.” You whisper, sitting down in his lap and his arms can’t help but secure you there, burying his head in your shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I’m scared too.”

“What?” Dean raises his head from your shoulder

“We’ve talked about this. You’re going to be a great dad. And honestly we probably won’t know what we’re doing, but that’s how everyone starts.” Your fingertips drag through his hair in a soothing motion.

Dean tries again to grasp at earlier memories of this life, early memories of you, but all he sees are motel rooms. Motel rooms where you sleep on a pullout couch in a corner and where Sam sits  at a small table shuffling through endless books and papers.

Why?

Dean can’t understand, because that life seems so different than this one. This one where you look softer and happier, where you share a bed and are married. He thinks about the other memories, where your smile is not as bright, where there’s a hardness to your face, but still just as beautiful. Another memory of him and you sitting in a bar drinking beer, another of you laughing at something he said and hitting him, and finally one of you reading in bed while Dean sits at a motel table and watches you softly turn the pages.

Deep down Dean knows in his bones that in those memories  you and him are just friends, but he allows himself to indulge in your touch, enjoying the comfort that comes with being with you.

“It’s not about the baby.” Dean sighs. “I just can’t remember how we got here.”

“Here?”

“Married.” His arms tighten around your waist not wanting to let go. You’re the only thing he recognizes in all of this.

“Um well, my car broke down and I brought it to a mechanic shop where I met a devilishly handsome man with green eyes.” You smile at him. “Who refused to let me leave until he bought me dinner.”

Dean stares at you.

“Practically kidnapped me. But you were so charming I couldn’t resist.” You lean closer to whisper in his ear. “Not to mention sexy covered in grease and wearing a meatloaf t-shirt.” You kiss him before he can respond, and he loses himself in you. The way you hold him close, the way your fingers work up into his hair to secure him right where he wants to be, and the way you feel in his arms wipes away any uncertainty. “As much as I’d like to go back to bed with you, we’re going to be late.” You whisper against his lips.

And Dean allows himself to be dragged away.

*********************************************

“Did you remember to order the parts for that ‘76 Camaro right?” John Winchester asks Dean, but Dean’s not focused, he can’t focus on anything.

The drive over to his parents house was different. Instead of sitting on the opposite side of the front seat of the impala, you had sat in the middle, holding his hand and leaning against his shoulder, humming softly.

It made driving for Dean especially difficult. The memories of you in his car that came across his mind while he drove distracted him.

You  in the backseat shouting something at Dean while he completely ignored you rolling his eyes, you sitting in the front seat with a map trying to direct him while Sam slept in the back, you singing to “The Eye of the Tiger” with him while Sam tried to close his ears, and finally you asleep in the front seat with Dean’s jacket draped over you.  That last one stayed in his mind. He liked how you looked wrapped up in his jacket, breath fogging the glass window, while Dean tried his best to drive smooth and slow so you wouldn't wake.

But you in the front seat holding his hand and leaning against his shoulder while humming along to the music blew all of those memories out of the water. All Dean wanted to do was exist there and then.

When you both arrived at his parents home Dean tried not to be disappointed. Now he was too distracted watching you talk and laugh with Jessica and his mother across the room to listen to anything his father said.

“Dean are you listening?” His dad tries again.

“Huh?” The cold beer in Dean’s hand drips condensation against his skin. He turns to look back at his father.

Another memory of him momentarily distracts Dean, this one of John leaving Dean and Sam in a motel room so he can go hunting.

Did we ever go hunting? Dean tries to think of a time where they went out into the woods to shoot some deer, but comes up empty handed. A few memories of him and Sam toting guns rise to the surface, but he can't remember why they had them.

"You'll have to excuse Dean, he's still mentally painting the nursery." Sam snorts into his beer.

"Shut up."

"Don't tease him Sam. I'm sure that Jessica will have you turn your office into a nursery before you know it." You appear on Dean's left, raising his arm around you so you can lean into his side. Dean automatically tightens his arm around your shoulders.

"Don't joke about that y/n."

"Uh-huh. You can't hide in that big fancy law firm forever. She'll find you." You smile up at Dean in a way that makes his heart feel like its stopped beating.

Why can't I remember any of this life?

"She's right." Jessica comes over to kiss Sam on the cheek.

"I do not hide at the firm-" Sam rolls his eyes.

"You do."

Mary Winchester comes over. "Are you fighting at my birthday party?"

Dean's father puts his arm around his mother, pulling her into his chest with a smile he hides by taking a swig of beer.

"No mom, we're not-"

"Sounded like a fight to me." You whisper to Dean, and he can't help but smile at you.

"It's not a fight y/n!"

"Don't yell at my wife Sammy." Dean says before he can stop himself. He thinks about how natural it sounded coming out of his mouth.

His wife. You're his wife. He thinks and presses a kiss to the top of your head that makes you sigh into his chest.

"I'm not yelling at y/n." 

"Sam we're just teasing you." Jessica laughs, placing her hand against his chest. Dean notices the ring on her own finger, and a memory of Jessica rises in the back of his head. Jessica standing in the darkness of an apartment, while Dean holds on to the front of Sam's shirt, her eyes wide and confused.

But it vanishes when you wince in his arms. Dean's eyes are drawn back down to you, worry spiking in his chest.

"I'm okay." You whisper. "Just think Zeppelin is hitting his limit."

"You guys go on home. I think that John has grilled Dean about the garage enough." Mary smiles, before taking a step forward to hug you. Dean is disappointed when you leave his arms, but smiles despite, watching you with his mother.

"Let the little linebacker get some rest." John hugs you.

"Of course. Thank you so much for letting us come. I'm sorry we were late." Dean watches the subtle blush of your cheeks as you apologize.

"I'm sure it's my son's fault." Mary moves to hug Dean.

As soon as she does Dean is overwhelmed by a surge of sadness as another memory of his mother rises in the back of his mind that he can't quite bring into focus.

"Mom?" Dean whispers.

"Hmm?" She looks up at him confused. "We'll see you on Tuesday for dinner. Okay?"

"Okay."

"We love you."

"I love you too mom." But something sticks in his chest when he says it.

“Don’t forget to order the parts.” John says shaking Dean’s hand.

“Sure.”

“Bye Jessica. Let me know if you need us to bring anything for Tuesday.” Dean watches you hug her and just for a moment Dean sees Sam holding a bouquet of flowers at a gravesite.

What is happening?

*********************************************

When Dean pulls the Impala into the driveway of your home something still feels wrong. After saying goodbye to everyone he still can’t shake the feeling that he forgot something. The radio plays "Black Dog" filling the silence as the car idles in front of the house.

“Dean!”

“What?” He turns to look at where you sit beside him in the front seat.

“Feel.” You grab one of his hands from the wheel and place it against your abdomen an excited smile gracing your cheeks. “Little future drummer."

The kicking against the palm of his hand makes Dean smile, leaning forward into where you sit beside him. Happiness breaks in his chest like the crest of a wave. He can't remember a moment in his life where he felt this happy, this much love for someone.

"Y/n?"

"Mhmm."

"I love you." Dean refuses to believe that he has said it to anyone else ever in his life, can't remember wanting to say it to anyone else, can't believe that he will ever want to say it to anyone else.

"I love you too."

He leans down to kiss you, hand still against your stomach, drawing you further into him to breathe you in. Everything else vanishes, just the feel of your soft lips against his, the tickle of your hair against his cheeks, and the pulse of his son's kicks against the palm of his hand.

But then it's all gone.

*********************************************

"Dean!" Sam's voice jars him into reality, his eyes opening to see his brother standing over him, one hand on his shoulder. "Dean are you okay?"

"What happened?" Dean sits up with a groan, ignoring the headache that throbs behind his eyes.

His eyes adjust to the dim light. He's in a long room where wooden tables sit every few feet covered in dust and machinery blanketed with old sheets. The musty smell fills his nose, replacing the smell of your shampoo that lingers under his nose from when you were in the front seat with him.

"Djinn ambushed you. Y/n and I got here as soon as we could."

"Y/n?" The memories of the dream strike him in the chest all over again, merging with memories of reality. "Where is Y/n?"

You enter the room out of breath, blood flecked across your cheeks and holding a baseball bat that drips a dark liquid onto the concrete floor. “It’s dead.”

"You sure?" Sam asks raising an eyebrow.

"There's enough brain matter on the floor in there for a zombie buffet." You shoulder the baseball bat. "So yeah, it's dead."

Dean’s eyes trace your body taking in the leather jacket and dark t-shirt his memory flashing to the green sundress and beautiful smile. You’re half-smiling, but Dean can see the hardness in your face again and understands where it comes from.

She wasn’t a hunter. He thinks of the dream version of you, where your hair fell in soft curls, but now it’s tied back in a ponytail. His eyes drop to your abdomen expecting more, but disappointment flicks in his heart. It wasn’t real.

“Dean are you okay?” You step closer to him. The smile has dropped now, replaced with a worried expression.

He flashes back to when you asked him that in the dream, when you sat on his lap and tangled your hands in his hair, sighing into his mouth as he kissed you.

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

He traces your face again but every time he does he only sees the other version of you, the version that’s in love with him, married to him. And he knows that here you are just his friend.

“Yeah.” He says again standing up. “Let’s get out of here.”

The ride back to the motel is silent. Dean doesn’t put on any music, too afraid that it’ll remind him of the memory of you and him in the front seat while his son kicked against his hand. Instead, all he can think of was how happy he was in the other life, how in love with you he was-

Dean knew that it wasn’t just a fantasy, that he really is in love with you, but now after seeing how everything could be, it weighed on his chest. Each time you looked at him he wanted to pull you close to him, hug you, kiss you, but he knew you would pull away. Because this version of you was not his.

“I’m going to go to that diner on the corner. You guys want something?” Sam looks around the room expectantly, but Dean doesn’t look up from the carpet.

“Sure.” Dean hears you respond. “Maybe just a burger and a piece of pie. Preferably apple but I'll take cherry if they have it."

“Okay. Dean?” Sam asks again.

Dean shakes his head. He can’t eat. Not now.

Sam hesitates at the door worried. “Are you sure?”

“I don’t want anything.” Dean snaps.

“Yeesh don’t bite my head off.” Sam throws you a shrug before leaving.

Dean is aware that it’s just the two of you now, the memory of the two of you in bed surfaces making him tighten his grip on the edge of the blanket beneath him.

“Dean?” You whisper.

“What?” His voice comes out harsher than he means it to.

“What’s wrong? You can tell me.”

“Nothing is wrong.” But he can’t look at you, not when he knows he'll look up and you won't be pregnant and not when the other version of you still has a hold of his heart.

“Dean you’re my best friend I know when something’s wrong. Plus you haven’t been able to look at me since you woke up and you never say no to food.”

“I’m fine.”

“Dean-“

“Just leave me alone damnit!” He snaps at you, able to raise his gaze from the floor for one second. Dean immediately feels bad, watching the pain in your eyes as he pushes you away. But he lowers his eyes to the carpet once more to avoid your gaze.

You sigh, but don’t get angry with him. “If you don’t want to tell me that’s fine. I'll just leave you alone then.”

And as soon as you leave to take a shower he feels the loss of you beside him.

He listens to the sound of the shower, feels the passing of time, but he does not move. The memories of the dream rise and fall, replacing the darkness of the hotel room with brilliant light. The memory of the sun catching your hair on fire as you laid next to him in bed tracing your fingertips along his jaw, the memory of you in the front seat of the Impala leaning against him and humming while you hold his hand, the memory of the party where he wrapped his arm around your shoulders and pulled you tightly into his chest, and finally the memory of the last kiss you shared in the front seat of the Impala each dance across his mind. He acutely feels the loss of your body against his, the loss of your lips, and finally the sound of your voice telling him you love him while his son kicked against his hand.

“Dean?”

He looks up at you. You look softer than you did. The blood is gone from your cheeks, your hair falls over your shoulders still wet from the shower, effortlessly beautiful, he decides. You’re wearing one of his old t-shirts that he gave you and a pair of sweatpants. It does something to him, watching you stand there in his shirt. It hangs past your waist like a dress, making you look smaller than you are. The smell of your shampoo wafts out of the bathroom, something familiar that makes his throat tight.

“You know when that Djinn got me a few months ago it threw me for a loop too.” You say softly leaning against the doorway of the bathroom. “Everything felt so real. It was hard to tell what was real and what wasn’t.”

Dean remembers when that happened. When you vanished out of the blue while checking out a case alone and he and Sam tore apart the small town looking for you. Dean remembers how worried he was, how desperate he was to find you.

I loved her then too. Dean realizes looking at you. How did I not know?

Dean remembers the aftermath, when you woke up and wouldn’t look at him. How your gaze was almost haunted and how he had to carry you out of there because you couldn’t move. He remembers you laying in bed and turning away from him and Sam when they had asked you what was wrong and the following day when you acted like nothing happened.

“What did it make you see?” Dean whispers, noting the way you shift back and forth on your feet. He hadn't seen you nervous before, seen you face down demons and vampires without batting an eye, but now you looked vulnerable.

You look down at your feet.  “If I say it you can’t laugh.”

“I won’t.”

“Dean, I’m serious.”

“I promise I won’t laugh.” He watches the tension in your shoulders.

Why would she be afraid to tell me? We talk about everything.

“It was us.”

“What?” Shock tugs at his heart and for a second he thinks that he heard you wrong.

“It was us. We were married. We had 2 kids. My brother was still alive and my parents were talking to me again. I was happy there. It was hard to come back. Not that I’m not happy, but just that it’s hard to think you’ve lived a life that doesn’t exist. Especially one so different than all of this.” Dean watches you take in a deep breath, tapping your finger against your bicep, avoiding his eyes. “That was when I realized I was in love with you.” 

Dean’s heart stops beating. “What did you just say-“

You look up and smile tightly. “It’s when I realized I was in love with you. That’s why I was so messed up. I didn't know how to-“

Sam chooses that exact moment to walk in loaded with bags of food. “What did I miss?”

“Nothing much.” Dean watches you easily shift your expression to hide what just happened, smiling at Sam as if you hadn’t said the one thing that Dean had been trying to say to you since he woke up. “Just trying to convince Dean to let me work on Baby. I think I’m wearing him down.”

Dean had never realized how much of a good liar you were until this moment, sure he had seen you pretend to be a government agent, but this was different.

“Like that’ll happen.” Sam hands you a bag of food before turning to look at Dean. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Dean watches you pull out the burger, stunned by your confession.

You place the burger next to him on the bed. “Eat this. It’ll help.”

“But-“ He looks up at you, wanting to finish the conversation.

“I promise I’m not that hungry Dean. I’d rather have the pie. Unless you’re going to fight me for it?” You smile raising an eyebrow.

Dean doesn’t understand why you’re acting like you didn’t just say you were in love with him. He gazes at you, searching your face. For a second he sees the mask slip, but before he can comment it’s gone.

“No I won’t.” He whispers.

“Good.” You turn to the made-up pull out couch and fold your legs underneath you with the slice of pie balanced on your knee, before reaching into your bag for a worn paper back.

Dean sits there watching you turn the pages. She loves me. The memory of you in his dream in the front seat of the Impala whispering it to him doesn’t hold the same weight because now all he can hear is you saying it here, now.

Dean can’t move. He wished Sam would leave again. He wished Sam would leave so he could bring you into his chest and kiss you, so he could tell you the one thing he wished he said ages ago.

But he doesn't. All he does is sit there and watch you read.

*********************************************

A few hours after Sam and you have fallen asleep Dean lays in his bed and stares up at the ceiling. He can hear your soft breaths against the pillow, the crinkle of the sheets as you move in your sleep. Usually he allowed himself to fall asleep listening to you, but tonight all it did was keep him awake. Each time he shut his eyes he saw the memory of you in bed with him burning against his eyelids and each time he shut his eyes he heard the real you telling him that you loved him.

Finally, he can't take it anymore.

Dean gets up and makes his way over to the pull-out couch, pausing once to move the paperback book out from under your head. It wasn't the first time that you'd fallen asleep reading, and Dean thought it was cute.

He slides into the bed behind you, gently touching your shoulder to wake you as quietly as possible.

"Hmm." You inhale softly.

"Y/n." Dean whispers.

He watches you turn towards him, eyes blinking in the darkness to rouse yourself from sleep. You hair is flared out over the pillows, eyes hazy. “Dean what are you-“

Dean moves his arm to your waist before pulling you flush into his chest, lips finding yours. The memories of the kiss in his dream are everywhere, but none of them compare to this. You sigh into his mouth, bringing your hands into his hair. Dean breathes you in. You still taste like apple pie, body soft against his, lips smooth and welcoming.

“I love you too.” He whispers against your mouth, eyes finding yours in the darkness of the hotel room.

Your smile breaks him. “It made you see us didn’t it?”

“How did you know?”

“The way you looked when you came out. The way you looked at me. I think it’s the same way I looked at you when I woke up." You brush back his hair and Dean can't help but lean forward into your touch. "What did it make you see?"

