#the only thing I knew about this position was what it would vaguely entail

[pizzabookbuying]

not my school not actually having a formal application process for this position and just immediately assuming they can start training me despite the fact that I’m not even on payroll yet—

[ollieofthebeholder]

And If Thou Wilt, Forget: a TMA fanfic

Read from the beginning on Tumblr || AO3 || My Website

Chapter 16: One round monotonous of change

Tim knew before the week was out that he was right not to clue the new Archives crew into everything. Or anything, for that matter.

He’d learned very quickly not to attempt to help Jon, at least not when the others were around. Actually, dealing with Jon was a delicate balance of being helpful without being too helpful, keeping things running without making it obvious that he was anticipating orders at best and doing what he’d always done regardless of said orders at worst. The man was obviously insecure, completely unprepared for his position, and despite what he’d said the first day about Elias telling him he’d be fine with Tim there, he didn’t seem particularly keen to take advice or suggestions. Tim gave him the simplistic, obvious notes Gertrude had left him, smiled and joked his way around the edges of the workday, and metaphorically washed his hands of the situation.

Sasha, now, Sasha was interesting. She was definitely more aware of what archiving entailed than Jon was, and a bit of conversation had revealed she’d been in academia longer than he had, which made Tim wonder how come Elias hadn’t appointed her the temporary archivist instead. She was, however, largely focused on the computer work. She’d come in the third day with a whole suite of books on MS-DOS and Windows 95 that she’d scrounged somewhere—and sworn a blue streak when she realized the computer’s operating system was Windows 3.11—and, like Jon, stubbornly refused assistance. Tim made a token offer of help, accepted her refusal with seeming grace, and left her to it.

Martin was actually the only one willing to accept Tim’s help, although he always waited until they were alone to ask for it. Tim assumed he was embarrassed that he needed help—he’d been with the Institute ten years—but honestly, it was kind of a relief to be able to help someone. Still…there was something off about him. Tim couldn’t quite put his finger on what, just that he didn’t seem like an almost forty-year-old academic with a master’s degree in parapsychology. Among other things, he seemed really not to be at home with the sorts of research they did, even if it wasn’t as…traditional as the kind most academia did. He’d also been very vague on what he’d done his master’s thesis on. Tim chose not to press him and just made sure the work, cursory though it may have been, was getting done.

Coming in to do his…independent research was harder than he’d thought initially, too. Jon was so paranoid about being seen not doing his job that he came in before eight and left well after five, and Tim hadn’t yet figured out his schedule well enough that he could get in early and get out before he was noticed, or for that matter be sure that if he came in after hours he wouldn’t get caught. He was doing what he could at home with Gerry, but for the first time, he fully appreciated what Gertrude had meant when she’d said she needed the Archives to progress her research. There were statements there that would help, he knew it, and he needed the free time to really explore the shelves and find the ones he needed.

Friday seemed like his best bet; he lingered over the (admittedly totally bullshit) statement he was researching, told Martin and Sasha not to worry about him, and kept an eye on the Archivist’s door. Jon came out eventually, looking tired, then froze when he saw Tim. He cleared his throat and straightened. Tim almost felt bad. Almost. “Tim. What are you still doing here?”

“Just finishing up some notes on the Cook case,” Tim lied cheerfully. Everything he needed had come in well ahead of time and was organized. “Monday being the spring bank holiday and all, I didn’t want to let it linger. You go ahead, I’ll close up shop when I’m done.”

“No need. I’m going to do one last sweep to make sure everything is put away properly while you get that finished.” Jon turned and walked away before Tim could come up with an appropriate response.

He supposed he could hastily gather his things, pretend to leave, and lock himself in a closet until Jon left, but a glance out of the corner of his eye told him that would be for nothing. Jon was extremely thorough in checking to make sure things were ready to leave. Oh, well, maybe he could come in over the weekend—the extra day would afford him a bit of protection. He’d still have to be careful, though. They weren’t doing enough that Jon might want to come in on days the Institute was nominally closed, but you never knew.

Tim was just packing up his laptop when Jon returned, looking faintly annoyed. “That back corner looks dreadful, there were statements every which way. If Martin can’t be bothered to put things back properly, I swear—”

“Martin hasn’t been back there all week, boss. Not since I gave you guys the tour, anyway. It was probably the ghost.” Tim slung his bag over his shoulder and felt for his keys.

“The ghost,” Jon said flatly.

Tim shrugged. “I used to come in some mornings—especially Mondays—and find stuff moved around. Thought it was Gertrude for a while because she worked odd hours sometimes, but it happened while she was out of town, too. ‘S why I make sure everything is cleared off my desk before I leave.”

“And you think it’s a ghost,” Jon said in the same flat, unemotional voice as before.

Actually, no, he didn’t. Tim was fairly certain it was Elias, but there was also a possibility that it was someone else—Gerry hadn’t been the only person who helped Gertrude out from time to time, there was that fussy old man he’d spotted a time or two when he got back sooner than previously anticipated, and it was entirely possible that one of them had a key. Either way, it was why the notebook Tim and Gertrude had used for the computer was in code and why he usually made a careful sweep first thing upon arriving and last thing upon leaving. Whoever or whatever was getting in here, they didn’t need to know anything Gertrude wasn’t ready to share.

And if it wasn’t somebody on their side, at least nominally, it wasn’t likely to be a ghost.

“Well,” he said instead, giving Jon a teasing grin, “the cleaning staff doesn’t come down here, so if it’s not a ghost, it’s an extremely weird and specific burglar.”

Jon’s lips flattened briefly. “I suppose it’s a good thing you’re making sure everything is cleaned up, then, if you’re worried about that,” he muttered under his breath. Aloud, he said, “Come on, then. Best to walk out before Rosie locks the front door.”

“We can go out the side door,” Tim pointed out.

“I don’t have the key to lock or unlock it from the outside.”

Since Tim knew that key had been on the bunch he gave Elias, he bit his tongue and filed that away for further use. Either Jon was lying in an attempt to catch Tim out on something, or Elias had held it back for unspecified purposes. Maybe he’d just got tired of not knowing when Tim and Gertrude were in the Archives.