“We were married. You were pregnant and I was working at a garage. My parents were alive. Jessica was alive-“

“Oh Dean.” You cup his cheeks with a sorrowful expression, before brushing your lips against his. “I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter now.” Dean brings you into his chest, laying on his back so you can rest your head on his heart. His hand slowly traces up and down your spine. You both lie there for a few moments. The subtle beat of your heart soothing the sadness that rises with the memory of his mother and father. Your hand gently rests against his shirt, fingers curling into the soft fabric.

“I missed you.” He hears you whisper into his chest.

“What?” Dean doesn't understand. "Where did I go?"

“Not like that. I know that it sounds stupid, but we were so happy in the dream. It made me miss you, miss this.” He feels you rub your face into the front of his shirt.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Dean you’re my best friend. I didn’t want to lose any of this.” You prop yourself up look him in the eye. “I’m happy here with you and Sam. Y’all are my family and I didn’t want to jeopardize that just because I’m in love with you.”

“Did you think I would have made you leave if you told me that?” Dean can’t help but feel hurt. Sure it would have been awkward for a little bit, but I’d never do that to y/n.

“Not made me leave, more phase me out. It would have made all of this awkward and-“ He watches the weight settle on your shoulders as you press your forehead into the space between his collar bone and neck. “I’ve lost so many things. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Dean squeezes you to him. “You’re not going to lose me sweetheart.” He traces a fingertip under your chin to raise your face to his. “I love you. And even if I didn’t, you’re my family too. I wouldn’t make you leave just because it was a little awkward. We’ve all been through too much together for that.” Dean’s thumb rubs soft circles against your cheek.

“I love you too.” You whisper, the soft smile gracing your lips  mirrors the memory from the dream, but this time it fills him with warmth and comfort, because this time he knows it’s real.  It's not some Djinn messing with his head, it's you. You lean upwards to kiss him gently, while Dean weaves his hand through you hair to secure you to him.

But then you pull away, your smile slipping into a smirk. “So when you say family, are you saying you see me as a sister or a cousin? Because, I don’t know how things are in Kansas, but where I'm from, that's kind of a red flag.“

Dean sighs loudly. Before he rolls you over and pins you to the bed, pressing his lips against yours in a searing kiss.

“Oh. So as a sister-“ You joke.

“You are one of the most annoying people on the planet.”

“I know. It’s why you love me.” You trace his lips with your index finger, gazing up at him the same way the dream version of you did.

Dean feels warmth trail behind your touch. “One of the reasons at least.”

But just as he leans to kiss you again-

“If you guys don’t shut up I’m not going to get any sleep.” Sam grumbles from his bed. “I could have told you two idiots, that you loved one another and it would have taken five seconds.”

“You don’t have to eavesdrop-“ You say glaring over in the direction of Sam’s bed.

“Kinda hard not to when you guys are making out. LOUDLY. I might add.”

“Gonna have to get used to it Sammy.” Dean snorts, before pushing your hair back behind your ear and drawing your gaze back to his face.

“Next time you guys are getting your own room.” Sam continues. “That way I can get some sleep.”

“Doesn’t seem very economical.” You say, but you’re gazing up at Dean again with the smile that makes him feel like he’d swallowed the sun. “I love you.” Your voice is barely a whisper.

“I love you too.” Dean leans down once more to capture your lips against his, erasing all semblance of everything else, except the feel of your body beneath him and the warmth that surges with each breath as the dream of you becomes a reality.

*********************************************

Thank you so much for reading!

[jayden-writes]

just this once

pairing: Lucifer x gn!Reader

wordcount: ~1.4k

genre: fluff

cw: none!

summary: Maybe Lucifer could allow himself to indulge every now and then.

other notes: no name, Y/N or MC used // AO3 // thanks again to @gravedwe11er for helping me so much with this fic!

Lucifer wondered what had happened to him; why did his chest feel so warm and fuzzy when he looked at you, peacefully asleep on the couch in his study? He was the Avatar of Pride, the third most powerful demon in all of the Devildom, and yet you had wormed your way into his heart, made yourself home with frightening ease as if this was what you had been made for.

Crouching in front of the couch, he took in your sleeping form, the serene look on your face. How you were able to let your guard down in his presence, to be so trusting despite everything that had happened, everything he had done, was a mystery to him. Was he even deserving of the trust, the kindness you bestowed upon him?

With a gentle touch that contrasted his strength, he brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead. You stirred a little and he froze, holding his breath.

“Mh… Lucifer…?” you muttered sleepily, and your eyelids fluttered open.

Seeing your bleary gaze, he couldn't help but smile fondly, stroking your cheek with his index finger.

“Apologies, my dear, I didn't mean to wake you,” he responded in a hushed tone. “Go back to sleep.”

Humming in agreement, you closed your eyes again and Lucifer chuckled softly before standing up to return to work. However, he didn't get very far. Your hand had reached for his pants, tugging on them, and he crouched down, regarding you with an attentive, yet curious expression.

“What is it?” he asked quietly.

“Are you done?” you whispered, seemingly a little more awake now.

“Soon, I promise,” he soothed.

“You said the same thing earlier,” you grumbled, pouting.

He sighed. “I know I did and I apologize for taking longer. I assure you, I will be done soon. Be patient for me, will you?”

When that didn’t make your pout disappear, he cupped your face with one hand, and pressed his lips against yours briefly, before placing multiple small kisses on your cheekbone. You giggled at that and Lucifer observed the blush on your face, the way the corners of your mouth were curving upwards.

“There it is. As much as I adore seeing that pretty little pout on your lips, I would much rather see you smile.”

The flush coloring your features grew more pronounced and you grasped his hand that was resting on your cheek to hide yourself from him. A pleasant tingling sensation spread through him as you nuzzled his palm and placed a kiss on the pad of his thumb.

Lucifer's gaze softened and he allowed his touch to linger for a moment longer, savoring the feeling of your breaths on his skin, before he withdrew, straightening up. “Sleep now. I will be done by the time you wake up again.”

“I'll hold you to that,” you mumbled as he watched you shift on the couch to get comfortable. Once your eyes were shut, he quietly returned to his desk and resumed working, occasionally glancing at your slumbering form.

He didn't quite know whether you were a distraction that kept him from finishing his work or more of a motivation to get it done as soon as possible. Perhaps you were both at the same time. With a silent sigh, he focused his attention back on the documents spread out in front of him, and the sound of a pen scratching on paper filled the room, sometimes interrupted by a soft rustling when he had finished a page.

Even as Lucifer worked diligently, he listened closely to your steady breaths, his heightened senses easily picking up on the faint noise. Whenever he heard the pattern of your breathing change just a little, he paused what he was doing to check on you, making sure you were alright and not waking up.

Eventually, he finally wrote the last words on a document, and to his relief, you were still fast asleep. He started putting everything aside, cleaning the desk as he always did once he completed his work. Despite his efforts to do so quietly, you stirred awake again, sitting up and rubbing your face tiredly.

“Are you done now?” you asked, voice heavy with sleep.

“I am,” he responded softly, smiling to himself at the sight of your weary form. “Shall we go to bed?” he suggested as he stood up, walking towards you, and offering you his hand to help you up. Lucifer observed your gaze briefly dart down to it, then back to his eyes, your lips pursed.

“What's the matter?” he inquired.

“Carry me,” you simply replied, looking at him expectantly.

Huffing in amusement, he shook his head with an indulgent smile. “Well, aren't you a demanding one?” Bending down, he moved one arm underneath your legs and the other around your waist, allowing you to loop your arms over his shoulders. With ease, he lifted you up, cradling you securely against his chest, and started carrying you.

“Maybe I am. But I know you wouldn't want it any other way,” you retorted lightly, pecking his cheek before nestling your face into the crook of his neck.

Glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, his lips quirked upwards. “I suppose you are right. And perhaps this is how I can make amends for letting you sleep on that uncomfortable couch. I do apologize for taking so long. Mammon’s… shenanigans have caused more paperwork than I had anticipated.”

Sighing heavily, he wondered what punishment would be appropriate this time, in spite of him knowing full well that even the harshest consequences could never discourage Mammon - or any of his younger brothers for that matter - from causing trouble. He could already feel a headache coming on.

His train of thought was disrupted by the sensation of you yawning against his skin, and he immediately felt the tension that had been building up inside of him melt away again.

“Tired, are we, my dear?” Lucifer asked, his voice low and amused as he gently squeezed you closer to him.

“It’s pretty late, so, yeah,” was your mumbled reply.

He hummed in agreement as he reached his bedroom and placed you on the mattress of his large bed, where you promptly crawled under the blanket and curled up.

“It is rather late, yes. Fortunately, there is no RAD tomorrow, so feel free to sleep in,” he said while unbuttoning his waistcoat to get more comfortable.

As he worked on the buttons, he could sense your eyes on him, your brow furrowed as if contemplating something. Before he could ask what was on your mind, you spoke up. “And you? Will you sleep in as well?” You glanced at him, the expression you wore telling him that you knew he would most likely give you a negative answer.

Not immediately replying and averting his gaze, he slowly opened the last button, taking the waistcoat off and folding it, before setting it aside. It was silent as he thought about the paperwork still waiting for him in his study and the additional work that would inevitably come during the day.

When he settled on the edge of the bed, he looked back at you, seeing the disappointment forming in your eyes.

“I will,” Lucifer finally answered, lying down next to you and joining you beneath the blanket.

At first, it was almost as if the words didn’t register in your mind, but then happiness bloomed on your face, and just the sight of you smiling like this already made up for the extra stress that he would have to deal with. You squeaked cheerfully and shifted closer, wrapping your arms around him. Chuckling in amusement, he returned the embrace and held you tightly against him. He nuzzled your hair, kissing the top of your head and tracing his hands along your spine.

Just this once, he thought to himself as he turned the light off with a flick of his hand, plunging the room into darkness, just this once will I allow myself this indulgence.

“I love you,” you whispered, your breaths tickling his neck as you made yourself comfortable next to him.

“And I love you,” he responded quietly, his voice laced with affection. He buried his face in your hair, and tightened his hold on you, drifting off to sleep with a smile on his lips.

Just this once, he told himself.

[corn-cardigan]

Hey so artist to artist, share a secret, how do you achieve that effect? I'm obsessed with how raw it looks love to coloura love the impression and softness just *chefs kiss*

https://www.tumblr.com/corn-cardigan/760825147001339904/random-stuff-from-july-legarde-thing-i-probably?source=share

<- last art from this post

Thank you so much (´༎ຶོρ༎ຶོ`) !

The way I paint is honestly a hodgepodge of methods. I’m in no way a professional painter or visual development artist - I work like this because it’s a nice change of pace from my usual stuff. But here’s a look into my process!

I work in glazes, then I build up to full opacity when I render. This way, whatever subject I’m painting melds with the background color. I prefer my pieces having low contrast and details. I save the most contrast and details for focal points and areas in direct light.

I’m also mindful of what direction my brush strokes are in as a way to sorta replicate traditional painting. It tends to do some heavy lifting in terms of indicating form. ((I love low effort things with big payoffs yippee!!))

It’s really noticeable in my last painting but I add these borders when the subject’s colors contrast too much with the background. By adding that transition border, it makes the subject feel less like a sticker and more incorporated into the background.

When painting portraits, my focal point will usually be the face and eyes. So I prioritize all the rendering and information into that area. Everything else outside that zone is kinda a mess of colors, shapes, and brushstrokes - but it’s ok because it’s not the priority. (Also the above pics are WIPS so if I finished them, it would be a bit more refined…)

Somethings I did in 2022 that kinda exemplifies my points. Although if I did these again, maybe I’d bump down the contrast and make it more focused??

Again, painting is not my main thing!! I just do it for fun and it’s meditative and when you're a storyboard artist, you miss colors…

I always strongly recommend studying contemporary and classical painters who have a stronger, articulated grasp on this matter. I’m just noodling around most of the times.

Lengthy post but hope this helps!!! 💕

[separatist-apologist]

Long Live

Summary: All archeologist Elain Archeron wants is answers about the past.

Fate is determined to give them to her

MASSIVE thank you @abbadinfluence for having the idea AND allowing me to write - I've had the time of my life, this has been so fun.

And @octobers-veryown for being my personal Rome/Italy consultant- thank you for your knowledge, your time, and most importantly, catching when I used a particularly offensive and/or wrong swear word

For @elucienweekofficial | Read on AO3 | Chapter 1

Elain waited until she and Arina were alone to turn to her friend. Arina was one step ahead of her. “We’re fucked,” she said in English, face devoid of any true color. “He’s basically got us under house arrest.” 

“They don’t trust us,” Elain said, taking an anxious breath of air. The last three days had been something out of a nightmare. They’d been arrested, put in chains, and then transported from the country estate to Rome, during which they’d been groped and threatened with assault more times than she could count. Elain had never known true fear until that first night outdoors, camping with a group of leering, bored soldiers. 

She couldn’t enjoy seeing Rome, well aware of where they were being taken. Mamertine Prison was a church in the present day, built over the bones of prisoners sent to languish while they waited out their sentences. Elain had expected some low level judiciary to come and decide their fate. Not the newly crowned Emperor himself, accompanied by his older brother. Nor had she expected Arina to react so viciously once they were so close to freedom.

“We simply have to convince them they can trust us.”

“And how do you intend to go about that?” Arina demanded, picking through the clothes set out for the two of them. They knew enough combined history to get through this, she decided. If they could convince the Emperor they were no threat, Elain believed they could make their way back where they’d started and get back to their own home before they changed history. 

“Well, for starters maybe we should stop biting patricians?” Elain said, rounding on her friend sharply. 

“He’s no better than the soldiers who dragged us up here,” she snarled furiously. “He saw two unprotected women and decided we must exist for his pleasure.”

“Of course he did!” Elain hissed softly. “They’ve never even heard the word feminism. You know women are not on equal standing with men. Stop biting them.”

“If he puts his finger in my face again—”

“No biting.”

Elain turned, looking at the spacious room that belonged to her and her alone. Arina had been given a suite just down the marbled hall but had immediately followed after Elain, prompting two servants to lay clothes out for the both of them nervously. Elain knew what was waiting and was desperate to put her hands on true, Roman garments.

“Why aren’t you panicking?” Arina demanded.

“What good would it do to panic?” Elain asked, tennis shoes squeaking against the marble. The heat coming from the nearby hanging lamps made the room feel warmer than was comfortable, and Elain was quick to fling open the shutters of her window so cool air could push in. “Besides…haven’t you always wanted to see Rome as it actually was?”

“Not really,” Arina said, trailing after Elain apprehensively. “Not like this. What if we can’t get back, Elain? Or worse, what if the Emperor decides to make us some other man's problem?”

“This is Rome. We’ll simply kill him if he tries,” Elain said with far more bravado than she felt. Her room overlooked the garden, replete with beautifully manicured hedges, rows of olive trees, and flowers so vibrant she almost didn’t believe they were real. 

“Elain, I’m serious. Aren’t you afraid?”

“Yes,” she admitted, turning back to the room made of marble and gold. Elain knew if Arina wasn’t so scared, she’d be examining the pillars and telling Elain all about the brush strokes and how the tiles beneath them had been cut. Elain, too, wanted to examine the palace piece by piece, committing it all to memory. Her phone was still in her pocket, the battery at seventy two percent. She could take pictures if she was careful…and then, what? No one would ever believe her.

Maybe just to have once she got home. 

“We need to leave,” Arina hissed, her urgency echoing through Elain’s skull. 

“What we need is to be careful. We were spared once, but I don’t think they’ll be so forgiving the second time. Better to play pretend and wait for our moment than to rush out and get thrown back into prison. Or worse.

Citizens were made slaves all the time, after all. Lucien could make them prostitutes in the eye of the law if he wanted and no one would be able to stop him. Here, at least, they had access to means and the privilege that came from being a patrician woman. 

“He could do horrible things to us,” Arina reminded Elain, standing in the middle of the room with her arms wrapped around her chest. “Things he might think are kind.”

“Then we simply have to convince him not to,” Elain replied, thinking it was easier said than done. “Women might not be allowed a true voice, but there are plenty of Roman women who ruled behind the throne. If we can make him care about us, we can thwart the worst of his machinations. He’s a new Emperor, he’s about to meet his wife…he won’t have a lot of time to spend worrying about us.”

“You’re right,” Arina breathed, closing her eyes before exhaling slowly. “If we blend in and give them no reason to think about us, we can slip out in the night.”

“Or better, he’ll put us on a horse with gold in our pocket.”

“So what now? We just…play dress up?” Arina questioned, finally turning toward the stola. “Drink wine and lounge in the sun?”

“We could explore the city?” Elain suggested, reaching for the red dyed garment. “Tell me, doctor. Where do you think the fabric of this dress comes from?” 

“Egypt,” Arina said, rubbing her fingers against the lenin. “It’s not silk.”

“If we could bring this back—intact—think of—”

“Are you crazy?” Arina hissed, cutting Elain off before she could finish her sentence. “We can do nothing. Make no suggestions, inform them of nothing, do not rip any wings off a butterfly. We aren’t supposed to be here, Elain, and we can’t go around meddling.”

“It’s not meddling. It’s history,” she protested. “And if we’re not supposed to be here, why are we here?”

“Maybe we’re not. Maybe we just ingested something toxic, breathed in too much lead. We’re probably in the hospital having a really vivid hallucination.”

Elain sat on the edge of the bed, sinking into the feathers and straw with delight. Covered in blankets, the mattress was softer than she might have imagined. “This isn’t a hallucination. It’s real.”

She’d thought the same thing when they’d first come through. Elain didn’t believe it anymore, though. They’d been gone for three days and some of her panic was beginning to subside into excitement. They were in Rome at the height of its power and living with the current emperor. Elain knew, from having memorized Lucien’s journals, that he would be meeting Helena soon if he hadn’t met her already.

She didn’t need to meddle—she could merely watch, go home, and reconstruct what she knew. If she could just find out what family Helena belonged to, Elain was certain she’d could piece together whatever tragic fate the empress met. 

Like he so often did, Graysen’s face wormed its way into her memories, flooding her with guilt. She needed to get back—where was her urgency? Arina certainly had it, pacing the room like a caged animal. She’d become wilder by the day, viciously spitting curses at the Roman soldiers who’d dragged them to the prison cell, and again when Eris had tried to touch her.

She was afraid in a way Elain simply wasn’t. She ought to be—oh, how Elain knew she should be scared. They were at the mercy of a time period that valued women even less than the one she’d just left, under the care of a man who didn’t know them at all. They had no one to vouch for them, no refuge in which they could seek shelter in. No one to advocate on their behalf. If they angered the Emperor, he could have them exiled or worse.

And yet…Elain simply wasn’t worried about any of it. She believed they’d be fine, that Lucien would continue to be hospitable, and they’d make their way back no worse than they’d come through. If she was honest with herself, Elain felt a small measure of relief. She didn’t have to make a decision about her own life so long as she was here.

Sure, Graysen would move on eventually, but Elain didn’t intend to be gone for years. Maybe just a month—long enough to have one last, grand adventure. Maybe living in Rome would put some things into perspective for her, besides. Help her make a decision on her own life and relationship.

What did it say about her that she didn’t miss him?

Nothing good.

“Bath?”

Arina threw her hands up in the air with exasperation. “You’re not taking our situation seriously.”

“I am. I’m just realistic. We can’t go anywhere and I don’t want to sit in a bedroom all day. Don’t you want to see how they lived?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“The pipes here are made of lead, Elain. Lead. You’ll be drinking lead tainted water—”

“We’ve been drinking it for the last three days and I feel fine,” she replied, though it did worry her a little. “And we can drink more wine than water, if you’re really that concerned.”

“You want to bathe in lead tainted water?” Arina demanded.

Elain whirled on her friend, her frustration mounting. “There is no deodorant here and I smell like shit from two days of traveling and a night spent in an ancient prison. The water could have sharks in it and I’d still risk it.”

“You’re gonna dress up like a proper Roman lady?”

“Yes, because the alternative is letting them think we don’t belong, grow suspicious of us, and do something horrible. We need to play along, Arina…and we need to stop biting Consuls.”

“I hate him,” she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest.

Elain only shrugged, beckoning for her friend to follow her out of the bedchamber. The hall was brightly lit from both hanging lamps and nearby arched windows that allowed light and air to pour inside in equal measure. It was here that Arina seemed to relax a little, running her finger tips over the gold encrusted walls with awe. 

“Look at this,” Arina breathed, pausing beside a Corinthian style column. “To see it…just…wow.”

The pair touched the marble on the column, craning their necks to look up at the ornate estatis just at the top. The whole thing was pure decoration and though Elain knew it had been built a good several decades earlier, the marble was pristine and vibrant. 

“This is real,” Arina breathed.

Elain couldn’t help her smile.

This was real. 

LUCIEN: 

Lucien was having a difficult time focusing. He ought to be listening to important business of the empire…and yet his eyes kept sliding to the open window where Elena was, walking through his garden in a vibrant red stola. No one had done her hair and so she’d left it wild like a child, half hidden beneath a palla pinned into her dark curls. Lucien was so curious about why she wore it—he had it on good authority she wasn’t married. Was she widowed? 

Did she not know the custom? He was woefully uneducated about life in Brittana, perhaps all women wore the palla. Maybe she was worried about her modesty like a good Roman woman ought to be? The only way to know was to ask and Lucien couldn’t ask without revealing to the men around him that he’d rather spend his time talking to a woman rather than dealing with important matters.

But he did want that. He wanted to try and piece together her rather charming accent…and if Lucien was honest, he wanted to touch her. Wanted to touch the coils of curls blowing in the breeze, wanted to run a knuckle over her unblemished cheek just to see if her skin was as soft as it looked.

He wanted to do other things, too—things that were wholly inappropriate if he was to find a suitable husband for her and get her out of his home. And then he’d spend the rest of his life wondering what it was like to have a woman like that in his bed, until he inevitably took her as his mistress, pissing off whatever man he’d arranged for her in the first place.

Problems for future Lucien, certainly.

Turning his attention back to the room, Lucien’s eyes slid to the map laid out before him. He wanted to invade Germania and succeed where so many before him had failed. Taking that northern territory would allow him to hunt down the saxon’s that plagued his coastlines, too, and take back the treasure they’d been plundering. 

There were a few routes they could take in, but crossing the Rhine was Lucien’s preference. He’d been there during the first campaign and had assisted in building the bridge they’d used to cross—it had terrified the Germanic barbarians to see the might of Rome, sending them scattering further into the interior.

Lucien could build roads and bridges all he liked—getting through the forests was what plagued them. They didn’t have the tactical advantage and Lucien refused to go if defeat was the only path forward. If he was going to lose men, it was going to be in service of victory.

Agreeing to reconvene over wine that night, Lucien sent his advisors away for the time being, intending to meet with a few generals—and Jurian, who would lead his campaign—later that week. Just in time for the games to begin and spread the right amount of propagare that would convince the people of his authority.

Above all else, Lucien needed the backing of the people of Rome just as much as he needed the army. He was drowning in tasks, which didn’t explain why Lucien began his descent into the gardens the mere second he was alone. It was shameful to be so curious about a woman, especially one his brother had accused of being a whore and yet…Lucien’s father had always been especially taken with his mother. There had been no infidelity on his fathers end unless you counted the time he’d been sleeping with Amera while she’d been married to Beron.

Beron had divorced his wife for political reasons and Helion had merely swooped in and married her quickly and quietly before anyone could truly object. And then, when Beron was made Emperor, Helion took off for the outer provinces…just to be safe. It hadn’t been until Lucien had been a man and called back to the city that Helion dared to return, too.

Lucien just needed to know if another man had a claim to her. That was all—it was practical, he swore, adjusting his toga so the purple was especially vibrant in the afternoon sun. He knew he ought to cut his long, auburn hair to conform with the more fashionable short styles and yet…Lucien had left it long because he liked it. It had started on the battlefield, curling around his neck before the length straightened it all out. It had been a joke among the legion he was in—they always knew where Lucien was because of his lovely, effeminate hair. 

What had begun as a joke had somehow transcended Roman norms and though some of the older patrician’s threw him a dirty look now and again, the rest of them didn’t seem terribly bothered so long as Lucien kept it neat and pulled out of his face. No braids or beads like the barbarian’s wore, no adornments of any kind. When he worked, he often tied it off his neck in a bun to give the illusion of short hair.

At least it wasn’t a beard, he reasoned. 

He found Elain among the olive trees, one hand outstretched to touch one of the leaves. Lucien cleared his throat, hands clasped behind his back.

“Where is your friend?”

She turned abruptly, eyes wide. “She ah…” Elain bit her bottom lip. “She found the library.”

Lucien nodded. “Do you like to read?”

She shrugged. “I prefer being outdoors.”

“Do you spend much time outdoors?” he asked, noting the freckles dotting her nose. She must and yet her skin didn’t betray any of it. Most women preferred to stay indoors, far from the sun's vicious kiss that too often left their skin lined and leather-worn. 

“Do you?” she replied, looking up at him through thick, dark lashes.

Lucien offered her a lopsided grin. “Of course. Especially when I have diverting company. Walk with me?”

“Only if you agree to answer all my questions.”

Something warm spread through Lucien. As he’d risen through the ranks, women had begun treating him differently—respectfully. In his mind, he was always thinking of Jesminda and how he’d been just another nobleman’s son and no one special at all. She’d teased him, taunted him—had wanted him without any of the fake modesty he loathed. Lucien had been fortunate to marry for love, once, and having had a taste of true marital bliss, he didn’t want the Roman arrangement his peers often found themselves embroiled in. Jurian was all but married to a woman he barely knew. It was a good prospect for him, if for no other reason than it increased his social standing and available wealth. Lucien didn’t need to worry about any of that anymore, though he would be a fool if he thought he could snub the fellow patrician families and choose just anyone.

Including the beautiful woman standing beside him. She was Roman and yet he knew she had no connection to anyone of importance in the city. He might as well declare himself in love with a barbarian princess and be done with it.

And he wasn’t. In love with her, that is. He was merely fascinated by her mouth and the way her curls caught the sun, making them seem almost golden in the right light. And Lucien had to admit he liked the sound of her voice and the rolling way she spoke.

“I’ll answer anything you ask of me,” Lucien agreed, offering her his bare arm rather selfishly. He just needed to know if her skin was as soft as it looked. She beamed up at him, the prettiest thing he’d ever seen in his entire life, and accepted. Her fingers were warm, gliding over his bare bicep without a care in the world. What would she look like adorned in gold, he wondered?

“How are you enjoying yourself?” he asked before she could get one of her own questions out. He didn’t need to answer anything if he did all the talking. 

She considered his question and only after her silence stretched did Lucien consider that she did not speak Latin as well as he thought. He gave her space, walking her over a careful, stone laid path around the olive grove.

“Your hospitality has been generous,” she began carefully, fingers fidgeting in the pleats of her dress. “I’m sure Arina and I would be fine living somewhere on our own—”

“Who will protect you?” Lucien demanded, getting close to the question he was most interested in. “Two unmarried women shouldn’t be alone in the city.”

She nodded, not disputing his words.

Lucien pounced. “You’re not married?”

She glanced up at him, eyes narrowing. “No, I’m not married.”

“Why?”

She took a breath. “I have a fiance—”

“A what?”

She murmured something under breath in a language he didn’t understand. I forgot french hasn’t been invented yet. He didn’t like that Britanic language—it was too harsh, too angry to be coming out of such lovely lips.

“I am…sponsalia?” 

Lucien blanched. “To who?”

“He lives far from here.”

“And he let you leave unaccompanied?” Lucien demanded, thinking if he met this man, he’d kill him for his cowardice. What kind of man sent his future wife on the road alone where any number of horrible things could happen to her? No, that man was no man at all. Elain had been overtaken on the road and had she not found his home, who knew what might have happened to her?

Lucien didn’t want to think about it. 

“He trusts me,” she said foolishly. What did trust have to do with reality, he wondered?

“And look at how well that worked for you both,” Lucien replied, unable to keep the bite from his words. “You were set upon by bandits and then imprisoned for being a spy. If my brother had his way, you’d be working with the local prostitutes and your fiance would be disgraced to have ever been attached to you.”

Her cheeks reddened, not with shame like he expected, but anger. “Don’t do me any favors, Caesar.”

Why did he like it, he wondered? And yet… “Do you consider this a favor, Elena?”

“I did.”

“And now?”

She kicked a clod of dirt with her foot. “I feel like an imposition.”

“Disavow him,” Lucien commanded, halting in his tracks to look at her. “Say he means nothing to you.”

“I…”

“Disavow him and I will put the backing of Rome behind you,” he swore, wishing he had his sword to swear upon. 

“I can’t—”

“You will.”

It was wrong, perhaps, to force her into ending whatever marriage she’d been entered into. The bond clearly wasn’t strong if he was willing to risk his future wife. Perhaps he hoped something would happen to her. The thought angered Lucien.

“Please don’t,” she whispered, but Lucien’s mind was made up and he would not be denied. 

“Then call him to Rome to answer for his treatment,” Lucien ordered, certain she would not do that. Elain rounded on him, hands on her hips and he wondered with delight if she would deny him.

“So you can slaughter him?”

“You wound me. I believe in the rule of law—”

“What law did he break?” she demanded and oh. She had him there. Technically the man had done nothing other than offend Lucien. Wasn’t that enough? He was Emperor, why should he be offended by some man from Britannia that didn’t value his soon-to-be wife? 

“You broke laws,” Lucien reminded her, scrambling for anything that would give him validity. “Your father is responsible—”

“My father is dead,” she said, some of the fire in her eyes extinguished.

“Then your brother or uncle—”

“I have none.”

Lucien offered her a smile so saccharine it tasted sweet on his tongue. “Which leaves your soon-to-be husband to answer for your crimes. Call him or disavow him.”

Elain looked up at him, arms crossed over her chest. “And if I disavow him, what then?”

Lucien’s grin widened. “I would be delighted to accept responsibility for you and find a suitable husband.”

“A terrifying prospect,” she grumbled. Lucien was half decided on who he’d marry her to—no one he knew was good enough for her. Was he? He wanted to find out. The more she spoke, the longer he breathed the same air, only made him want her more. “Fine. I disavow him. He means nothing to me, I owe him nothing.”

“Would he mourn your death?” Lucien asked curiously, tilting his head to the side. She blinked, eyes strangely glassy.

“I don’t know,” she finally said as her tongue darted out to wet her lips. Lucien’s body went taut for a moment, eyes tracking the way she moved. He felt like a predator back on the killing fields, sword in hand even as he prepared to have his life ended. She could end him, too—not with a weapon but her words, a look, a touch. If she would not marry him, Lucien would take her in any way he could get her. He would deny he’d touched her if that's what she asked, would keep her as an ornament in his home and raise their illegitimate children. She had no father, no brother, no husband. No man who could deny him, though Lucien could not have been denied even if she did. 

Reaching for her chin, Lucien forced Elain to look at him. Elena, he thought with pleasure. She’d need a more Romanized name to be accepted by the people. Would she like Helena, he wondered? He was getting ahead of himself and yet Lucien felt settled.

Pleased, too.

Holding her gaze, he said, “I would mourn you.”

“You don’t even know me,” she replied, drawing a soft, shaking breath.

Lucien shook his head. “I feel the opposite. I feel as if I’ve known you my whole life.” Like he’d been waiting for her. Guilt slithered through him, hot and oily as he remembered Jesminda. He’d once said the same thing about her. Was he the kind of man who could forget love so quickly? Lucien couldn’t help his foolish heart. Looking at the woman beside him, far paler than she’d been when they’d first begun talking, he knew he had his work cut out for him.

He could demand her hand—could assert himself as the sole authority over her and then demand she wed him. And Lucien could imagine just how well that would go. He’d have her in his bed, but she wouldn’t be willing, wouldn’t want him. He knew plenty of men with disinterested wives, who submitted out of duty but not desire. Having tasted love with Jesminda, Lucien wanted it again. Wanted it so badly he was willing to toss out tradition, at least until she got to know him better. 

“Come,” he said with an easy smile, “let me show you the fountain. It’s my favorite.”

—

Arina didn’t care what Elain said—they needed to leave. Elain was too struck by the history of it all that she’d forgotten they were living in an ancient human civilization that was so far removed from their own that any number of horrible tragedies might befall them. Elain had, if nothing else, seen the toilet situation.

Holed up in the Emperor’s library, Arina forced herself to sit in a chair that was deeply uncomfortable, a book laid across her lap. On any other day, finding a first edition transcription of Aristotle’s teachings would have been a dream—she could touch it. Now, though, Arina couldn’t even enjoy herself. 

In truth, she was terrified. Obvious problems aside, they had no way to get back, no way to escape. There were far worse things between Rome and the estate they’d broken into beside just Lucien and his army. But if they could steal a horse, could get some coins…well. Arina figured they could be long gone before anyone in the capital even realized they were missing.

And with some knives—ideally with poisoned blades—they’d be in decent shape. They couldn’t take on a good swordsman, but how many highway robbers were any better than them?

Arina heard the sound of leather on marble, heard the high, bronze doors open and without seeing who came in, she just knew. Eris. He was the blueprint for all modern Italian men—arrogant, certain of his own greatness, and desperate for a woman to subjugate. Just like her father, she thought darkly. He strolled in, dressed like the immaculate senator he was. Did he know that Arina knew everything about him? The would-be Emperor, ousted by his own father who knew ahead of time, had planned to kill his son. He hadn’t suspected Eris had conspirators, but he had destroyed every soldier who might have taken the city for Rome and alerted Helion who then moved quickly to ensure his own son took the city before it could fall into the hands of some hated rival. 

Eris survived—thrived, even. He lived just as long as his brother, had a whole host of children with a foreign born woman known only to history as Agripina, and seemed generally happy in his later writings. Arina had never cared much for this period of time outside of the art, the sculptures, the architecture. Now, though?

Well, Arina would be an expert at this rate. 

Eris made his way into the large atrium, amber eyes finding hers. His impassive expression shifted into a frown, his disdain plain. 

“Who taught you how to read?”

Arina cocked her head and smoothed her blue stola beneath her hands. “Are you looking for lessons?”

She really shouldn’t test him—knew that he could make her life exceptionally difficult. And yet it was fun to see his gaze sharpen and his spine straighten as he recognized the challenge. 