They headed up the stairs together. Rosie was, in fact, just getting ready to lock the front door, but she held it for them and wished them a good weekend before shutting it behind them. Tim had taken the Tube rather than drive in because Gerry had an appointment in Penzance and needed the car, so they ended up walking together to Sloane Square before parting. Tim watched Jon head towards the opposite platform—thankfully he lived in the other direction—then turned. He was just considering backtracking and heading back to the Institute now when his gaze fell on a figure seated on one of the far benches.

Martin.

Tim’s intentions to keep his relations with his new (temporary) colleagues superficial, at least until Gertrude came back and decided if she was keeping them, were wavering in the face of Martin Blackwood. Partly—mostly—it was the fact that he kept asking for Tim’s help, but more importantly, he had at least attracted the attention of the Lonely. Tim wasn’t as good as Gerry was at spotting marks on people, not yet anyway, unless it was the Eye or the Stranger, but Martin practically wore it on his sleeve, or at least in his eyes. It may not have fully marked him yet, but he’d definitely drawn its interest. Tim had two—well, three, really—good reasons to do something about that. The first was, quite simply, that letting any of the Fourteen get hold of a person unwillingly was kind of not okay; it had been done to him, to Gerry, and in a way to Gertrude, and while he couldn’t save anyone at the Institute from the Eye, he could at least do something about any of the others, or at the very least try. The second, more serious one was that if the Lonely did get hold of Martin, it might use him to get into the Archives, and Tim wasn’t having any of that either. Attacks weren’t uncommon, and Gertrude had always been ruthless in keeping them out—one of the first things she’d taught Tim, once she clued him in, was how to ward off the Stranger so they could control whether or not it noticed him—and would never allow it to take root. If Martin succumbed to it, or it got hold of him too deeply, Tim didn’t doubt for a minute that Gertrude would throw out the baby, the bathwater, and burn the whole damn house down for good measure to be sure the Lonely didn’t have a way in. At some point it would be a kindness, but right now it would just be cruel.

The third was, quite simply, that Tim didn’t want to end up like that himself. He was only four or five years younger than Martin, and he had anchors, but…well. He remembered something Gerry had said once when talking about a woman he’d encountered in Italy: Sometimes the loneliest place in the world is in the middle of a thousand people knowing not one of them gives a damn whether you live or die.

Tim had stopped him in the middle of the palazzo and kissed him hard, in front of God and everybody, and nobody had blinked an eye, but they’d both understood what it meant. That wouldn’t work with Martin, but he could try something.

“Hey, Marto.”

Martin, who had been concentrating on a knitting project, jumped and dropped one of his needles, which clattered to the platform floor. “Oh! Tim, I d—I didn’t see you there. Did I forget something?”

“No, I just saw you when I got here and thought I’d come sit with you.” Tim bent to retrieve the fallen needle, then sat down next to Martin with a sigh. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“No! N-no, I just…” Martin’s eyes darted around the platform. “I didn’t know you took the Tube. I’ve, um, I’ve never seen you. I thought you drove?”

“Have been, this week anyway. It rained on Monday and I hate dealing with the walk from here in the rain if I can help it. But my partner needed the car today.” Tim flashed Martin a grin. “Tube doesn’t run outside London.”

“Oh.” Martin looked a little flustered. “It’s—I just, I don’t remember seeing you on the line before. You’ve, you’ve been with the Institute two years, right?”

“Twenty months, but who’s counting? And I just moved a couple months ago.” Tim hitched a thumb over his shoulder. “Used to live out in Hounslow, so the other direction. Which line are you waiting on, the Circle or the District?”

Martin shrugged, looking a bit embarrassed. “Um, doesn’t matter, actually. I live on the Northern line.”

“You’re joking!” Tim studied Martin’s face. “You’re serious. Which end?”

“Stockwell.”

“No kidding. I’m Morden.” Tim hesitated, then made an offer he normally wouldn’t have worried about. Maybe a little because he suspected Martin would rather chew his own leg off than actually accept it, so it wouldn’t matter, but mostly because a sincere offer would go a long way towards combating the Lonely. “Remind me to give you my number, and if I’m driving in, I can swing by and give you a ride.”

“Oh! Oh, that’s—that’s very kind of you. Thank you.” Martin’s face turned pink.

The next scheduled train pulled into the platform, and Tim and Martin managed to find seats, rare enough for rush hour on the London Underground. As they settled in, Tim asked, “So what are you making there?”

“Just socks. I, um, there was a whole load of knitting wool that went up for sale cheap a couple weeks back, and I managed to get hold of it. I’ve been sort of going through it and trying plan stuff out, but there was this sock yarn, so…” Martin shrugged a little. He looked uncomfortable.

“I’m always impressed by people who can knit. I never could get the hang of it…how long have you been knitting?”

Martin, unexpectedly, blushed again. “Since I was little…seven or eight, maybe? Um, my mum, she was—she was sick a lot, so I spent a lot of time in waiting rooms, you know, and, well, it was hard to carry enough books to keep me occupied and she really didn’t like me fidgeting, so…” He flapped the half-finished sock helplessly.

Tim winced inwardly in sympathy, but kept the smile in place. A picture was forming in his mind of Martin’s childhood, and it wasn’t one that made him feel any better about the incursion of the Lonely. Best not to let that show, though. “So, what, thirty years? You must have quite a stash.”

The blush got deeper, and Martin looked surprisingly uncomfortable. The approach of the stop where they would have to switch trains meant talking went on hold—especially when the Northern pulled in just as they were getting off and they had to sprint to catch it—and while Tim had a pretty strong constitution from all the walking he’d done recently, he was not a sprinter, so it took him almost as long to catch his breath once they dropped into their seats as it did Martin. Once they were back on an even keel, though, he went back to encouraging Martin to open up a bit. “You know I’m not making fun of you about the knitting, yeah? I really want to know. I mean, it’s got to be worthwhile if you’ve been doing it for thirty years.”

Martin fidgeted slightly, worrying at his lower lip and shooting nervous glances at Tim. He’d either be a lousy poker player or a really, really good one, if this was a bluff. Tim let his own smile slip slightly and a bit of concern pop into his eyes.

That was apparently all it took. “Tim, I—l-look, look, if I…just, don’t tell Jon. Please? O-or Elias, but…I’m more worried about Jon right now.”

Okay, now Tim was actually worried. He licked his lips, but nodded. “I promise,” he said. Unconsciously, he spun the black ring around his finger to loosen it. He comforted himself with the knowledge that he never willingly shared things with Elias anyway, and that he hadn’t got to the level of trusting Jon enough to gossip to him yet…and Martin hadn’t forbidden him to tell anyone whatever this was, so he could still hash it out with Gerry later.