Striding toward her, Eris plucked the book from her fingers to examine the writings. “What do you know of Aristotle?” Arina wanted to laugh in his face. More than he did, she’d wager. “Enough.”

He handed the book back, closing the leather bound cover carefully before doing so. It was tempting to tell him that his own wife would be so literate that in his final years, she was the one who wrote down his every thought. 

“You’re excused,” Eris informed her dismissively, turning toward the arching windows overlooking the garden. He made his way toward them, hands folded behind his back, to do the same thing Arina had been doing—spying on Elain and the Emperor. 

Elain was so beautiful that every man who saw her fell a little in love with her. It wasn’t unusual for men to stop Elain on the street spouting sonnets about her beauty or begging for just ten minutes of her time. If Elain wasn’t careful, he’d be demanding she marry him before the week was out and they’d be in real trouble. 

Arina rose to her feet, unwilling to argue with Eris. She couldn’t argue with him as far as she remembered. His word was law even in this place, and even over her. 

“Che cazzo,” she hissed under her breath, well aware Eris had no hope of deciphering the actual meaning of her words. Italian wasn’t a language anyone spoke yet. Eris’s head whipped around all the same, eyes narrowed to slits.

“What barbarian tribe are you actually from?” he asked, crossing his arms over a broad chest.

Adopting her most brain dead smile, Arina said, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“That language…” he wrinkled his nose with disdain. “Is lingua latina not spoken even as far North as Britannia?”

Arina couldn’t help her laugh. If only he knew. “But of course.”

“Tell me.”

“Why? So you can accuse me of any number of untrue things?”

Eris took a soft breath, nostrils flaring. “If I swear not to accuse you?”

“I would still lie,” Arina replied with that same saccharine smile. “Surely you understand the importance of speaking multiple languages? Or can you not speak Greek?”

“I don’t speak any of the barbarian languages—”

“Yet,” she interrupted, holding his gaze. “But who knows? Maybe in five years you’ll need someone who can.”

“What were you really doing in my brother's home?”

Arina’s eyes slid over his shoulders, toward the dots that were Elain and Lucien standing before a marble carved fountain. Studying it. She so badly wanted to tell him the truth—to tell someone all of her fears, of the nightmare she currently found herself in. She couldn’t. Arina pressed her lips shut, eyes returning to the man standing before her.

“I’m going to find out,” he warned her softly. “I’m a terrible enemy to have.”

She only shrugged, heart thudding roughly in her chest. “I’ve already told you everything. I’ll leave you to your thoughts.”

She was nearly at the door when he called out, “‘Che cazzo.’ What does it mean?”

His Italian wasn’t awful—certainly less offensive than when Graysen had bid her a good day in the choppiest drawl she’d ever heard in her life. Arina knew better than to tell him the truth, and yet…

“Capitium,” she said, using the Latin for little head as Eris’s expression darkened. Dick. She could call a man a dick in every language. 

Pleased with herself, Arina attempted to flounce from the room, satisfied she’d at least cut Eris down to size. It didn’t solve any of her problems but it did make her feel better.

She was nearly to the hall when strong fingers wrapped around her bare arm, pulling her back flush against his chest.

Lowering his mouth to her ear, Eris murmured, “The next time you reference my cock, I’ll assume you’re asking to see it.”

“You disgust me,” she whispered without thinking.

He only chuckled, low and soft. He smelled nice, a mix of spices she didn’t immediately recognize. Shouldn’t all men reek of body odor? This one, especially, ought to smell like sewage given how handsome his face was. 

“I’ll bet you’d say that on your knees.”

Arina elbowed him roughly in the ribs, certain he would do nothing but let her go. There was the faintest echo of outrage etched on his features, but more horrifyingly, she found something that read like a challenge gazing back at her. That was dangerous, especially in a place where men could do whatever they liked to women under their protection. 

Forcing herself to smile, Arina wrenched from his grasp to look up at the tall warrior gazing back at her. “If you put your cock in my face, you’ll regret it.”

“Such a filthy mouth,” Eris all but crooned, undeterred by the threat. “I look forward to using—”

She knew better. Oh, Arina knew better even back home, than to slap a man. It was dangerous back home where men were prone to violence when provoked—and literally anything might provoke them.

It was worse, here. He already thought her a barbarian, knew she had no male relative to watch over her, and just barely tolerated her. The two of them stood there, chests heaving as a patch of red bloomed across his cheek. Arina’s palm stung from the force of the blow, hidden behind her back as if she could take it all back.

Bracing herself for his fury, Arina steeled her spine even as she flinched back. Eris watched, head slightly cocked, his own hand rising not to strike her back, but to touch his face. Arina wasn’t going to apologize—he had no right to speak to her that way.

And still, she was scared. 

Eris exhaled through his nostrils. “Watch yourself,” he warned her, lifting his chin as though that might salve his wounded pride, “or I’ll put you in the military since you want to fight.”

Arina exhaled the breath she’d been holding. “I—” I’m sorry. “Of course.”

Eris gestured for her to leave, turning his head and Arina, not willing to stick around and test his good will, tripped over the skirt of her dress in her haste. At the end of the hall, she turned to look over her shoulder, surprised to find him still standing in the archway.

Watching.

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Hi,

A very happy new year to you !!

Hello! ❤️💚❤️💚

A very happy new year to you as well! I pray this year brings you many blessings and great joy!

Please allow this to be an excuse for me to write a little drabble for you (my first of 2024) honoring the New Year! (I just keyboard smashed it in my phone, please forgive any typos!)

———————

It was the bloody fireworks that woke Harry up from a dead-sleep. His body instantly alert, hand reaching for his wand on the nightstand.

The colors lit up his hotel room once more as the next set of fireworks exploded through the sky, lighting up the unfamiliar skyline in Hong Kong where Harry and Draco had been sent on (and just completed) their latest mission.

Draco.

Harry looked around the room, a room which now seemed conspicuously empty. Without his permission his hand strayed to the other side of the bed. The side of the bed that Draco had crawled into when they’d returned to their hotel after the harrowing escape. Draco had slipped in under the covers next to Harry and murmured, “is this okay?” Like he was afraid of the answer.

Harry’d reached across the small gap to take his hand, nodding because he couldn’t get the words out, couldn’t say how much he’d longed to be close to the other man.

“Can I kiss you?” Draco had whispered next.

Harry had met him halfway across the space between them.

He shivered at the memory of how softly he’d pressed his lips to Harry’s, at the way his fingertips had trailed feather-light over Harry’s cheekbones, leaving a tingling warmth in their wake.

When Draco had pulled back, Harry had been nervous that he’d want more; more than Harry could give. But he hadn’t, he’d just gently stroked Harry’s hair back off his forehead and pressed another soft kiss there too. “Can I just hold you for a while?” Draco murmured.

And how was Harry meant to say no to that? He’d cuddled in and fallen asleep within minutes as Draco’s fingers carded through his hair. His last thought before he’d drifted off had been to wonder how he could have gotten so lucky.

He shook his head as he collapsed back on the bed, he should have known it was too good to be true. That someone would just want to cuddle, would just want to be with him, it was too much. Or perhaps not enough. Either way, it didn’t change the fact that the new year had arrived and Harry found himself as alone as he always was when the new year arrived.

He was sulking, considering having a proper cry, when he heard the toilet flush and the sink start.

His heart leapt into his throat, an unwieldy frog trying to escape the hands of a child who would capture it.

The door opened a moment later and Draco tiptoed out, closing the door with a soft snick before turning back to the bed. He froze when he saw Harry staring at him. “Sorry,” he whispered, honoring the warm-dark around them, “did I wake you? I didn’t mean to disturb-”

Another round of fireworks interrupted him as Harry shook his head, “the fireworks,” he said helplessly. “I thought you’d gone,” he said, hoping his voice held steady enough that it didn’t betray his grief over that fact.

“Did you want me to?” Draco asked, gesturing toward the door.

“No!” Harry said quickly, too quickly.

But Draco’s shoulders eased and he slipped back into the bed next to Harry.

Harry reached out and tentatively brushed his knuckle over Draco’s hand, longing to close the distance between them but not knowing how.

Draco cleared his throat, “did you know there’s a tradition that says whoever you kiss at midnight is the person you’ll be with until the next new year?”

He swallowed roughly, “I don’t think that anyone wants that responsibility.”

Draco’s tongue darted over his bottom lip, “seems more like a privilege than a responsibility to me.”

He laughed, knuckle still trailing over Draco’s hand. “I like kissing,” he whispered. “And I love to be cuddled and held,” he continued. “But…” he trailed off, swallowing past the shame and embarrassment.

“You don’t like sex?” Draco offered, voice warm with compassion and devoid of any judgement.

He nodded, avoiding his gaze.

“Harry?” he murmured, “can I kiss you?”

He blinked, “I’m not going to change my mind about it. It’s not something that can be fixed.”

Draco nodded again, “it’s not something that’s broken.” He shrugged, “you don’t have to want to have sex with me for me to want to be your partner in more than the work sense of the word. I’m,” he broke off and bit his lip, “honestly I’m a bit gone on you.”

“Yeah?” Harry asked, eyes stinging, chest constricting painfully at the thought that he might get to have this, might get to love Draco and be loved in return.

“Yeah,” Draco replied with a little laugh. He cupped Harry’s cheek, stroking his thumb over Harry’s cheekbone. “So, what do you say? Want to spend this year with me?”

How about this lifetime? Harry thought. But he didn’t say it, instead he nodded and leaned in letting Draco kiss him. They had their whole lives ahead, one day, one kiss, at a time.

[mimisempai]

It has always been there

Summary

The morning after the shopkeepers' meeting, Aziraphale awakens at Crowley's side.

Gazing at the sleeping demon, he once again realizes the depth of his feelings, and a moment of shared tenderness allows them to reaffirm how they feel about each other.

Notes

Just another lazy morning

On Ao3

Rating G -  1366 words

When Aziraphale awoke and opened his eyes, his gaze was immediately drawn to Crowley's red hair, which had caught the only ray of sunlight that had managed to flit through the curtains.

The angel turned a little more toward Crowley, resting his head on his hand and taking advantage of the moment of quiet to look at the sleeping demon.

He was so beautiful that sometimes Aziraphale couldn't believe his luck. He smiled fondly, for while Crowley slept, a strand of his hair, always slicked back perfectly, had fallen across the demon's forehead.

The angel reached out and delicately caught the red strand with his fingertips. He admired the changing shimmer in the sunlight before gently flicking the strand back.

He reflected that Crowley's hair was like the demon's personality, vibrant with color, full of different shades, but paradoxically, so constant.

He ran his eyes over Crowley's face, amazed to see him so relaxed in his sleep. So trusting.

His presence had been so precious and comforting during the stress of preparing for the shopkeepers' meeting and during the meeting itself last night. 

Stress that Aziraphale had to admit had been caused in large part by his own desire to do everything too well. 

Fortunately, Crowley had been there to channel it and help him gain some perspective.

Unable to resist a sudden impulse, he leaned forward and brushed his lips against the demon's forehead.

Crowley let out a small sigh, but kept his eyes closed as Aziraphale raised his hand and traced the contours of the delicate face with his fingertips. 

His fingers ran along the line of the demon's cheek, up to trace the line of his nose, then down the other cheek to end at his soft lips.

Suddenly, the lips under his fingers curved into a smile, and the angel raised his eyes to meet Crowley's, now wide open. 

He wanted to remove his hand from the demon's lips, but Crowley would have none of it and grabbed his wrist to kiss the angel's fingertips before saying in a still sleepy voice, "You really do look like an angel, like that."

Aziraphale chuckled slightly before saying, "You're not fully awake, you obviously can't see very well. 

Crowley immediately replied in a firm tone despite the fact that he had just woken from his sleep, "I can see just fine, on the contrary, angel. With the sunlight behind you, it looks like you have a real halo, but... it's mostly your smile that made me say that. And I won't accept any arguments."

Aziraphale shook his head, but didn't protest, knowing it was a losing battle. 

He stroked the demon's cheek gently with the back of his hand and asked thoughtfully, "Did you sleep well, my dear?"

Crowley replied unblinking, "I always sleep well when I sleep here with you.

He wrapped his arms around the angel's waist, pulling him closer until he was almost on top of Crowley. Aziraphale buried his hands in the red hair and leaned his head forward to press his lips to the demon's in a lazy kiss.

The sounds of the street awakening could be heard in the background, but the angel and the demon, so focused on each other, were oblivious as the kiss lingered.

Moments later, Aziraphale moved back a bit and began to rain a shower of butterfly kisses on the demon's face, causing him to laugh slightly.

The laughter changed Crowley's face so much that Aziraphale couldn't help but give a small gasp. The angel was always a little emotional when he saw the same joy on the demon's face that he'd seen the first time he'd met him as an angel. But at the same time, he was happy to be the one who had just brought that joy to that face.

He continued to shower the demon's face with light kisses, and after a last one on his lips, he caught the demon by the shoulders and with unexpected strength rolled him onto his stomach, causing Crowley to let out a small, startled yelp.

Crowley turned his head to the side and asked, "Angel, why are you..."

Aziraphale, now astride the demon's waist, leaned toward his head and whispered softly in his ear, "It's my turn to take care of you, my dear, because you've been such an incredible support these past few days."

"Angel, you owe me nothing for that."

Aziraphale pressed a kiss to his temple and replied softly, "I'm doing exactly what you keep telling me to do, which is what I really want to do."

He straightened and, after placing his hands on the demon's back, began to rub it gently, making circles with the palm of his hand. Then, a little unsure of himself, he tried to apply more and more pressure, attempting to replicate what Crowley had done for him when he had massaged his shoulders two days earlier.

He said softly, "I'm not sure I'm as good as you, I've never done this before."

Crowley replied gently, "I've never done this before either, you know. I'd say do what I did, let your instincts do the work, it's perfect as it is, I swear, Angel, I've never felt so good."

Aziraphale, emboldened by the demon's words, continued his massage, working his way down from the shoulders to the lower back, and judging by the little grunts of satisfaction that came from Crowley's mouth from time to time, he must not have done too badly.

When he was through, he leaned over the demon's head and, seeing his relaxed face, realized with amusement that Crowley had fallen back asleep.

Since Crowley couldn't hear him, Aziraphale dared to whisper in his ear, "I've never been prouder than I was last night to officially tell everyone that you were my partner. That we were together." 

Azirapahle felt his throat tighten, but continued, "Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined this. That I could call you mine and show it to the world. I swear, my dear, I've never loved you as much as I love you right now."

Suddenly, he saw the demon's lips curl into a smile as he whispered, "I love you, angel."

Aziraphale blushed, embarrassed that Crowley had heard him, and had no time to react when, with a deft move of the demon, he found himself beneath him as Crowley murmured against his lips, "Don't be embarrassed to tell me how you feel, angel. Because I love to hear it."

He pressed his lips to the angel's, and when he pulled away, Aziraphale said without preamble, "I love you."

It was the demon's turn to blush slightly, surprised by the forthright declaration.

Aziraphale laughed lightly and said, "Who shouldn't be embarrassed, hmm?"

The demon buried his face in the angel's neck, and the angel wrapped his arms around him, still laughing.

Then he whispered into his hair, "I want to tell you again, I'm proud, Crowley, proud that here, those who make up our friends, those we pass every day, know what you mean to me."

Crowley lifted his head and added, "What we mean to each other."

He kissed the angel's chin and asked, "Do you think that one day we will be able to tell each other that we love each other without it being a surprise or thinking that the other can't hear us?"

Aziraphale gently replied, "Maybe it'll never be easy, but what's important in the end is that we know it. And you know, don't you, that I... that I l..."

Crowley burst out laughing, and it wasn't long before the angel joined in.

But it was the truth, after all, maybe grand declarations weren't for them.

For centuries, they had expressed their love for each other through their actions.

A multitude of small gestures over the millennia.

A wing that sheltered from the rain.

A spot of paint erased in a breath.

Books saved from the rubble.

Thinking of the other as soon as the word trust was uttered.

All of this meant "I love you" as surely as if the words had been spoken.

The difference was that now they knew it was love.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Ineffable Growing Love series : here (After season 2)

Ineffable Husbands masterlist : here (Before season 2)

[the-dumpster-fire-of-life]

Back In Time

"Who's that?" A firelight, Lila, asked. She was your friend.

You were working on the memorial, a piece to remind you of why you fight for what you believe in.

You paused, your paint brush covered in blue stilled across the empty cement.

"She was my friend. A long time ago." You answered, resuming your strokes.

You were working on your dear friend Powder's hair.

The hair you would braid and decorate with pins when young.

In the den.

When everything was okay.

When you still had her. When you still had Vi, Mylo, Claggor and Vander.

"...What happened to her?" Lila finally asked, it was a memorial wall.

To remember who you had lost. So it was inevitable the question would come up.

You could feel your breath grow heavy. You never talked about it.

About her.

But you wanted to. You couldn't with Ekko.

"Powder, she always wanted to help. But, it went bad." You answered, dipping your paint brush in the water.

You mixed colors together, never being quite right till you got it right.

You began painting Powder's smile. The one you remembered.

The one she gave when she woke you up, or when she pranked Mylo.

"She's beautiful." Lila smiled, it was true. Only if she could have seen Powder for herself.