Martin hesitated a moment longer, gaze darting around the car. Tim guessed he was checking to make sure Jon—or possibly anyone else familiar from the Institute—wasn’t within earshot. Just before Tim prompted him, he blurted out, “I’m only twenty-six.”

Tim blinked, and mentally counted back, and then counted again. “You had your master’s degree at sixteen?”

“N-no. No, I don’t—” Martin swallowed hard. “I d-don’t have a master’s. I don’t even have a degree. I, my mum, she—I told you she was sick? Well, she, um, she got really bad about ten years back and—and I had to drop out of school and get a job. Nobody was hiring, so I—you know, I just, I started making stuff up. Anything to get my foot in the door. I lied about having a master’s degree in parapsychology and it got me in the door and…I-I mean, it didn’t, it didn’t matter so much up in the library, but now I’m in the Archives and it’s a big deal and J-Jon thinks I have all these credentials and…I-I’m toast. I’m going to get fired. I’m definitely going to get fired.”

“You’re not going to get fired,” Tim assured him. In the first place, he wasn’t sure Jon actually had the authority to fire—or hire, for that matter—anyone to begin with, and even if he did…well, he still wasn’t entirely sure Martin or Sasha were bound too the Archives if Gertrude hadn’t appointed them or affirmed their appointment, but it would at least be a comfort. “An appointment to the Archives is an appointment for life, after all. Didn’t Elias tell you that? Or Jon?”

“No?” Martin looked confused, but he also looked a bit less stressed. “Jon’s barely said two words to me, honestly, and all Elias said when he sent me down to the Archives was that someone had finally decided to give me an opportunity to move on. I thought he meant Jon, but Jon seemed like he had no idea I’d been hired, so…”

Tim twisted the ring again—it was really stuck tonight, he’d been doing a lot of writing and his hand must’ve swollen—but held his tongue. Martin didn’t need to know about Elias’s unnecessarily cruel policy. All he said was, “Well, it’s true. You’re here forever—you, me, Sasha, even Jon. No matter how mad he gets at you, he’s not going to be able to fire you.” He nudged Martin lightly. “Besides, you’re a good asset to the Archives.”

Martin blushed again. “You’re just saying that.”

“Hey, I’m the one who knew Gertrude Robinson, remember? She’d have loved to have you on the team if she’d put up an internal posting.” And you’ll probably be the only one who sticks around when she gets back, he added to himself. At least if she came back in the next few weeks. Jon was ill-suited to the Archives, at least so far, and Sasha was almost too curious for her own damned good. More to the point, Martin was the only one willing to learn. No way would Gertrude pass that up.

Martin smiled, then glanced up at the window as the train slowed. “Um, this is my stop. See you Monday, Tim.”

“Tuesday,” Tim reminded him. “Monday’s the spring bank holiday.”

“Oh! Oh, right, I forgot. Yeah, see you Tuesday.”

“See you, Martin.” Tim flashed Martin a smile and a wave as he got off the train. Martin waved back just before the doors closed.

Alone again, Tim relaxed against the seat and turned his thoughts towards the weekend. He would definitely need to go in sometime this weekend and have a look around. Maybe he’d take Gerry with him and the two of them could pull a few relevant statements. A second pair of eyes would be useful in making sure he didn’t put anything out of order and raise Jon’s suspicions…or worse, his ire.

Meanwhile, though, he thought he’d take tonight to relax. Maybe see if Gerry was up for a walk, and they could take their new shaggy overlord up to one of the parks and let him chase sticks for a bit. There would be time enough for research later.

After all…it wasn’t like it was the end of the world. Yet.

[zemnarihah]

so guy from class wants to go to the goth club of course i said yes because 1. obviously i will never ever ever say no to that and 2. i am curious about him and down to hang out but the issue is like obviously it's basically a date but idkkkk it just feels weird to be going on a date like GOD what the fuck. idk like it's just that i'm fresh out of a pretty serious relationship and this guy seems to be very into me and he's genuinely really cool and interesting and nice so far but it just is so overwhelming i don't know. I worry that i'm getting into something new before i'm ready like before i've learned how to be alone again and i worry that i'm only interested in him because i miss getting that kind of attention. And i worry that i'm encouraging him too much because i really shouldn't present as like available for that when i don't know if i am but i can't help that i do genuinely enjoy talking to him and want to hang out more. everyone i talk to about this says that i shouldn't worry about it and should just try to have fun and not take it too seriously but that's very hard for me idk. i take everything so seriously i weigh every interaction i have with everyone in the fucking world it means everything to me. i guess if things go badly it's not a super big deal bc we don't have any classes together next semester anyway but i'm almost more worried about things going WELL and then i'm whisked into another relationship when i'm not ready for it just because it feels good and i cant say no to it. i ALSO wonder if this is almost meant to be and like. i had always kind of felt that something had put me in that spot to meet my ex and i HAD to meet him that was a necessary arc in my life there were so many signs and coincidences pointing that way. and it just seems to be incredibly convenient that we broke up exactly when this new guy and i first have a class together and he happens to sit across from me on the first day of class and start a conversation for the first time right after my ex and i broke up. but idk if this is happening because he's supposed to be an important person in my life or if i'm just making up nonexistent patterns in my head. i got lunch with him the other day and i opened my fucking panda express fortune cookie it said "you are exactly where you are supposed to be" HELLO?

ALSO i'm trying to LITERALLY JUST FUCK A WOMAN FOR ONCE IN MY LIFE but nobody swipes right on me or responds to me why whenever i actually try to date women none of them want me and men just trip into my lap FUCK OFFFFF

also to avoid making another post e and i have an appointment to have our Conversation and god it feels so fucking stupid. i kind of am tempted to tell him abt the new guy even though that's tacky and he'd see right through it that im trying to bother him. if he asks ig ill tell him but idk why he would. im going to ask him what being friends would even entail in his mind bc it feels crazy to me like you are 8 hours away from me we're not gonna hang out? are we going to talk on the phone? are we going to text? or do you just mean let's be vaguely cordial to eachother but not go out of our way to interact? i feel like that's usually what "let's still be friends" means. but if we don't go out of our way to interact then we literally never will because there's no reason to see each other so like. that's literally just the same as not even bothering. and then the other things i want to talk to him about are just like. that it was fucked up to ask me to buy a plane ticket to come see him when he was thinking about breaking up with me and knew he probably wasn't going to be returning the favor. that it was fucked up to break up with me while i was in the throes of a horrible kidney infection. and idk that's basically the agenda. i had a conversation w my sister the other day that left me thinking that talking to him is a good idea and would be a positive thing and i trust that conversation but now that i'm just thinking about it in my own brain again it's like what the fuck is the point this is so stupid. but i already told him i'd talk to him and i would feel like an asshole backing out so whatever.

okay the end if you read this far you are now updated on all ongoing zemnarihah crises. oh also i have some challenging schoolwork but that's beautiful and the best thing in my life if i'm real. now the end.