"The painting doesn't capture it. But, yeah, she was." You finally laughed.

It hurts to talk. It felt suffocating. But you wanted to talk.

"Do you ever, y'know, go over it?" Lila asked as you turned to her.

"Go over it?'

"Like, if you would trade your place for theirs. Like she would be you now." Lila explained.

You turned back to the painting, the truth was you would within a heartbeat.

"I would. Because, Powder deserved better than what happened." You started, wiping your nose and eyes.

"Maybe, if it had been me, maybe she would have been happy." You shrugged, feeling the never ending tears grow.

"But…" Lila trailed off, hesitating to ask.

"Isn't Powder…Jinx?" 

You stopped your painting once again, feeling frozen and cold at the question.

"I've seen how you've looked at her. And, how she talks to you." Lila quickly explained.

"She once said she missed you. So, what changed?" Lila asked as she heard you sniffle.

"Powder and Jinx are two different people." You finally answered.

"Powder died. I saw her die that night." You stated, finally feeling a year fall from your cheek.

You watched as it landed into the paint, the paint that you used for Powder's eyes.

"Powder is gone. I know that Jinx isn't her. It's not fair to think she is when she's not."

Lila nodded, her gaze fixated on the portrait you spend days on.

"I remember Powder for who she was. Not Jinx. Her laugh, her smile and the weird things she would do."

Lila giggled at that as you chuckled alongside her.

"I miss her. Ekko does too. But, Jinx isn't her. Jinx is…Jinx." You nodded, smiling sadly as Lila returned it.

"So yeah, I would go and change things for Powder." You answered.

"Powder would have loved being a firelight. I wanna fight for her and keep her alive." You sniffled as Lila rubbed your shoulder.

"But, you would be gone too if you did." Lina reminded you, watching you wipe your tears.

She was surprised to see you smile so calmly and pick the brush back up 

"I know. But I would, because I loved Powder." You finally admitted after years.

"Even if I was gone, I'd do it just to have her back…even if I couldn't be there to see her, one last time."

[shallyne]

The Diary of Feyre Archeron Ch 4

CHAPTER FOUUUUUUR! YAY!!! All chapters on A03

Words: 1.6k

TW: signs of a panic attack, death, implied murder

July 19th

It's barely daybreak and we already got bad news. Mom had a stroke last night, so severe that she's now in a coma. I tried talking to Nesta but she didn't reply and just left, Elain still seems in shock. I don't know how I feel, it all just seems going downward right now and there is no way to stop it. Is it possible to feel nothing about mom's stroke? Maybe I am in shock but I don't feel like I am in shock, I just, I feel nothing. Does that make me a bad person? Maybe it does, maybe I am a bad person but if I am a bad person, then mom is a bad person, too.

I'm trying not to think too much about it, Elain and Nesta are more important right now because they do feel something, and I want to make sure that they know I am there for them if they want to talk. I doubt they will but it's always nice to know that there is someone, right?

Also, should we tell dad? Should we tell him soon or wait for some news? He's going to be devastated, like we were when we lost everything because of his antics.

I shouldn't go down this route right now, maybe another time.

Well, I guess it's time now to get ready for school, maybe Rhys will distact me from this shitshow my family is right now.

July 20th

Rhys told me today that he needs to talk to me soon about something important, whenever I have time. I only have time next Saturday and he was okay with meeting in the little park close to school then, so it can't be urgent.

OMG, maybe he's asking me on a date? That MUST be it!! I don't know how I am just thinking about it. Maybe I can borrow a dress from Nesta for Saturday and wear a little makeup. I don't know much about makeup, maybe Elain can help me. This is so exciting. FINALLY!! I'm totally saying yes but not instantly, he took long enough to ask me on a date.

I'll let my hair open, I know he likes it. I did it once and he told me I looked pretty, so that's a given. I also have this perfume I'm only wearing for special occasions, I'll use that, too.

Maybe I can get some details about it in the following week.

This is the best day of my life!!!!

Also, Ianthe has been a bitch to me. Rhys had told me she kept flirting with him after he rejected her a bajillion times and I told her to go away after she tried AGAIN. Unbelievable, right?

Such a shame she smashed her hand in her locker door in the PE changing room where no one could see us her.

I hope it heals just fine, would be sad if it didn't.

July 21st

I'm trying to draw and I just can't. Everytime I try I'm staring at a blank canvas, which is just as blank as my mind. I thought the maybe-date with Rhys would inspire me at least a little but it's impossible. I have a creative block. Even thinking about picking up a pencil or a brush takes all my energy, I never felt this way about painting. Painting was always my escape, I was always good at expressing any feeling through art. Now, I just get angry. I want to take the canvas and throw it away. I like having this diary but it's not the same as painting, I can't express myself in words like I do in sketches and paintings, or even scribbles. That part of me just feels empty now, like someone stole all the colors, all lights and feelings and shapes. It's a void.

Elain looked at my canvas and told me to give it a few days, maybe she's right. It's a stressful time for us all. We will get through this and then we go back to our normal lives because everything will be okay.

I'm trying to tell myself that at least, like Elain does, but there is always a little voice in my head that doubts any happiness will come our way.

The feeling of impending doom is still there, gripping me everyday, reminding me that all is not okay. Maybe it's just a puberty thing, I'm sure Nesta and Elain went through the same thing. I wouldn't know, talking about feelings in the Archeron household is like eating a steak as a vegan. You don't do it.

July 26th

Rhys is dead to me.

He and his stupid father don't exist anymore, not in my world. They are dead. DEAD.

Rhys hadn't invited me to ask me on a date, I didn't get ready, borrowed Nesta's dress, let Elain do my makeup, use my good perfume, because he wanted to ask me on a date. No, he invited me to tell me that he is the reason for ruining my life. My whole family's life. That we have NOTHING! Okay fine, it's his father's fault but what's the difference? I AM SO ANGRY. He just moved here to ruin my father's business because of some stupid deal my father broke. Speaking of father, my father is just as dead to me. He can rot in hell, I hope he rots in prison. My sister's are suffering because of HIM. Because of his decisions, because of Rhysand's family. I hate my father, I hate Rhysand's father, I hate Rhysand.

I must have looked just as distraught as I feel because Nesta knew instantly that something happened when I came home. I told her everything, her and Elain, and she is seething.

I can't believe I fell for Rhysand, I can't believe I fell for a fucking lie.

I'm just so angry I can barely breathe. I can't breathe. I can't fucking breathe.

How am I supposed to see Rhysand everyday at school and not scream at him, at the unfairness of it all. How can I ever look at myself, live with myself, for falling foe his tricks to get close to me like a fool.

It was all a lie.

Dad's business was a lie.

Our life was a lie.

Rhysand was a big fucking lie.

I can't breathe.

July 31st

I'm sitting in a train.

The last twenty-four hours five days felt like a bad nightmare, one I just want to wake up from. But it's not a nightmare, is it? It's real.

Mom is dead. They said it was the stroke. Rhysand said it wasn't. I don't know why I believe him but he looked genuine. Maybe I am a fool for trusting him in this but Nesta seems to believe him, too.

Ruining my father's business wasn't the last of Rhysand's father's plans for my father. My father ruined a big deal, now Rhysand's father ruins his life. Meaning that he sends out his men to kill the people my father loves. Which includes my mother. And his daughters.

I think this is how shock feels, feeling like an empty shell. Every movement feels robotic, only muscle memory making me move.

Nesta told me that Rhysand's brothers knocked like crazy on the front door, the tall one was even short of breaking the freaking door down, to warn them about the threat on their lives. Meanwhile Rhysand dragged me out of that diner, kicking and screaming. I didn't want to listen, I didn't want to touch him, but he didn't budge. He brought me to my sisters. Telling me the plan.

The plan to send us away, to a friend who can help us. I think his name was Jurian. We are traveling to him now, he lives in a little city near Austin.

After that we won't be the Archeron’s anymore, we will live under another name, in a city far away.

I don't even know why Rhysand helped us, why would he care. He used me as a pawn for his father and now he helps us running away? I know that he said he never used me but the timing of befriending me seemed convenient. He also said he wouldn't track us after we got our new identities in Austin, but I don't know if I believe him. Maybe his friend will rat us out.

I made a promise to myself when we entered the train station this morning. I promised to keep Nesta and Elain safe, whatever it takes. They used me, they got my mom but they won't get my sister's.

Also, dear diary, this will be my last entry. Nesta wanted me to burn my diary, so it couldn't be tracked to us, but we compromised and I would keep it hidden wherever we end up. Never touch it again.

It was nice to have you as a silent companion as long as it lasted.

Bye

Excerpt from a group chat between Rhysand, Morrigan, Cassian and Azriel

Azriel: They just left Jurian’s house.

Cassian: so, that's it?

Morrigan: no contact anymore, it's to keep them safe, Cassian

Cassian: I know but how sure can we be that Aamon’s men won't track them down?

Rhysand: they won't

Cassian: but can we be SURE

Azriel: yes

Morrigan: Rhys, have you told Feyre?

Rhysand: no, it wasn't the time

Morrigan: there will never be the perfect time to tell someone you love them but it was your last chance

Rhysand: I know

Cassian: maybe it won't be forever

Rhysand: maybe

Morrigan: maybe

Azriel: maybe

Feysand Taglist:

@captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @starfall-spirit @rhysiedarling @corcracrow @sydney-fae25 @tothestarsandwhateverend @aayo-whatt @dreamlandreader

[hiccanna-tidbits]

@jackunzel-time

Jackunzel Month Week 1 - The Artist and the Muse

***

You hide your eyes behind the shades Your stroke can make the climate change Your art should see the light of day (you and me a masterpiece)

You never let your colors show Lose your face when we get close I’ve seen you paint, nobody knows (you and me a masterpiece)

You’ve got an artist inside you Come drown in my navy blue Tonight let the artist inside me be you

Baby paint me like a canvas – don’t mind You’re dripping colors on the mattress tonight Dip your brush into the pallet, all mine Make the shades of you and me a masterpiece

Put your body where my heart is My love I’m the muse and you’re the artist Don’t stop Gotta finish what you started Oh, god Make the shades of you and me a masterpiece

You make me Scream in Starry Nights The golden kiss, mysterious smile You never let the paint run dry (you and me a masterpiece)

I’m standing pose for your design Your fingertips, they reach for mine Let’s make a mess and cross the line (you and me a masterpiece)

You've got an artist inside you Come drown in my navy blue Tonight let the artist inside me be you

Baby paint me like a canvas – don’t mind You’re dripping colors on the mattress tonight Dip your brush into the pallet, all mine Make the shades of you and me a masterpiece

Put your body where my heart is My love I’m the muse and you’re the artist Don’t stop Gotta finish what you started Oh, god Make the shades of you and me a masterpiece

Make the shades of you and me a masterpiece

Baby paint me like a canvas You’re dripping colors on the mattress Drip your brush into the pallet And make the shades of you and me a masterpiece

Baby, paint me like a canvas – don’t mind You’re dripping colors on the mattress tonight Dip your brush into the palette, all mine Make the shades of you and me a masterpiece

Put your body where my heart is My love I’m the muse and you’re the artist Don’t stop Gotta finish what you started Oh, god Make the shades of you and me a masterpiece

***

People always ask her at art shows where she gets her inspiration. Come spring, the assortment of pieces she's pumped out during the darker months never fails to amaze.

Streetlights shining through blizzard flurries. Ice on early April buds. Peach, rose, and lavender sunsets through snow-filled clouds. White-topped pine forests so mesmerizing that you can practically feel the stillness and silence of the winter.

Every time, Rapunzel smiles mysteriously and cites another artist.

"He's...underappreciated. His work hasn't ever had its day in the sun. But I've seen the best of it."

She always straightens proudly at the last part. And her customers can't help but be jealous that she gets to see this mysterious obscure talent apparently hidden from the rest of the world.

It has to be hidden, or else Rapunzel's work wouldn't be so uniquely spectacular. More people would paint even the coldest and bleakest of winter nights--even with no holiday lights to shine through the darkness.

"What's their name?" people always ask, hoping to investigate the esoteric artist themselves.

"Jack Frost."

And they laugh, because they think she's just being poetic. Taking inspiration from the fabled creator of ice patterns on morning windows and vast, quiet snowscapes.

If only they could see the white-haired boy just above them, perched on a nearby lamppost and chuckling to himself. Invisible to all the world except the artists who see beauty in his work.

***

HIHI I'M SO SORRY I'M LATE

Heh, you didn't really think I'd forgotten Jackunzel month, did you??? Had a lot on my plate these last couple months but by GOD am I gonna pull through for my children!!! I've been making them November content for 3 years straight and I ain't about to stop now!!!

Anyways this song popped up on my spotify and I was like oh huh. Yeah that's a Jackunzel song all right. And then this happened!

I feel like it could be from both of their POVs, btw! Like Rapunzel is the one we think of as the artist, but Jack kinda is, too--just look what he can do with snow and frost! Art that never sees the light of day indeed ;_____; And "your stroke can make the climate change" like??? Literally Jack??? Also love the idea of him doing little frost designs on her skin and clothes ;_____; Just little reminders of her mans she can carry around for a while before they melt! Especially in the summertime, when she could really use it!!!

But "come drown in my navy blue" is very Jack @ Rapunzel, too. And Punz definitely has a golden kiss and mysterious smile akdjsuilkh

Depending on how you interpret these two and their relationship, you can pretend some of the, er...spicier implications of this song are a metaphor for like. Deep conversations and enthusiastic cuddling if you like XD

Can you imagine Rapunzel actually painting in her bed and getting acrylic all over her blankets and insisting it gives them character??? Shit would be hilarious. Jack would also thoroughly approve of the chaotic and general unhinged nature of it all ajshdksgd

I missed them!!! God, it's been too long!!!

As always, moodboard pic credits available upon request :3

[basilone]

Every so often, I write things that don't make it further than a groupchat. They're often AU try-outs, characterization processes, the genuine meaning of the term 'spaghetti' when it comes to writing stuff and seeing what sticks. Not everything is publication-proof, but some of this stuff definitely is. And because it's that time, because this AU has been stuck in my brain for months, I'm going to haul a little something out of groupchat confinement. Keywords here being: Speirs as an artist, with my OC Tatiana as his rather unruly muse. I hope you'll enjoy it!

She is the best out of a very bad bunch. That’s what Chuck had claimed, at least, and Ron isn’t about to argue with his friend’s patient but brutal process of vetting models. About three hundred women swiped firmly to the left by photo alone, to be more precise. Ron doesn’t even want to know what happened to the lunch hour meetings that had Chuck rambling out a state-of-education-in-this-country-holy-fuck condemnation that had lasted until well into the early morning hours.

The Russian was all he was going to get.

He’d complained about it, sure. Too blonde, too frail-bodied, had been his initial dismissal, eyeing the very few photos Chuck had provided. He’d wrinkled his nose at the tilt to her chin and the wordless challenge she’d dealt the camera. All the air of a spoiled brat.

Then, however, she’d sauntered into his studio and all his complaints had become personal.

Tatiana soaks up space. He doesn’t know if she does it on purpose, or if it’s just a fact of life that her fur coat lands on his table and her chewing gum gets stuck beneath his best table and her high heels leave a dent in his favorite chair. She doesn’t reach past his shoulder, really, but he’d griped a like Godzilla trampling through Tokyo at Chuck after one particularly trying afternoon when she’d stood in the middle of his studio and had attempted to dictate where all his lights and equipment should go.

She can’t hold still for five minutes, either. If he was a lesser painter, dependent on models sitting utterly still, this would be the real issue. He almost wishes he could throw her out over it anyway, citing some sort of irreconcilable artistic differences that would sound vague even to his ears, but then the sunlight crowns her blonde hair with a halo and he sucks in a breath and bears the offense of her gesturing about politics and stupid Ameeeeericans regardless.

He captures her defiance before he paints anything else. There’s a glitter to her eyes that sparks even more of a challenge than her photos did, brought to life by the fact that she can’t shut up about all of the things he doesn’t care about and proceeds to make all those things his problem by leaving books and folders in the strangest places around his studio. He pulls all her gestures into the art he makes – the crossed arms, the dismissive wave of her hand, the impatient tap of her foot – until it’s all motion and a blur of color that she eyes critically and sneers a need more blue at.

Blue is her favorite color, which he realizes only when he leaves her alone in his studio just so he can stock up on coffee and cigarettes and returns to find her doodling on a stray canvas with nothing but blue paint. He watches her for a time, leaning against the doorway, cataloging her lip bite and the certainty of the brush strokes before he slams the door shut too loudly and proceeds to argue even louder about not helping yourself to other people’s stuff without asking, Tatiana, what are you, five years old? that’s got her raising her brows and tossing his new packs of cigarettes back out the window before she takes her leave.

It’s the last he sees of her for a while, though he finds bits of her everywhere. There’s the ugly unicorn mug she’d snort-laughed over having bought, wedged between his own mugs in the kitchen cabinet, and there’s the glitter-spilling tank top that he’d made her change out of when it had looked like his rug was suddenly bright pink and sparkling. There’s the folder about incarceration rates and discrimination that she’d debated for over an hour without realizing once that he was agreeing with every word she said, tucked away in her copy of Du Maurier’s Rebecca that she’d underlined and annotated in scribbled Russian he only knows is not critique because no hated book could ever be this dog-eared and worn.