[essayofthoughts]

Given you have a vague idea of C3 events relevant to Whitestone (at least prior to tonight), how would some of your AUs change things when the Hells meet Vex and Percy in those timelines? Would they meet under different circumstances? Might some things not happen (i.e. good!Delilah might mean Laudna... doesn't exist? Or that they track her down?)? And some AUs might entail a different Whitestone, or Vex and Percy with changed character arcs and thus different reactions to the Hells/what they request.

I mean, Sylas Briarwood Gets To Live Bitches AU only diverges after all of the shit with the occupation and the Sun Tree, so I think even with a Sylas and Delilah dragged kicking and screaming to a more acceptable morality, Laudna would still exist. I think whatever her sorcerous ancestry is would have brought her back, plus the necromantic energy in Whitestone - the difference would be that she wouldn't have Delilah in her head as her patron.

But, to answer more properly, I think I've told you this before, but I'd honestly kind of love to see Bells Hells go to Whitestone for help in Delia AU.

Because, in Delia AU, Percy isn't afraid of Delilah in nearly the same way - like, yes, she murdered his whole family and left him to the clutches of Ripley, but she also sympathised with him over caring for Delia? Babysat his daughter? Sylas let Delia ride around on his shoulders? And, more than that, he also learned how to navigate in the space between Delilah and Ripley? He learned which buttons to press and what words to say, he learned how to get what he want from Delilah, he knew very confidently where he stood and how much leeway he had. He also got to see her frustrated with useless underlings and pleased with his and Ripley's work - he's seen many more facets of Delilah in Delia AU and he's able to see her more as a whole complete person than just as someone integral to a core trauma.

And... because of that, he's just not afraid of her in the same way. Just as Delia AU and RA (and, in a different way, Evilest AU) cause Percy's fear of Ripley to be overriden due to the new circumstances, so too do the circumstances drastically change his attitudes and opinions of the Briarwoods.

Additionally, during the occupation, once Percy realises the truth, he very much takes on the role that Cass did, the core of resistance, the one remaining de Rolo, reliable and responsible and doing what he can for the people of Whitestone. His goal is mostly to keep people alive, especially because, due to his position, he knows more than Cass did and knows how futile rebellion would be (potentially even helping the Briarwoods' aims) and in part due to Delia's existence he kind of becomes a fatherly presence to much of Whitestone! So if Laudna's body was taken to Whitestone by the Bells Hells in this AU, if Percy was presented with the body of someone he had tried and failed to save from this fate... yeah, even being told Delilah is in her head wouldn't stop him from seeing it as his duty as the leader of Whitestone to see Laudna given back her life, and ideally, freed of Delilah. He's not afraid of Delilah the same way and... honestly, nor is Delia!

Which is the other big factor, because Delia by that point would probably be starting to take on administrative duties herself in Whitestone and on finding out her (not anymore) Auntie Delilah had been fucking with this poor undead woman, this risen-from-death citizen of Whitestone... oh yeah, she'd be angry. She'd have had the time to deal with her own complex feelings about the awfulness of the woman who used to babysit her, and she'd know Delilah was significantly more dangerous than she'd believed as a child, but she's also far from stupid or unskilled herself.

And Delia, like her father, takes their responsibilities to Whitestone and it's citizenry seriously. Even if Percy had misgivings himself (a big if), that'd immediately end if Delia (almost certainly present for such a meeting) turned to him and went "Dad, we need to help them."

[zarvasace]

You disability AU has invaded my brain and I’m very happy about it. I was just thinking about how much I love it, and I love disability representation in general, and I can’t wait to see what you come up with next for the AU!!! Also I hope you’re having a good day! <3

I have had a lovely day, thank you! :) Disability rep makes me so happy to see, too. I don't have grand plans for this AU, but maybe I'll come up with something in the future (perhaps once finals are over...) And I always love learning more and talking more! Here's a baby thing that I have not edited.

Relapse

Disability AU, Legend-centric (reminder that he has RRMS here, relapse/remission multiple sclerosis.) They're using the word "episode" here to refer to periods of relapse. About 715 words. Sorry about the long post, I'm on mobile and can't stick a read more in there. AO3 link here.

---

The general shuffling of people awake but not awake enough to talk yet pulled Legend from a dream about being underwater, yet only half able to breathe. He was grateful to end that dream, but less grateful to be woken up. Especially when his vision cleared and he realized why he'd been dreaming something like that. 

Legend groaned, did his best to suck in a deep breath, and pulled his blanket over his head. It felt like something was squeezing his ribs in a tight hug, but wouldn't let up.

"Everything all right, Legend?" Hyrule asked from somewhere outside the blanket, a smile evident in his voice. 

"No," Legend replied, not moving from under the blanket. He consciously expanded his chest to get another deep breath in. 

Hyrule's hand touched Legend's leg, then moved up to his shoulder. "No? What's wrong?" 

It was getting hot under the blanket, so Legend pulled it down around his chin. He shut his eyes tightly against the brightening sky. "Remember what I said, when we met, that my body hates me, and that I hate it?" 

"Vaguely," Hyrule responded, sounding hesitant. 

"Well, the next few days are really going to suck." 

Time spoke up from the other side of the fire. "That's right, Legend, you mentioned episodes, didn't you?"

"Yeah." Legend sighed. "One's gonna hit soon. It'll probably be over by the end of the week, but…" 

Hyrule's hand squeezed his shoulder in sympathy, and Legend patted it to make sure Hyrule knew he appreciated it. 

"What does an episode entail?" Twilight asked, pushing his feet into his boots. "What would you do about it if you were home?" 

Legend raised his hand to cover his eyes. He was a bit upset that this was happening around the others at all, and a bit upset that he had to be camping when this hit, but he'd have to make the most of it. "If I was at home, I'd stay in bed the whole time. Everything's gonna start hurting, much worse than usual. My vision's starting to go already—it'll come back, but it likes to fade out for a bit sometimes."

"So walking will get harder?" Time said. 

"Try 'almost impossible.'"

"Join the club!" Four called from his spot, awake and reading but squished in place by Sky, who hadn't woken up yet and was unlikely to anytime soon. "But it's not because of pain, so you have my sympathy."

Legend wanted to roll his eyes, but they hurt already. "Thanks." 

Twilight poked the fire with a stick and positioned another few dry logs on top of it. "Well, it isn't as if we have anything pressing to do, right now. Wild said yesterday that we're just a day or two out from Tarrey Town, so we can still probably head there, as fast as we can."

A silence stretched, but Time spoke a moment later. "Warriors says that he thinks Twilight's right, we should aim for town if the episode will last all week. It's safer and more comfortable."

"I don't know if I can get there," Legend admitted. Already, he didn't want to move. Shifting around would cause pain. 

"Maybe Wild would be willing to teleport," Hyrule suggested. "Or someone could carry you. You're not that heavy."

"Am I offended?" Legend wondered aloud. 

"We also don't have to go," Twilight said. "We could just stay here, if that's better for you."

Legend waved a hand and regretted it. He put his arms down and tried to settle and to breathe. His right eye was starting to gray out. Hooray. "No. Town is safer, you're right. And as comfy as the dirt is…"

"Then that's what we'll do," Time decided. "Head out as soon as possible, and get to town. Is there anything else we should know? Anything you'd need?" 

It was nice of him to ask. "This is gonna be a bad one, I think. I wouldn't mind some of that knockout tea. Other than that, no, it's just something I have to ride out."

Twilight snorted. "Wars says he's more than willing to make you some of that tea, for several days in a row if you want."

Legend allowed himself a bit of pain for the satisfaction of raising a finger in Warriors's general direction.

[voiceless-terror]

I mean, I don’t believe in the predictive power of dreams, obviously, but still, it’s a deeply unsettling thing to find. I had Tim look into it, as I don’t entirely trust the others not to have written it as a practical joke and slipped it into the archives. - Episode 11, Dreamer

Jon stares down at the paper in his hands.

He’s had many an unkind thought towards Gertrude, his predecessor, the woman responsible for this mess and the current bane of his existence. She’s been the topic of most of his grumbling as he sorts through piles of nonsense and decaying cardboard boxes. He’s got no love lost for her, but that doesn’t mean he’s happy she’s dead. Or, specifically, to have a statement apparently predicting it through the medium of some prophetic dream. Ridiculous. He wants to feel detached, unaffected, but he can’t help the sickly sense of dread that creeps up his spine and lingers in his throat. 

It was your face and the expression upon it was far more fearful than any I had seen in eight years of wandering this twilight city.

Jon doesn’t know Antonio Blake and has no reason to believe him. But he’s known something’s wrong for a long time now.

He’s never admitted it aloud, never within his assistant’s hearing range, but he can feel it, as foolish as that sounds. This miasma of wrong, of being watched, of becoming...something else, that happens every time he records a statement. Despite the academic detachment he aspires to, he does attempt to empathize with each statement-giver and get into their mindset. But what he’s doing here...it’s different. He can visualize it so perfectly, the terror in their words sticking in his throat and setting his own heart pounding, as if he were the one experiencing it and not just regurgitating it to an ancient recorder. He’s always had an ‘overactive imagination,’ as his grandmother would say, but this is relentless in its manifestation. The fear is real, not imagined. Each statement draws him further and further away from the safety he used to cling to, where the only real cases were few and far between and the most sinister things lurking out there in the world were books and the monsters within them.

And as much as he wants to linger on the false accounts and take comfort in tearing them apart, his hands automatically seek the real ones, the right ones. It’s frightening, the ease with which he finds them nowadays. Perhaps he’s a better archivist than he thinks. 

She died and you’ll be next, something whispers to him. He’s being dramatic, as he’s wont to do, but it feels true. Every statement that doesn’t record correctly, every follow-up he has to qualify with an ‘I would dismiss this, but-’ is starting to add up. His nights have become restless. He often lies awake regretting that he ever took this job, that he left the relative safety of research for a position he’s not sure how to fill, his only reassurance Elias’s occasional emails that he’s ‘moving in the right direction,’ whatever that means.

Jon assumed he’d be more removed from the dangerous aspects of the job that research entailed- following up, going to locations, field work. And it’s true, he has assistants to do that for him now. Dependable, for the most part. And while he should feel safe in his tiny office with nothing but dust and paper and cobwebs (good lord, the cobwebs) he feels more unsettled and exposed than ever. He once joked he’d die of old age before getting the archives in order. But now a stroke sounds much more pleasant than whatever happened to Gertrude. If it’s true.

Perhaps it’s a joke, he thinks. Planted by one of the others, designed specifically to unsettle him. Well, it worked. 

It wouldn’t be surprising. He’s...not had the best start. The promotion was a surprise, but not wholly unexpected; he knew he’d been on Elias’s radar, though he wasn’t expecting it quite so soon. He’s young and unfortunately, it shows. The way he stutters through department meetings, talking about digitization while the others, all of whom have at least a decade on him, shoot pitying looks. He stays later and later, the desire to show some sort of progress even as he discovers more mess by the day. The permanent scowl that now graces his features becomes his armor as he walks the halls and feels himself becoming the uptight, unlikable curmudgeon everyone believes him to be. The one time I measure up to expectations, he can’t help thinking.

A joke. There’s a comfort in that. At least it’s familiar.

But it didn’t record to the laptop, his traitorous mind supplies. It's a bit sad he would prefer it to be a mundane attempt at bullying rather than a real expression of the supernatural, but he supposes it’s par for the course. There were many nights as a child he wished for the same thing, for that boy to go back to taking his lunch money and the occasional beating or two instead of…still, he dismisses it from his mind. You don’t know there’s a correlation. Follow up. Disprove it. 

He’s interrupted from his musings by a knock on the door and the vague outline of Martin through the frosted glass. “Come in,” he calls, attempting to inject some irritation in his voice to cover up the shakiness. “Did you need something?”