He almost tells Chuck he’s going to need a different model, because the two last paintings have yet to be made, but then he turns on the radio to find that Tatiana had switched the channels from rock to classical again. Ron thinks he can paint her blind the minute he hears the waltz she used to hum under her breath whenever she claimed he was being really very stupid, dumbest American I ever met, oxygen thief, like drill sergeant in army, and other insults he had only ever shrugged at.

He paints her from memory, in blue.

She shows up the next morning.

I need money, she says, looking small for once in her life.

To buy ice cream? He asks, just to be that asshole, just to have something to say that isn’t happiness at seeing her. You came back for that?

Yes, she says, waving her hand in such clear dismissal that he almost laughs, of course for ice cream.

He lets her walk back into his life like she’s never been gone. Her high-heeled boots land on his best table as she leans back in his favorite chair, lights a cigarette, and starts to gesture about her friend who’s doing ballet and her brother who’s dating a man they grew up with as if he knows and cares about these people in the same way she does. He tries to listen as she downs three coffees in quick succession, but then her hair comes loose from her braid and her favorite jacket slips down from her shoulder and he’s sketching with charcoal before he good and well realizes that was not a part of their artist-model agreement.

He half-expects her to argue that point, but she never does. All he gets is a my mouth does not do that thing and a pat on his head as though he is now the five-year-old stuck with a mother who could do nothing but make him cry.

There’s nothing soft about her. She does kickboxing, or so she’s told him, and he’s pretty certain some of her fights were the illegal kind if the spider’s web of scars on her side is anything to go by. The one time Chuck and friends had come over when she was just leaving had ended with one panicked look at being handed a baby, as if she hadn’t the faintest clue how one is meant to act around such a small and squalling thing. He’d seen her defenses go all the way up before she’d shoved the child at him and disappeared in a cloud of loud stomping footsteps that hadn’t endeared her to anyone.

There’s nothing soft about the way she always gets in his face when she’s arguing and thinks he’s not listening, or about the way she presses against his arm and invades his space with her gestures. There’s nothing soft about the tilt of her chin when she glares up at him. There’s nothing soft about the way she goes utterly quiet one night, listening to a podcast in Russian that he dares not interrupt because the look on her face is terrible and terrifying in equal measure, and proceeds to sob her heart out in loud and keening wails that almost have her throwing up all over his kitchen table until he makes hushing sounds and sits with her until her nails have left permanent imprints in the palms of his hands.

She’s loud and demanding and tough and he doesn’t realize he paints her in sharp lines and sweeping arches until Chuck eyes his recent works and calls her a cathedral that houses all of your fuck-ups and dreams as though that explains why his insides don’t feel right. Ron can barely meet her eyes in the days that follow.

She’s on his doorstep one evening, teetering in heels, loose-haired and wrapped in a black-and-gold dress he doesn’t want to linger on, and he lets her in despite all his misgivings. Tatiana’s small-voiced in a way he hates, now, because her lower lip wobbles when she says she left her fur coat behind in that fancy restaurant uptown. I don’t know where I go so I come here tumbles past her lips and her eyes meet his almost as though she dares him to turn her away.

You can stay, he says instead, sighing and dropping his paint-stained cloth on the stool beside the too-blue and too-much-of-Tatiana painting that he thinks holds a good deal more than he should express out loud.

The look she shoots him is wondering. Open in a way that scares him, if he’s honest, and maybe that’s what makes him cross the gap between them.

Maybe that’s why he kisses her this time.

She tastes like cherries and mulled wine, warm with something of a bite, and the surprised sound that trembles loose from the back of her throat is almost a cat’s purr. Her mouth is gentle, pliant, welcoming in a way that the rest of her has never been. He almost reels back from the touch but then her tongue runs over his bottom lip and her hands land in his hair and he crashes against her whole. Her back’s against the wall and still she escapes confinement by kicking her heels off mid-kiss and running her bare foot up his leg until he presses up against her hips. She muffles a whimper against his mouth that he almost dares smile at.

Ron, she breathes, when his hand tangles with her hair and his other hand’s skimming past the hem of her dress, and it might be the first time she’s ever said his name and certainly the first time it’s not accompanied by a roll of her eyes.

Tatia, he hums, because she’s been Petrova since Chuck showed him her photos and Tatiana since she walked into his life and Tati Tat Tanya in different stories about different people and Tanusha to the brother he’s never met, and he wants to know her in a way that all these people do not. Tatia, Tatia, he murmurs when his hands slip the straps of her dress of her shoulder and she doesn’t stop him but arches into the touch, come here, hm, let me..

She kisses him to drown out the words. Streaks of blue paint are on her cheeks, on her thigh, in her hair. He’s sure he’ll never eat another cherry without tasting her again.

[rosegoldandsequins]

❛  i don't know how you do it. how are you able to stay so strong when everything around you is falling apart?  ❜ (this is for emotional fangy girls when we eventually shift to that verse again 8D)

Okamura pathed up the flight of the stairs to her mate's office with determination. The socialite did not pause for anyone — even the guards near the door to her beloved's sanctuary were given only a curt growl. It was a low, otherworldly sound ; the sort of thing to remind them that their attention should stay fixed to the floor.

The blonde slipped inside without any trouble ( evidently the valiant detail defending the crew valued their lives ) and approached the back of the room. She knew exactly where to go. Okamura knelt down beside the grand desk and extended a finger into the darkest corner beneath it.

After a moment, she felt a bit of warm fuzz cuddle against her digit. Their bond changed. It was no longer brimming with anxiety. Okamura smiled at the wave of relief that washed over her. Murmuring affectionate nothings, she brought the little creature who had crawled onto her into the light.

Okamura knew her mate was not fond of her bat form. Too weak, she said. Too small. — but the blonde couldn't help but adore it. She allowed Melissa to crawl into her palm before Okamura kissed her, colored lips brushing gently against the trembling body that was no bigger than her pinky. The Queen of Tokyo opened her mouth, exposing her minute teeth. Sensing her impatience, Okamura withdrew her features and brought her hand up to her golden waves.

"I'll get you home, monaka," Okamura promised. Her mate crawled into her hair, happy to be lost ( and therefore hidden ) in the thick yellow sea. Grateful that the little bat was safe, Okamura stood. With a last pat to the top of the desk as a thank - you for how many times it had been used to shelter the troubled Queen, Okamura left.

Many vampires would laugh at Okamura's mundane method of travel. She knew that a lion stalking the city streets would raise more attention than it was worth, however. Rather than taking the busy subway or hailing a cab, the blonde elected to walk. It was a nice, clear night, and she hoped the emptiness of the back alleys would soothe her precious cargo. Idly, Okamura tangled her fingers into her hair. To the average eye, it merely looked like she was playing with it ; in reality, she was stroking the bat clinging to the back of her ear with the edge of her thumb. Keeping her most valuable treasure, worth more to her than any of the diamonds and fine chains she wore, close.

it was only once they were inside their decadent flat that Okamura removed her sweet touch. She tenderly plucked Melissa from her dangling earring and carried the bat to one of the sofas that faced the window. From here, they could see a glimpse of the stars, just barely shining through the sea of pollution and hazy lights. The blonde sat. As she did, she carefully set Melissa on the cushion next to her.

Okamura had scarcely settled into place when the Queen shifted and fell into her lap. Melissa curled up on her mate's torso, head tucked beneath her chin, and gripped her clothing fiercely. Without hesitation, Okamura held her. An arm bent behind Melissa's back, which allowed the younger immortal to play with her tresses, while the other offered her wrist for the Queen to bite. Melissa accepted the offer almost mechanically. Her fangs slid into Okamura's skin. The Queen closed her eyes and took in the liquid, glad for the intimate connection.

It was rare for her to fall apart like this. Melissa did not usually acknowledged the stress of her position — normally, of course, it wasn't this bad. She was managing to keep the peace after Katsura's death ( with a skill few could rival, Okamura said often ), but that was hardly a simple task. The world was at her door, hour after hour. Demanding to know what could have killed an ancient. Asking where it was safe to hunt. Desperate to know if humans had discovered the parasitic species living among them. There were only so many vampires that Melissa could charm and questions she could field before other whispers arose. That she was a foreigner, a woman as well, who had been entertained on her throne for far too long. These tiresome statements were ones that Melissa was used to ; however, now, they just added to the overwhelming cacophony of voices aimed in her direction.

Some nights, she couldn't take it.

Okamura kissed the top of Melissa's hair, humming softly. She emptied herself of all of her own concerns and focused on how much she loved her Queen. How brave and beautiful she thought the brunette was.

Eventually, Melissa released her mate's wrist. Okamura licked the wound closed and tangled her arms further with the older immortal. "I don't know how you do it," Melissa whispered hoarsely, snuggling in tighter.

"Do what, monaka ??"

"You're so good at it," the Queen answered, clearing her throat. "How are you able to stay so strong when everything around you is falling apart ?? Our home, Gwen . . . all that I've worked for these past centuries. It's like none of it matters to them. I'm tired."

Okamura ran her fingers through Melissa's chestnut tresses, admiring how glossy they were in the moonlight. "Because, of the two of us, I am by far more selfish," she said thoughtfully, ending her sentiment with a chuckle. "I was born to protect you, Lily — quite literally. You were my dying and waking thought. As long as I see you are safe, I'm fine. No home or political arena will ever matter to me as much as your well - being."

The blonde hissed out something like a sigh. "I love you, monaka. That is all I need."

Okamura pressed her cool palm to the Queen's cheek and curled her fingers up in order to shield the elder vampire's eyes from the minimal light in their home. "My sweet flower. You love me, yes, but you also love them. Even if they are undeserving of you."

She did not know what else to say, but it seemed that her words had soothed Melissa. Okamura murmured again that she adored her mate, and the strength of her emotion was shared in their bond. Once more, the blonde attempted to wipe it clean, eliminating the confusion and anger she felt on her beloved royal's behalf. Melissa deserved better than her temper : she would give her, thus, a mental oasis full of calm and the assurance of an affection that would never cease. Okamura inhaled, filling her torso with air, and released it in one long breath.

"You used to hold me like this when he was through with me," Melissa finally whispered, voice soft. "Do you remember, Gwen ?? After he left, you would always bathe me and bring me to bed. For this."

Her mate snarled as her lips brushed against those brown locks. Okamura's eyes closed. Pointed nails scraped gently across Melissa's pale skin.

"I know," the Queen responded, kissing Okamura's exposed wrist. The silvery scar from her feeding glowed, showing clearly where the wound was still tender. "Thank you for protecting me — no matter what happens around us, I know I have you." Melissa turned her head slowly. She looked up at Okamura through her lashes, teeth glimmering as she spoke. "Why don't you put on your fur, Gwen . . . ?? You have been in your skin for most of the day."

The blonde fixed Melissa's hair with a single note uttered behind her closed mouth. Only once she was satisfied did she reply. "Not yet, Lily. I want you to rest. I'm going to go find you a pretty thing to play with. Let me fill your mind with a sweet girl and your belly with blood. It is my night to take care of you, monaka."

[middleearthpixie]

Promise Me ~ Chapter Eighteen

Summary: Friends since childhood, Gabriella has long held back her feelings where Boromir is concerned, as she did not want to risk losing his friendship if he didn't feel the same. But, then he is summoned to Rivendell, and the night before he is to leave, he stuns Gabriella by confessing his feelings for her as well. 

But, war is coming and he cannot put off what he knows must be done. All Gabriella can do is wait for him and pray for his safe return. 

Fandom: The Lord of the Rings (AU, Boromir lives)

Pairing: Boromir x ofc Gabriella

Warnings: none 

Rating: T

Word Count: 4.2k

Tag List: @sotwk @heilith @fizzyxcustard @evenstaredits @way-too-addicted-to-fandoms @emmyspov @finnofamerica @lathalea @ass-deep-in-demons @quiall321 @mistofstars @justfollowtheroad @guardianofrivendell @glassgulls @doctorwhump @kmc1989 @estethell

If you’d like to be added (or removed) to the tag list, please just let me know!

Previous chapters can be found here.

“Gabby?”

Gabriella snuggled closer to Boromir, her arm draped about his hips, her eyes closed as she murmured back, “Mmm?”

“I’m sorry. I was a complete jackanapes to you.”

“Tell me true,” she lifted her head to gaze down into his sleepy green eyes, “were you with Ava last eve?”

Her heart thudded dully against her ribs as the words left her mouth and she braced herself for his answer. If he had been, she couldn't exactly be angry with him, no matter how much it might hurt to hear it. After all, she’d made herself clear that things were over between them, so who could blame him if he sought the company of someone else?

Still, she’d be lying to herself if she tried to convince herself it wouldn’t trouble her at all, because it would. It would haunt her until her dying days, whether it was fair of her or not.

But, to her relief, he shook his head. “No. I almost went to take a drink with her, but halfway to her flat, I changed my mind.”

Relief surged through her, although she tried to remain as blasé about it as she could. “Why?”

“She tried to kiss me,” he confessed softly, his fingers moving along her hair now, tucking it back behind her left ear. “And when I looked down at her, it was all wrong. Her eyes were the wrong color. Her hair was the wrong color. Her face was the wrong face. She wasn't the beautiful, silver-eyed blonde I’ve been in love with since I was old enough to know what love was, but the wrong woman entirely.”

She pressed her lips together as she shook her head, then managed to whisper, “You needn’t tell me what you think I wish to hear.”

“I tell you the truth, Gabriella.” He smiled, still stroking her hair. “There is no other woman who fires my blood and arouses my desire the way you do, love. And no other woman ever will.”

As he spoke, he came up over her, urging her onto her back, and covered her body with his. “I love you. And only you. And that will not change, no matter how angry you grow with me.”

She smiled up at him, winding her arms about his neck. “I am a lucky woman,” she whispered, tugging him down to meet her lips. 

He came flush against her, his lips warm and soft, moving slowly against hers. The coarse hair of his goatee tickled, her skin so sensitive to the brush of it. But at the same time, that coarseness was a caress all of its own. She couldn’t imagine his face without it, really, as he’d sported from the time he was old enough to grow it. Besides, while it prickled bit and tickled a bit, she would never in a millennia ask him to shave it. And when he swept a smoking kiss along her neck, and that hair scraped against her, her toes actually curled from the sensations it sent sweeping through her.

Her eyes slid shut and she couldn’t hold back her sigh. “That feels so nice…”

He lifted his head. “It’s supposed to, you know.”

“I know. But I thought you might like to hear it.”

Those green eyes glinted. “Of course… tell me if you like what I’m doing. Tell me if you don’t like what I’m doing. Tell me if I’m not doing something you want me to do, and I promise you, darling girl, I will do it. You needn’t be shy with me, you know. Anything you wish, Gabby, tell me and I will do it for you. Do it to you. And I will do so gladly and enthusiastically.”

She shivered at the husky promise in his voice. “The same holds true for you, you know.”

He brushed her lips once more. “I do love you.”

“I love you, too.”

His eyes darkened as he eased himself carefully between her thighs. “So, you will marry me after all?”

“Do I look mad enough to say no?”

He kissed her then, slow and deep and lingering and as he reached between them—

A knock sounded at the door and Dory called, “Gab! Are you in there?”

Gabriella let her head fall back as she muttered, “Oh, no…”

A low chuckle dusted her lips and Boromir whispered, “She has impeccable timing.”

“Perhaps she will go away.”

“Go and answer the door, love,” he told her, brushing her lips once more before easing off her. “She might barge in again and I’d rather she not see my cock in addition to already seeing my ass.”

He didn't sound angry, but rather instead sounded almost amused. She smiled as she admitted, “I owe her an apology as well. I was just a fool.”

“Yes,” he nodded, his grin keeping his words from being serious, “but you are my fool and I would have you no other way.”

“Well, that’s something, I suppose.”

He bent to kiss her once more as Dory pounded again. Then, he drew back. “I’ll be out as soon as I’m dressed and tonight, you will sleep with me in my chambers and no one will disturb us.”

“Promise me?”

His eyes grew softer still. “I promise you.”

She winked, and slid across the bed to fish her clothes from where they’d fallen when Boromir pulled them from her body and as she left, he was tugging on his trousers. 

Dory pounded on the door once more. “Gab! Are you in there?”

“I’m coming, Dory! Do not pound down the door, if you don’t mind.”

The knocking ceased and Gabriella tugged open the door. “What are you about?”

Dory’s arm went limp at her side. “I was worried about you. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, really. And I owe you an apology, you know. You were right.”

Dory just stared at her. “I—I was?”

Gabriella nodded. “Come in and I’ll show you.”

Dory came into the kitchen, and her gaze went to one of the chairs, where Boromir’s cloak lay draped over its back, and then to his boots, just inside the door. Then, she looked back at Gabriella. “Is he here?”

Gabriella nodded, her smile widening. “He is. And you were right and I am a fool.”

“So he forgave you, then?” Dory rolled her eyes then and smacked herself in the forehead. “Well, that was stupid of me. Of course he did.”

Boromir came out of the bedroom then, his shirt in his hands. “And she forgave me for she was not the only fool in that battle.”