“Ah, I finished my write up for the Herbert case, was wondering if you had anything else for me?”

His hand hovers over the statement on his desk. He opens his mouth but then closes it, thinking better.

“Can you send Tim in, actually?”

______

“Sorry boss, I couldn’t find anything on this Antonio Blake fellow- well, at least with the details he provided, which were next to none. Proper spooky, though.”

Of his assistants, he trusts Tim the most with this sort of thing. 

On a surface level, it wouldn’t make sense to some. Tim can be loud and gregarious: the typical, charming extrovert. But he’s not unkind and he’s a hell of a researcher, especially when something grabs his interest. He digs into statements and doesn’t let go- not unlike Sasha, though he’s a bit better at empathizing and handling things...sensitively. Easily attuned to Jon’s moods, Tim’s always been willing to lend an ear whenever he gets too in his head about cases, helping him talk things through or on several memorable occasions, go down the rabbit hole with him. He’d taken the statement from his hands with an easy smile, though his face grew serious with the nervous look Jon shot him.

And if Tim couldn’t find anything, well. Maybe it was a prank after all.

He sort of wanted it to be true, frightening as the implications were. Because then it would mean this terrible, heavy feeling on his shoulders was real, and not just the byproduct of his own mediocrity. He doesn’t want to be scared, he doesn’t want to be in danger, but at least it would provide a real reason for panic, and not just his own inability to measure up.  He doesn’t want to prove them all right, collapsing under the stress of a job poorly done and so easily crumbling at a stupid, made-up statement, targeted as it may be. 

“A joke, then.” Jon says, rubbing a hand at his temples, trying not to let the hurt seep into his voice. Tim makes a commiserating noise.

“You know how people are, the institute isn’t exactly popular. You remember last Halloween, when-”

“Yes, I don’t need a reminder.” Jon sighs. He’d rather not relive that day, stressful as it was. “But that wasn’t quite what I was thinking.”

Tim stares at him for a moment, uncomprehending. Jon continues, attempting to make his hands busy as he pointlessly shuffles papers.

“It’s rather pointed, isn’t it? I doubt someone off the street would create such a detailed account of the death of an...archivist as opposed to the usual ghostly drivel.”

A look of pity flickers in Tim’s eyes and Jon has to turn away. “I don’t really think anyone here would-”

“Really? You don’t?” Jon lets out a mirthless laugh, rubbing a hand across his face as he stares down at his desk. “I’m not blind. Or deaf.” The derisive snorts if he goes off on ‘needless tangents,’ how Rosie pretends to be busy whenever he approaches Elias’s office, the way his name badge still reads ‘researcher’ after months of asking for a new one. He’s basically become a pariah.

“Jon, did someone say something to you?” The words are carefully chosen and he’s leaning forward now, making as if to stand up and god forbid, do something comforting. It’s not that Jon doesn’t want the comfort; he craves it more than anything. But he’s gone without for so long he doesn’t trust himself not to break at the gentlest of touches. Being on the receiving end of Tim’s protective streak is nothing new, but he shouldn’t need his assistant looking out for him like he’s some sort of helpless infant. 

He snorts derisively instead, covering up the insecurity and hurt with a sardonic, self-effacing smile. The kind he knows Tim hates. “They don’t need to. I’ve walked in on conversations, I’ve seen the way people go quiet, the looks they give me-”

“Hey,” Tim’s voice is low, like he’s dealing with a frightened animal. Jon wonders how he looks, if Tim’s going this soft. “Don’t listen to them, alright? You inherited a mess, we all did- but we’re doing our best, yeah? Study and record, like Elias said.” Jon doesn’t dodge the hand that finally lands on shoulder, and he’ll deny to anyone that he leaned into it. 

“Study and record.” He repeats listlessly, slumping back down into his seat. He’s let himself get too worked up, acting like a child instead of a boss. He’s not sure when he started wearing his heart on his sleeve, but Tim’s always been good at reading him. Though he’d rather people think him an arrogant ass than the seething mess of insecurity he truly is. 

“Atta boy.” The pat to his shoulder is purposefully light, devoid of Tim’s usually friendly force that sends him stumbling forward. “Now get out of here at a normal time, alright? We can grab lunch tomorrow. Just the two of us, if you like.”

Jon makes a noncommittal grunt, though the thought is nice.  He entertains the idea for just a moment, remembering their occasional outings back in research. Tomorrow he’ll make his excuses. He hasn’t been much of a friend as of late, and he’s not sure he deserves the kindness of company.

“And if there’s anyone that needs a stern talking to from me, I-” Tim wags a finger and Jon rolls his eyes, ignoring the pang of warmth the words send through his chest.

“Don’t, please. It’s fine.” It isn’t. “But...thank you, Tim.”

“Course.” A wink and a sloppy salute to lighten the mood, and Jon feels the tension in his posture ease minutely as Tim shuts the door behind him. 

He lets out a breath and reaches for the tape recorder. He’s wasted too much time already.  

Be careful. There is something coming for you and I don’t know what it is, but it is so much worse than anything I can imagine. At the very least, you should look into appointing a successor.

Good luck.

He fights a shiver as the man’s voice leaves him and the last vestiges of that twilight world fade back to his dimly-lit office. In his follow up, he tries to play it off as a joke. A bit of hazing for the new boss. And yet the uneasiness still creeps into his voice, and he ends another tape on a stilted, half-believed note.

If this is genuine…

Jon prays that it isn’t. 

And like most of his prayers, it goes unheard and unanswered.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32165071

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[dimigexwrites]

Losing Control, Chapter Six (KakaSaku, GenSaku)

A03 / Fanfic

New chapter is out (below the cut to keep from cluttering up dashes)! This one gave me all the KakaSaku feels, and I feel like I should apologize but at this point I don't know what I'm doing anymore. We're just going to keep going and hoping for the best! Feel free to ask questions or give me you thoughts on here or A03 or FF! Thanks!

Without the hospital or missions to keep Sakura busy, her days passed in a blur of monotony and boredom. Ino showed up a few times in an effort to bolster her spirits, but the plan backfired. The blond's presence was a constant reminder of the life that Sakura had left behind. When Ino opted to give up after the third failure, Sakura didn't blame her. The pregnancy opened a gulf between Sakura and her former classmates, one that she wasn't sure she could cross.

You could just make the problem go away, a small voice in the back of Sakura's mind whispered. She ignored it. Sakura had made her decision as far as that was concerned. She had no idea what her future might hold if she continued living as a shinobi, but if it ended unexpectedly, she wanted to leave behind something of herself in the world. Besides that, even though Sakura was no closer to understanding how things stood with Genma, she knew that he wanted to keep the baby.

Sakura sighed and curled up on the couch with a cup of warm tea. Since the last time that she had ignored Genma, he hadn't returned. Part of her was glad that the man found it easy to put their problems behind him, but a smaller part wished that he'd try harder. He'd given Sakura too many mixed signals for her to be sure of his feelings. Wanting a baby was not the same thing as wanting a girlfriend or wife.

Having Genma in Sakura's life would undoubtedly be more stable for the child, but only if he planned to stay. She couldn't risk having her heart broken while she was pregnant, much less while she was learning to be a mom. Tsunade and Shizune had been right about Sakura needing a more stable environment, at least. Sakura couldn't help but wonder if that was the reason that Tsunade had her removed from the hospital rotation.

Despite the emptiness that losing the position left in Sakura's life, she hadn't asked Tsunade to reconsider. If the woman wanted to be petty over something that didn't concern her, that was her choice. She'd made her disappointment with Sakura known on multiple occasions, for keeping the baby, for getting pregnant in the first place, and for sleeping with Genma. Even though the women had resumed an almost friendship in the weeks since, the suspension remained in place.

When Sakura had first found out that she was pregnant, she'd been more worried about how Tsunade and Kakashi would react than her parents. Mebuki had been quietly disappointed, but she seemed excited about the idea of a grandchild despite the circumstances. Sakura's parents had asked a lot of questions about the father, but she'd been intentionally vague. They weren't ready to hear about Genma, mostly because Sakura was afraid of the way her father might react.

Mebuki and Kizashi questioned how such things were handled among shinobi. Sakura had laughed at the idea that ninja would do anything different from a civilian, but she hadn't made an issue over it. Her parents had no idea what her life as a soldier of Konoha entailed, but they should have known Sakura well enough to guess what she would do. At least her parents hadn't treated her any differently after they found out. Almost everyone accepted the change in Sakura's status as a natural transition, but she wasn't sure whether to be thankful or annoyed that they didn't expect more of her. Hell, she expected more from herself.

Pushing away the thoughts, Sakura tossed off the blanket that she'd wrapped around herself and carried her mug back to the kitchen. She didn't want to spend the day feeling sorry for herself or wishing for things she couldn't have. While she couldn't work at the hospital, there were plenty of other things that she could do. The local cafe had an amazing coffee and tea selection, not to mention some pastries that she'd developed a taste for. There were tons of things to research at the library, and a long walk next to the river would help ease some of the restless energy that had built it up over the past few days.

Sakura had just started for the door when someone knocked on the other side. She paused mid step and frowned, wondering who she would have to avoid this time. Part of her secretly hoped it would be Genma, if only so she could see if he looked upset at being ignored. To her surprise, Iwashi stood outside, tugging his uniform to straighten the flak vest.

The man was so far down on the list of people who might be standing on the other side that he'd never crossed Sakura's mind. She opened the door, but before she could speak, Iwashi dropped into a bow. "Sorry to disturb you, Haruno-san. Hokage-sama requests your presence at your earliest convenience."

Quirking an eyebrow at the formality, Sakura lips pulled into a frown. "Do I have a choice, or is this an official summons?"

"The former, I believe," Iwashi responded. Sakura didn't know the man well enough to know if the tone of his voice was playful or not. Of Kakashi's of guards, she knew Raido and Genma the best. Iwashi shrugged, looking somewhat uncomfortable. "Hokage-sama didn't explain his reasoning to me."

"Yeah, he's bad for that," Sakura joked. She glanced down at her clothes and decided that she needed to change before a trip to the Hokage's office. "If you'll give me a few minutes, I can walk back over with you? You're welcome to come in while you wait."

A soft shade of pink crept onto the man's cheeks as he turned to look over the village while hiding his blush. "Thank you, but I'll wait out here."

"Suit yourself." Laughing softly, Sakura shut the door between them. Her amusement eased the tension building in her chest, and she changed into a pair of traditional jonin blacks, then buckled her flak vest over it. The armor felt strange after weeks without it. Sakura knew that she wouldn't be sent on a mission, but the uniform felt right all the same. As she smoothed a hand over the rough fabric, she wondered how much longer it would fit.

Hurrying to the bathroom, Sakura dragged a brush through her hair and pulled the tresses into a loose ponytail before meeting Iwashi outside. The man bowed when Sakura reappeared then gestured down the walkway toward the stairs without speaking. As they walked, she watched him out of the corner of her eye. Iwashi was the youngest member of the Hokage's guards as far as she knew. Unless Sakura missed her guess, he was a few years younger than Kakashi, even. She wondered how he'd fall in with Raido and Genma as a guard. One day, she'd like to hear that story.

The thought of Genma forced an uncomfortable tightness back into Sakura's chest. It had been nearly two weeks since they'd spoken, and she knew that he was waiting for her to make the first move. While it had been unintentional, she'd hurt him. He had approached her to make peace, but Sakura had ignored him. To be fair, she'd been ignoring everyone. She supposed that she should reach out, if only to invite him to the upcoming doctor's appointment. Sakura could be an adult about the pregnancy at least.

Walking to the Hokage's office took less time than Sakura expected because she was wrapped up in her own thoughts. As they stood outside the building, Iwashi nodded toward the door. "Raido should be looking for you."

Sakura's brow scrunched in confusion. "But, weren't you sent to summon me?"

"Yes, but it's only the first of a dozen things that Hokage-sama needed from me this morning." Iwashi dipped into another bow. "Have a good day, Haruno-san."

After returning the gesture, Sakura took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, then walked into the once familiar building. Things had changed during Kakashi's tenure as Hokage. The efficiency that Tsunade and Shizune ran the village with had been replaced by the chaos that was Kakashi. It wasn't that the man was bad at his job, per se, but he didn't have the administrative skills of Shizune, or Tsunade's bluntness.

Foreboding settled in Sakura's veins as she walked. She had no idea what Kakashi wanted, or why he summoned her. It had been over a week since she'd seen him. When Sakura rounded the corner of the hallway, Raido straightened to attention. Dark eyes settled on Sakura's face, and something unreadable passed over the man's features. When he inclined his head in greeting, Sakura's heart skipped a beat, but only a blank space predominated the wall where Genma should have stood. She could almost picture the man slouched beside Raido, a senbon slanting across smirked lips.