Dory’s cheeks went pink even as she smiled. “It’s good to see you here, and I’ll not breathe a word to anyone about it, either.”

He returned her smile before tugging the shirt over his head. “I didn't think you would, to be honest. I’d imagine you’d not want Gabby’s name on the lips of gossips with too much time on their hands.”

“True. Although,” Dory chuckled, “I wouldn’t mind telling Ava. She is rubbish.”

Gabriella smiled. “She is, but worry not. She’ll find out soon enough.”

“Still, I would like to see her face.” 

“You have a mean streak, Dory,” Gabriella told her, moving to the kettle. “Tea?”

“You just realized that?” Dory asked even as she nodded. “And I would love some.”

Boromir caught Gabriella about the waist. “I will let you ladies talk. I have to go and assure Faramir that I’ve not completely mucked everything up with us.”

Gabriella smiled. “Was he upset with you?”

“Oh, upset does not even begin to describe it. He was furious.” He leaned in to sweep his lips against hers. “And I need to look over the final arrangements for tomorrow.”

He said it softly, a hint of pain flashing through his eyes and without thinking, Gabriella laid her hand against his cheek. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Not really, although I appreciate the offer.” He straightened up and moved to pick up his boots before dropping into one of the chairs to tug them on. “I will come by later.”

“No,” she told him. “I’ll be closing the tavern tonight until Friday out of respect for Denethor. I’ll come find you.”

“You don't have to do that.”

“I know.”

He stood and kissed her again. “I love you.”

She smiled. “I know. And I love you, too. Now, go and do what you have to do.”

“I am.” He lifted his cloak to drape over his arm and then glanced over at Dory. “Take care and it was good seeing you again.”

She smiled, her cheeks pink still. “And seeing you as well.”

With that, he took himself off and as Gabriella closed the door behind him, Dory chimed, “Oh, I definitely want details this time.”

“Dory!”

“What? That man is just…. Mmmm…”

“Dory!”

“What?”

Gabriella shot her a look. “Do I truly need to tell you?”

Dory shook her head. “No. I don’t suppose you do.” A low sigh rose to her lips. “But, I’d like to live a little vicariously, that’s all. And he’s cute.”

Gabriella laughed. Boromir was cute. He was also far more than that, but he was still cute. 

And he was hers.

Later that morning, after she’d finished her chores around the apartment and the tavern, Gabriella made her way up to the Houses of Healing to look in on Faramir. As she passed by Éowyn’s room, she paused and poked her head in. “Good morning?”

Éowyn looked up and smiled. “A good morning to you as well, Gabby. How do you fare? Are you hiding once more?”

Gabriella let out a laugh. “No, not this time, thank goodness.”

“Good. For he was a fool and you are better off without him.”

“Actually,” Gabriella came further into the room, “he and I made up.”

“Oh, wonderful. I knew it would happen, for you were meant for one another,” Éowyn replied without missing a beat. Then she patted the mattress beneath her. “Come and sit, won’t you?”

“Thank you.” Gabriella moved over to sink onto the edge of Éowyn’s bed. 

“So, tell me, does your soulmate have a name?”

“He does. Boromir, son of Denethor, the stew—” Gabriella hesitated—“that is, he is the Steward of Gondor.”

Éowyn’s smile faded. “I heard the healers speaking of Denethor. His funeral is tomorrow, I believe one said?”

Gabriella nodded. “It is, yes.”

“I should like to attend, as a representative of Rohan, for we’ve long been allies.”

“Are you well enough to do so? If not, I’m certain Boromir will understand. Unlike his father, he is not a heartless man without feeling.”

“I will speak to your healer, of course, but I think I am well enough.”

“Hopefully she will agree as you seem quite well to me.”

“It’s also rather lonely in here at times,” Éowyn confessed, her voice growing soft. “I wish I knew what had become of my brother, the rest of my people.”

“And your brother is?”

“Éomer, of the Rohirram.”

“I can try to find out what’s become of him, if you like.”

“I would, thank you. I’ve been trying not to worry, but that’s so difficult when you don't know what’s happening beyond the walls surrounding you.”

“That is something I know all too well.” Gabriella glancing toward the windows, where brilliant golden sunlight streamed in to bounce across the marble floor. “Being left behind is an impossible task. You need to go about your daily life, to keep your routine, and yet, all you can think about is someone who is on the other side of the world and you have no way to know what is happening to them.”

Éowyn nodded slowly. “I was right alongside him down on the battlefield.”

“Were you?” Gabriella couldn't keep the shock from her voice. “How brave you were. I’d have been scared witless.”

“I was,” Éowyn confessed. “But, my brother’s cause was my cause. The cause of the people of Rohan was my cause. I couldn’t, in good conscience, simply wait for word. I am not patient enough.”

“Gabby? What are you doing up here?”

She turned to see Faramir in the doorway. “It’s good to see you up and on your feet,” she said by way of greeting, waving him into the room. “Come in and I’ll introduce you.”

A hint of shyness edged his smile as he came into the room and Gabriella glanced over to see Éowyn offer up a smile that was also tinged with shyness. 

“Faramir, this is Éowyn of Rohan. Éowyn, Faramir, son of Denethor.”

“Oh, so you’re Boromir’s brother,” Éowyn said by way of greeting. 

“I am, yes. And it’s a pleasure to meet you, lady of Rohan.”

As he spoke, Faramir caught her by the hand, bringing it up to his lips to brush with a light kiss. Éowyn’s smile brightened. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, as well.”

“Did your brother pass through?” Gabriella asked him.

Faramir nodded. “He did. About an hour ago. He said he’d be in Denethor’s chambers if anyone needed him.” He met her gaze. “He told me he’d thrown himself on his sword and you made up?”

She nodded. “He did and we did, yes.”

“Good. He was an ass.”

“He was, but so was I.” Gabriella eased down off Éowyn’s bed. “I will let you two come to know each other better, then.”

“But, you will come visit again, won’t you?” Éowyn called as Gabriella moved to the door.

“Of course I will.” 

“Good.”

Boromir sat back in his father’s black stone chair, in his father’s chambers in the Tower of Echthelion, leaned his head back, and let his eyes close. The chamber was already cavernous and cold, void of anything of Denethor’s, and that had nothing to do with it having been cleaned out upon his death and readied for Boromir to settle in. No, as far as he could remember, Boromir couldn't recall seeing any part of his father in these chambers. They were as cold and bleak as Denethor himself had been.

He remembered as a child, running into the room after this lesson or that one and climbing up onto his father’s lap, to see what held his father’s attentions. Denethor never cuddled him close or explained what he’d been doing, but he never shooed him away, either. Not the way he’d always chased Faramir away. 

A sigh rose to his lips. He mourned his father, of course, but at the same time, the sense of loss he felt was not the same as it had been when his mother died. That loss haunted him to that very moment as he opened his eyes to a cold, stark, empty chamber.

“Am I disturbing you?”

He jumped at the unexpected interruption and opened his eyes to see Gabby in the doorway, at the far end of the room. A black runner had been laid along the black marble flooring, and she stood on the edge of it. “Not at all. Come in.”

“Are you all right?” 

He nodded as she drew closer. “I’m fine. Just… bidding some old ghosts farewell.” 

She stopped at the foot of the black stone steps and looked upward. At the top, stood the Throne of the King of Gondor, while Boromir’s chair stood on the dais of the lowest step. “I remember being so terrified of this room as a child. I’d only ever heard of it and it sounded so… imposing. I used to hope I would never be summoned here, for it could never be good if I was.”

“It is imposing,” he said, holding out a hand. “But it won’t be for long. Come, you have an in with the steward so make yourself comfortable. I promise you, you will never be summoned here for any reason but a good one.”

A hint of a smile played at her lips, and he almost sighed at the sight. She had no clue, no inkling, what she did to him. How something as simple as that slight smile, sent a rush through him that he could neither explain nor describe. 

He leaned forward to take her hand. A gentle tug, and he drew her down onto his lap, biting back a sigh at how perfectly she fit against him. She tucked her head against his shoulder, partially beneath his chin. “Did you spend much time here as a boy?”

“No. My father did not like to be disturbed and he made it clear that I was most definitely disturbing him. He’d give me a few minutes of his time, and then shoo me off to lessons or wherever I was supposed to be at that given moment. My mother would scold him, tell him I was growing up fast and he’d blink and find a grown man in place of a boy. And then he’d be sorry.”

“You don't speak of her often,” Gabby said, brushing her fingers through his hair, sweeping it back behind his left ear. “What was she like, your mother?”

“My mother?” He smiled, his memories of her warm and comforting. “She was everything Denethor was not. She spent hours amusing me, and later Faramir. She would take me, take us, to the river and let us splash to our hearts’ content. She taught me to swim there and I in turn taught Faramir to swim when he was old enough. She always worried that he’d be swept away, but for some reason, she never seemed to worry about me in that way.”

“Because she knew. She knew you would be cautious and not be one to rush headlong into anything without careful consideration,” she told him, smiling as she met his gaze. “And I’ll wager she knew that, once Faramir came along, she didn't really have to worry about him near the river either because she knew you would never let anything happen to him. And she was right. You have always watched over him, watched out for him.”

“I wouldn’t let anything happen to him.”

“I know. And she most likely did as well. So,” she snuggled closer, “tell me more of her.”

“Everyone loved her. And feared her. I think even my father did to a certain extent. She had endless patience with me.”

“So, that’s where you learned it. At her knee.”

He grinned. “I am not so certain of that.”

“Boromir, you are one of the most patient men I’ve ever known.” 

He sighed softly, and this time it was his turn to brush a loose tendril away from her face. “I had an excellent teacher in my mother. I think she found solace in me and my brother, for Minas Tirith itself wore her down, being the steward’s wife wore her down. She was not meant for that life, or really for a man such as my father. She loved him, but I often wonder now if he loved her in the same way. If he truly ever loved anyone. Somehow, I don't think so.”

“It’s difficult to know what passes between a couple,” she told him softly, tracing along the edge of his jaw.

“True. But, somehow, I don't think his heart beat faster when he saw her, the way mine does when I see you.”

That earned him a smile. “Am I to believe that?”

“Why wouldn’t you? It’s true, you know.”

“Perhaps it did, but he kept it to himself. Not every man wears his heart on his sleeve as you do, you know.”

“My heart on my sleeve? Is that how you see me?”

“At times, yes.”

“I should work on that then, I suppose. I wouldn’t want anyone to think me soft.”

“Perhaps he thought the same thing.”

He sighed softly, giving her a gentle squeeze. “It’s possible, I suppose. But I cannot recall him being affectionate with her. He was not one much for hugging or any sort of physical contact. He had no patience for it. Had little patience as it was for people, including me.” 

A heavy sadness filled him as he gazed down at Gabby, tucked so perfectly on his lap, against him. “No matter what he did, Faramir could never live up to my father’s expectations of him. He never measured up. Never made him proud. And no matter what I did, I could not get through to him that both of his sons were men he could indeed be proud of. Nothing changed. He found fault with everything and anything and was not shy about expressing it.”

“You won’t be like that, you know.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Of course I do,” she shifted slightly and he had to fight down a sigh at the sensation against him. She had no idea what she did to him, what she had always done to him, and here was not the place to let her know. At least, not now. In the dead of night, when no one was around, perhaps. But now?

“When the time comes, should we have children, you will not be like Denethor was. You are everything he is not, just as Faramir is. You are warm and loving, a leader who just knows how to lead and does not do so through force or coercion or might. You will be patient, and stern when you need to be, but I can see a little one come running down this carpet at full speed, wanting only to sit on his papa’s knee and I see you scooping him up and plunking him—or her—right where I sit now. And I will smile and shake my head and say, ‘You are spoiling him, Boromir,’ to which you will say, ‘A child who is unspoiled is a child who is unloved.’ And in time, you will both drive me mad.”

He smiled and gave her a gentle squeeze. “Think so, do you?”

“I know so.” Her fingers brushed along his temple once more. “You will be a good father, Boromir. I promise you that you will. And if I think you are acting like Denethor, I will say something.”

He chuckled. “I expect no less.”

“I just thought I should warn you.”

Boromir smiled as he leaned his head back against the stone. “I love you. I hope you know that.”

“Of course I do.”

“No,” he shook his head, bringing his hand up to curve against her soft cheek, “that’s not what I mean, Gabby. I mean, I love you. As I’ve never loved anyone.”

Her eyes softened and she leaned into his touch, murmuring, “And I love you the same, you know.”

She leaned, but before their lips met, Faramir called, “In the middle of the day, brother?”

A flush swept along Gabby’s cheekbones and she tucked her head against his neck as Boromir chuckled and said, “I’d hoped so, yes.”

“I suppose there are some advantages to being the steward, eh?” 

“What do you want?”

Faramir laughed as he drew near. “I needed to speak with you. I did not think I was going to interrupt anything.”

“Worry not,” Gabby said, slipping down from Boromir’s lap. “He was just telling me about your mother. I wish I’d had the chance to meet her.”

“As I wish you had as well,” Faramir replied. “I think she would have seen you as a miracle worker of sorts or completely mad for wanting to be with this joker.”

“Take care, little brother.” Boromir rose from the stone chair and came down the one step to meet his brother. “Lest I think you’re jealous.”

“Of course I am.” Faramir grinned and winked. “I’ve always thought it was unfair that you saw her first.”

“Oh, enough, both of you,” Gabby burst out laughing, her cheeks almost scarlet now, “before you give me a swelled head.”

“I’ll come find you later, love,” Boromir told her, bending to brush her lips with a quick kiss. 

“Very well.” She waved as she pulled away and made her way back toward the door. “Stay out of trouble, both of you.”

As she rounded the corner, Boromir turned to Faramir. “It’s good to see you up, you know.”

“It’s good to be up. And you know, I was but joking about Gabby. I mean, I do at times wish I’d seen her first, but the truth is, she is good for you and I’m happy the two of you finally found one another.”

“Thank you. And I wholeheartedly agree.” Boromir rubbed the back of his neck. “And I wanted to ask you, now that we know you’re going to live and save me the trouble of having to do this again, but, I’ve asked her to marry me and I’d be honored if you’d stand up with me at the wedding.”

Faramir’s eyes widened slightly. “Did you truly think I’d say no?”

“I never assume anything.”

Faramir embraced him warmly. “Wild horses couldn't keep me away, brother. Of course I will.” 

“Good.” Boromir pulled back and smiled down at his brother. Tomorrow would be a difficult day for them both, no doubt, but once they made it through the funeral and entombment, everything would slowly begin to right itself. 

Or so he hoped. 

[aebi12]

"Sinful Desires" - Chapter 11

"Aegon intends to do what?" Her brother's anger is visible as he turns to her, demanding answers, “Why did I barely find out about this?”

“Aemond, you were…” Helaena tries to say.

"You should have told me about his stupid idea as soon as I woke up!" he hisses angrily.

Helaena blinks rapidly and tilts her head, clearly startled by her brother's tone.

"Don't talk to her like that, don't be rude to Helaena," Alyssa interrupts, the fleeting feeling of satisfaction in her being replaced by antipathy at the prince.

"You!" He looks at her, his blue eye twinkling and his nostrils flaring with rage, "Didn't it occur to you to tell me that my brother was planning to marry you?" he spits out the last words sarcastically

"Why would I tell you?" she replies defiantly, "My future does not concern you"

"Alyssa, I'm warning you..."

"Aemond, please," Helaena speaks again, her hand lightly brushing her brother's arm. It's a fleeting touch, but it seems to have the desired effect because the prince stops drilling Alyssa with his gaze and looks back at his sister, “Calm down. There is no use in getting upset."

Helaena repeats her gesture and Aemond takes a deep breath trying to put aside the anger he feels and contain his temper again. His sister is right, he needs to calm down and think about what he will do next, "I didn't mean to snap at you, Hel"

"I know" his sister smiles peacefully

Alyssa watches the exchange between the siblings and a feeling of sadness washes over her, although she doesn't quite know why. Looking away, she goes to the sofa and takes the dress that the maid had left a while ago.

"Right, we'd better leave you so you can change," Helaena says, watching her, "I'll call one of the maids to help you with that."

"I can dress myself"

Her aunt nods in response and adds, “I'm sorry I couldn't find you dark dresses to wear. With the current situation, new dresses are not an essential part of the royal budget”

Alyssa smiles tenderly watching Helaena, “Thank you for trying anyway. This will do,” she replies, observing the dress of a soft light blue color.

"Come on, our niece needs privacy" says Helaena taking her brother's hand.

Aemond takes one last look at Alyssa before walking after his older sister and leaving the room.

"Is the king already in the throne room?" he asks ser Arryk

"He is, my prince"

Aemond nods and starts walking in that direction. Helaena hurries to try to keep up with him, "Wait, please."

“Don't try to stop me, Hel. I must talk to our brother."

“I will not try to stop you, I’m just asking for you to be reasonable. You know Aegon, he'll make a show out of this if he sees you care."

Her words make sense, he knows it. Aemond lets out an exasperated snort and stops short, looking at his sister, “That damned bastard has no regard for you, how did he come up with such stupidity? Doesn't he realize the humiliation he causes you?"

"You know him," his sister repeats with a shrug, "He never pays much attention to me."

"That's no excuse for his behavior"

“Let mother and the council deal with him,” Helaena replies, “Please.”

Aemond only agrees because his sister seems really worried and he doesn't want to upset her in her condition.

"You should go rest" he says noticing her massaging her belly and back while she winces.

"It's the natural exhaustion now that the birth is close," she replies, "Come on, Aegon must be waiting."

And so he is. By the time they reach the throne room their brother is already sitting in it, looking awfully bored. Aemond is surprised that there are no other courtiers gathered, but noticing his mother and grandfather, he assumes that they have cleared the room to prevent prying eyes and ears from witnessing the scene that will surely take place in a few minutes.

Aemond trudges to stand next to his mother, who winces as she watches him.

"You should be in bed" she says with a concerned expression as she strokes his hair.

"I'm fine, mother. Furthermore, we have urgent matters to resolve.”

"Brother! I see you have recovered quickly."

Aemond turns to his brother, ready to talk to him and try to be reasonable, but the double doors of the room open and Ser Criston Cole announces Alyssa's entrance. Watching her in broad daylight, Aemond notes how thin, pale, and tired she looks. Concern grows inside of him at her situation.

"Finally!" exclaims the king while a smile spreads on his lips as he observes his niece

Aemond restrains himself from going to the throne and hitting his brother when he notices the leering way in which he looks at her.

“Dear niece,” he speaks again, “Surely you will be glad, as I am, to see my brother here, fully recovered.” The king gestures to Aemond, “Fortunately for you, Aemond is a tough nut to crack, and your impertinence had no major consequences. Had something worse happened,” Aegon fixes his gaze on her, “I assure you I would have had no qualms about placing your head on a pike.”

Aemond clenches his fists tightly and tries to keep his gaze fixed on Alyssa, who seems unaffected by the king's words.

"I don't doubt it" she replies, head up and holding the usurper's gaze.

"But the gods were merciful and now we can continue with more joyful matters, such as the purpose of your presence here"

“Aegon…” Alicent says in a threatening tone as she looks at her eldest son.

The king smiles and looks at his mother and grandfather, "You see, my family says that it would be a bad idea to take you as a second wife."

"And I would rather be thrown back in the dungeon than marry you," she says.

“Don't tempt me, sweet Alyssa, don't tempt me,” Aegon replies with a wicked chuckle, "Because if you're of no use to me, you might as well join the lords rotting down there for defending your bitch of a mother's claim."

"Hold your tongue" Aemond cuts him off

Alyssa turns her gaze to him, his shoulders tense, his hard jaw, he's clearly struggling to keep control of himself.

"I was beginning to wonder when you'd interrupt, little brother." Aegon flashes him an unsettling smile, "What do you think of me wanting to marry our niece?"

"It's nonsense" it is not Aemond who answers but Alicent, "We have already told you, Aegon, you have Helaena and you have heirs. The Faith will never accept that you take a second wife, do you want to cause chaos like in the days of King Aenys?” She shudders, "We are all fighting for the survival of our family and you want to throw it all away."

"On the contrary, mother, it is for our family that I brought my niece here"

“For what purpose? To humiliate Rhaenyra?"

Alyssa shifts uncomfortably and looks down. What will her mother think when she finds out what they intend to do with her? Does the queen already have a plan to rescue her? She's been so caught up in her grief that she hasn't thought about what will happen from now on if she doesn't make it out of King's Landing.

“I have a similar idea to the one grandfather had years ago,” says Aegon, “To unite our families with a child. My sister will not act against a child of her own blood."

“Princess Rhaenyra may spare the life of a baby of her daughter's blood,” Otto chimes in, “but she would not spare your life or your siblings and children with Helaena. She and Daemon would put them to the sword to ensure they were the only ones with a claim to the throne."

Alyssa looks at Otto with anger and indignation, although her heart races at his words. She has to admit that she wouldn't be surprised if her stepfather did a thing like the hand of the king announces.

"My mother would not raise her hand against her own family," says Alyssa.

"Don't be so sure, princess," Otto replies and adds quietly, "We are at war."

“Having kidnapped her was foolish” says Alicent with her hands covering her face, her exhaustion still painted on her face, “It won't change our situation at all if you marry her. You'll only cause more trouble."

The king winces in discomfort and stands up, stepping down from the throne, "She's an important hostage anyway, and by bringing her here I made sure Rhaenyra doesn't get to make an alliance with the North."

“In this, I agree with you, you grace” Otto admits and Alyssa feels the gaze of the king's hand fixed on her, which causes her discomfort and apprehension, “The king is right about one thing. We can keep the princess here to make sure her mother doesn't use her for her own benefit."

Alyssa is outraged and is about to defend her mother, but Aemond is faster than her, "I'll marry her then"

The throne room is abruptly silent for a few seconds, a silence that is broken by Aegon's laughter, who approaches his bother and places an arm on his shoulder, "I was waiting for you to intervene"

Aemond ignores him, his gaze fixed on Alyssa, who in turn stares at him in disbelief. He lets go of his brother's grasp, but the king continues speaking, “I thought you'd say something like that, after all you’ve always want what I have. My position as eldest son, my throne, Helaena” Aemond is surprised to hear his sister's name and turns his gaze to Aegon, “Now you wish to have our niece too”

“Enough” Alicent steps between her children, “Aegon, enough. Aemond, you know you cannot marry the princess"

"Why not? Grandfather is right, and to make sure my half-sister doesn't use Alyssa for her cause, it's best if she marries someone loyal to our family. She will marry me"

The princess winces at how possessive Aemond sounds saying that last thing.

"Don't I have the right to say what I think about your plans for me?" she asks, glaring at Aemond.

“No,” Aegon replies, “Women have no say in choosing their future husband. You should know that, niece, considering that Rhaenyra shipped you off as fast as she could to the North to trade you for soldiers and steel."

Alyssa takes the comment like a dagger to her heart. If she is honest, says that voice in her head, her uncle doesn't tell lies. That is exactly what her mother had done.

But you pushed her to do it.

The girl runs her fingers over her wrists, which are now covered by her dress. Every moment in this place, in the presence of all these people whom she should have considered her family but whom she sees as nothing more than strangers, only gets to make her feel nervous and scared. And at the same time angry and… Alyssa feels like crying again. Her chest hurts again, but she focuses on not letting her shock show.

She has to be strong. Or at least pretend to be strong.

"I want to marry her" she hears Aemond say again.

“You can't marry her,” Alicent hisses, “Have you already forgotten that you're betrothed to one of Lord Borros Baratheon's daughters?”

Alyssa meets Aemond's gaze, who blushes under her scrutiny. She offers him a mirthless smirk as the pang of pain rises in her chest. Betrayal after betrayal, she thinks as her mind thinks of some way to turn her situation around.

She knows that it is practically impossible to run away on her own, she has no allies in this place, and the soldiers would catch her immediately if she decides to try anything. She also has no way of communicating with her mother, sending a message or a crow, at least not at the moment. She finds herself at the mercy of her captors and knows that they can make her do whatever they want.

What can she do then? Be satisfied with her situation and marry Aemond if they allow it?

A part of her mind, a tiny part that Alyssa disowns, warms at the idea.

But her reason is superior. She has to do something, find a solution or a way to escape.

Her answer—or her craziest, most desperate idea—comes as she watches Queen Alicent, who anxiously plays with her seven-pointed star necklace while arguing quietly with her son.

"I cannot marry Prince Aemond," she says in a clear voice that echoes into the room, "It is my intention to take the holy vows of faith and join the silent sisters."

Alyssa looks at the queen, "I know you are a pious woman, Queen Mother, and I know your family is an ancient ally of the Faith. You will not deny me my will to follow the gods."

Her announcement is followed by stares and silence, until Aegon chuckles and puts his arm back around Aemond's shoulder, “Too bad, little brother. It seems that our niece would rather marry the Stranger than marry you"

[pikminpediaart]

Hop To It! : Year of the Rabbit

            The horizon darkened in the city. Civilians started to turn on the lights in their windows, dotting the city with a plethora of twinkling lights. Xenon sat on top of the building, examining everything below. He was looking for the signs of… something. He didn’t know what yet, but he figured it would happen tonight.             “If only there were more clues,” he muttered, lifting a hand to his muzzle. He gently stroked the whiskers on his lip, feeling their tingling sensation with each wave of his finger. “I don’t think I could stand this for more than a month.”             “Really? I kinda like it,” a familiar voice whispered. Startled, Xenon turned to face the newcomer. In the window of the nearby building, he saw a rather tall, portly figure standing in the darkness. Once it noticed he was staring, it kicked off the window sill, landing on the rooftop with a large thud.             “Makes the fat man more mobile?” Xenon asked, trying to display a hint of teasing in his voice.             “Hardy har har.” The character retorted, rolling their eyes in disdain. “What’s it like actually having a mouth? Biting off more than you can chew? Which is honestly just… fruits.”            “Sassy today, aren’t you, Sarge?” Xenon grimaced, looking up at the portly rabbit that used to be a werewolf.             “Only as sassy as you’re being,” Sarge said, sticking out his tongue. “Saw you were up here… thought I’d come say hi.”             “Company is always appreciated. Stake outs can be… awfully dull.” Xenon put a hand to his chin. He felt short strands of fur brush against his cheek, making him recoil. “But no, I don’t have a mouth still. Seems this mystery poison only changes certain physical characteristics. Selective, if you will.”             “Meaning someone wanted to turn people… into rabbits?” Sarge asked, lifting up his hands. “Okay, well, why do I now only have four fingers instead of five and you still have three?”             “Can’t give me what I didn’t have to begin with, I suppose?” Xenon lifted his hand, examining it. It was odd to him to see his fingers were mostly the same while Sarge’s lacked one digit and were stubbier to boot. “What poisoned you?”             “Salad. I’d be damned if I let a good salad go to waste,” Sarge snickered.             “Wait, you actually knew what poisoned you?” Xenon looked over at Sarge, incredulous toward the werewolf’s words.             “Speculation, really. Salad tasted off, even as far as a potentially bad salad goes. Last I checked, a ranch dressing doesn’t taste like cherries. Color was off but… I assumed it was one of those weird pink dressings I’ve been seeing around.”             “Emulsified dragon fruit, right?” Xenon asked.             “Think so.” Sarge shrugged. “But that’s beside the point. How did you get poisoned?”             “Injection. Not as tasty as your assailant’s method, but effective I suppose. Got me in the back while I was walking to the office.” Xenon lifted a hand to rub his back where the injection happened. After the assault, the rest of what happened was a blur, as he was in too much pain to recall much information. He never realized that antennae turning into ears could be so terribly uncomfortable.             “Explains why you were out of commission for a week. Only thought to come here cuz this is your usual stake out point.” Sarge sat down next to Xenon and placed a hand on his back. “How long you been here?”             “Hours. Since the sun went down. Assailant hit me at the stroke of midnight, so they must go under the cover of night,” Xenon nodded.             “And their attack frequency has been every single night for the past two weeks. If you counted mine and yours, that would be the Monday and Wednesday of last week.” Sarge lifted a hand and stared at it.             “I was the first. But why? Why did they target me?” Xenon wanted to question this more, but he was running into a dead end. He’d run into multiple of those with this case. “It’s too exactly on my schedule for it to be a mere coincidence.”             “Probably trying to get you out of the way… or from my experience, just wanting to experiment on you.” Sarge’s voice grew somber as he peaked over the edge of the building. “’bout the eighth time I’ve been forcibly T.F.ed into something.”             “T.F.ed?” Xenon asked.             “Transformed. Werewolf, mutated werewolf, mutated androgynous werewolf, mutated idiot werewolf, mutated idiot werewolf with a penchant for eating anything in sight…. The list could continue.”             “There’s three more to go. Seems finite.” Xenon said, taking his eyes off the street to look at Sarge. “What of your jacket, though?”             “Jacket?” Sarge asked.             “Isn’t that a special device of sorts that cloaks you as… what was its name? Chunky? Chornbee?”             “Chomby?” Sarge asked. “I mean, I guess? It really is a transformation, though I don’t mind. Been getting used to it.”             “It has a time limit, right?” Xenon asked.             “Yeah. Two hours. If I don’t unzip the hoodie by that time, I’m stuck like that forever.” Sarge looked over at Xenon and smiled. “Of course, I know what you’re going to say. No, I don’t think it’s too risky to use. If I get stuck as Chomby, then I’m stuck as Chomby. It’s not like I hate being a big, round, huggable… doohickey thingy with a penchant for music. It’s a lot of fun. Makes dances livelier!”             “Much more exhilarating than a rabbit, I’d reckon?” Xenon asked. “Rabbits and Wolves are mammalian, so there’s not much difference.”             “Field of vision, I guess? Eyes are more aimed toward the side of my head now… but I’ll manage. Got used to it after a few days,” Sarge shrugged again. “Thematically, it fits, though!”             “Why’s that?” Xenon asked, turning his attention back to the road below as he saw someone walking under a streetlight with a bag of groceries.             “Well, werewolves don’t eat salad… conventionally, anyway. I do. Now I’m a rabbit. Eating salad seems to be a given.” Sarge huffed, bending his leg so he could rest an arm on his knee.             “I thought you were going to say Year of the Rabbit, actually,” Xenon admitted. “I don’t think you should be confined to only eat one thing if you have the ability to eat what you want.”             “Tell that to everyone else,” Sarge said with a dissatisfied smirk. “I was an oddity to them on all fronts. Werewolves aren’t fat, werewolves aren’t vegetarian, werewolves don’t wear clothes, werewolves don’t enjoy being surrounded by people… werewolves aren’t biologically hermaphrodites through a bunch of weird mutations.”             “I get the vegetarian thing for rabbits, but the rest seems to be unrelated.” Xenon lifted a hand to scratch his ear. “Ever tell those guys to mind their own business?”             “Nah. I let them have their fun. Worst they do is poke my belly… and give me belly rubs… and ask me when I’m due,” Sarge shook his head. “Well, since we’ve been turned into rabbits during the year of the rabbit, do you think we’ll have good luck?”             “Sounds a bit silly. Almost like Zodiac signs. What was yours before now?”             “Was and still is a dog,” Sarge said.             “Oh… that’s coincidental.” Xenon looked away.             “Very,” Sarge agreed, looking in a separate direction. “So, what does this guy look like?”             “The subject change lets me know I may have upset you,” Xenon looked back at Sarge. “You know I am honored to know you, right? Aside from Tony, you’re the only person who’s not afraid of me.”             “Hard to be afraid of a guy like you,” Sarge said, still looking away. “You look like a giant grasshopper or something, but you have the personality of a cinnamon roll and smell like lavender.”             “And you are someone who has a keen sense of observation and has a level head in rough situations,” Xenon said. “You also have the personality of a cinnamon roll made by a cinnamon roll… and whether werewolf or rabbit, you look like a big, soft, squishy cinnamon roll anyway.”             Sarge put a hand to his mouth to prevent himself from laughing. “Do people actually say that about me?”             “More often than you’d think. Of the two of us, you’re the one who brings people in with your charisma. Everyone talks about you… just wish more would think better of me…” Xenon sighed, watching another person walk by in the dark.             “Does it matter what they think? You get the job done no matter what. People come to you because you’ve got skill and reputation. That should be admirable, right?” Sarge asked. “Besides, with the serial rabbit-transformations happening, you don’t have to cloak yourself anymore. Maybe try being yourself more? Now’s as good a time as any to try.”             “Do you really think they’d like me?” Xenon asked.             “Why wouldn’t they like you?” Sarge asked, looking down at the street again. “I like you.”             “You like everyone Sar-” Xenon started.             “HEY! I think we found our perpetrator!” Sarge hissed.             “What?” Xenon asked, looking around the streets. Sure enough, he could see a figure slinking down the street… toward the woman carrying groceries.             “I’ll see you down there, Xenon,” Sarge said, immediately bounding off the rooftop onto the wall of the adjacent building.             “I’ll keep an eye out until you get to him, then I’ll be down,” Xenon nodded.             Sarge smiled. Lifting a hand, he gave Xenon a salute before letting go of the wall and falling. Xenon heard a thud, followed by another thud, then another. In a few moments, he saw Sarge bounding down the street toward the woman and the assailant while zipping up his hoodie. As he saw Sarge grab the hood of his jacket, he noticed Sarge’s shape began to widen and expand. Sarge then pulled the hoodie over his snout as his body continued to shape into a strange, green and black creature. The creature put its hands to its ears, pulled them back… and dashed forward at blinding speed, covering the ground between the creature and the assailant within mere seconds.             Xenon took a deep breath as he stood up. “Thanks, Sarge.” Taking a step toward the edge of the building, Xenon looked at the street below. Seeing that there was no one underneath him, he jumped off the building and fell the ten stories to the ground below. Landing on his feet, he felt his backbone absorb the impact of the fall – a perk he was thankful he kept before being turned into a rabbit. Once he could stand up straight, he started to run in the direction the creature and assailant had gone, ready to crack the case of the Year of the Rabbit. ~~~~~ Seems I wanted to draw something to celebrate year of the rabbit? As such, have Sarge and Xenon as rabbits! :D ~~~~~ Artwork/Story/Xenon/Sarge (C) Me