Without waiting for Sakura to speak, Raido rapped on the heavy wooden panel behind him. Sakura wanted to say something, to offer some balm or banter that might make the situation seem less daunting, but she couldn't think of anything. As she watched him peek in to speak with Kakashi, Sakura wondered if she imagined the coldness that she felt from the guard. Did Raido hate her over the way that things had worked out with Genma? Did he blame her? She didn't have the energy to ponder the question as he opened the door and gestured her inside.

Sakura stepped into the office and dropped into a deep bow, eyes on the floor. "You summoned me, Hokage-sama?"

A deep sigh issued from Kakashi's side of the desk as the door clicked shut. "It wasn't a summons," he clarified with huff. "It was a request."

"Of course," Sakura answered. "Whatever you say, Hokage-sama."

The petulance in Sakura's tone irritated her, but she wasn't sure how to change it. In fact, she wasn't certain that she wanted to change it. She wasn't angry at Kakashi, but something dangerous swelled in her chest whenever she was around him. It wasn't the need for recognition that she'd felt before she'd taken the mission all those months ago. It was something else, something that Sakura didn't try to temper. Kakashi was strong enough to take it.

After several heartbeats of silence, Sakura lifted her gaze to Kakashi. The man studied her over his steepled fingers from behind the desk. Unruly silver hair fell into Kakashi's dark eyes, partially obscuring the fact that they were shadowed by exhaustion. Even though Sakura couldn't see it, she knew that Kakashi's lips were pinched into a frown.

Sighing, Kakashi exhaled Sakura's name with a gentleness that she didn't deserve. "I hate that title, and you know it.". When she didn't answer, Kakashi nodded toward the chair across from him. "Why don't you have a seat?"

"Am I in trouble?" Sakura remained where she stood, vaguely aware of her voice rising an octave. "Is this another one of those 'sorry, but I'm stripping you of your position for conduct unbecoming of a shinobi' lectures?"

Lines appeared on Kakashi's brow as he sorted through the words for an infuriating moment. Sakura's anger rose like bile in her throat, a fine tremble working through her body. Then, understanding softened Kakashi's gaze. "Is that what Tsunade did?"

"As if you didn't know," Sakura shot back, some of her fury bleeding out at the easiest target. "I'm sure she asked your opinion, or at least filled you in on the pertinent information after the fact.

Kakashi gestured toward the chair once more, then lowered his palms to the desk. "Tsunade and I haven't spoken about her reasons for removing you from the hospital, whether disciplinary or otherwise." Kakashi gave a convincing shake of his head, then shrugged. "But, you earned the rank of jonin by consensus of your peers. Nobody can take that away from you."

Only partially satisfied with the answer, Sakura scoffed and threw herself into the chair. "Iwashi said you wanted to see me?"

"I wanted to ask a favor, actually." The unexpected request released some of Sakura's annoyance. His tone turned more careful, as if he was trying to untangle a nasty knot that he couldn't get started. Sakura didn't offer the courtesy of asking the man to continue; she remained stubbornly silent. Kakashi continued after a few seconds. "I'm not sure if you're aware of it or not, but there was a diplomatic incident in Suna recently."

Sakura snorted and rolled her eyes. "I mean, you sent Genma as an envoy. What did you expect?"

"This has nothing to do with him," Kakashi answered, voice sharp as a shuriken edge. He blew air between his lips and moderated his tone. "I sent Shikamaru to an extended peace summit in Suna as Konoha's representative to smooth things over."

Sakura considered Kakashi's meaning, keeping her face impassive. It would have been just as easy for Kakashi to go to the peace talks himself. Doing so would have afforded him the chance to get away from the chaos of the village and the self destruction that Sakura had become. Why hadn't he taken it? As Sakura worked through the angles, the man continued. "Unfortunately, administration isn't my strong suit. I'm in over my head here."

Frowning, Sakura tried to make the words connect in a meaningful way, but she couldn't. "I'm not sure what you're getting at here," she admitted.

"I was hoping that you'd be willing to temporarily fill his position." The timbre of Kakashi's voice changed, taking on an almost breathy, nervous quality that Sakura had never heard before. "It would only be for a couple of months at the most, just until Shikamaru returns."

Even though Sakura heard the offer, it didn't make sense. It was as if Kakashi was speaking a foreign language, and she was the only person in the room that didn't understand. Mistaking her silence for refusal, Kakashi rushed to fill the space. "After all the work you did with Tsunade, you have a great deal of experience in running the Hokage's office. And, I thought it might give you a chance to clear your head and focus on something besides," Kakashi's voice faltered and recovered almost in the same breath. "Well, you know, everything else."

A chance to focus on something besides being pregnant with Genma's baby, something besides being fired from the hospital, and something besides my world falling apart. Sakura's subconscious supplied the words that Kakashi had been too kind to say, and she felt a wash of gratitude that he hadn't addressed it directly. She wasn't ready to deal with that mess, and the memory of Kakashi's bruised knuckles made her think that he wasn't either.

When Sakura opened her mouth to respond, Kakashi spoke over her. "I won't pretend to know what's going on in your personal life, but you don't have to worry about running into Genma here. He's been reassigned."

"Reassigned?" Sakura's brow furrowed. So, that was why he hadn't been standing guard beside Raido, and why Iwashi had been sent to summon her. Annoyance flashed through her as the pieces clicked into place. "He was reassigned because of me?"

Kakashi scrubbed a hand through the hair at the back of his neck in a show of frustration. "He was reassigned because that's what is best for everyone right now."

The slow boil of annoyance shifted toward anger in Sakura's stomach. "Genma's entire life has been spent in the Hokage Guard Platoon with Iwashi and Raido, how can this be for the best?"

Razor sharp laughter burst through Kakashi's lips. "Oh, so, you're an expert on him now? All because you slept with him once? You're just one—"

"One conquest in his string of hundreds?" Sakura spat the words, rising from her chair so quickly that the room spun. She blinked through the dizziness, barely registering the placating gesture that Kakashi made. Fury burned her lips. "I'm just another stupid girl that fell for pretty eyes and even prettier lies?"

"That isn't what I meant," Kakashi interrupted, rising and moving around the desk faster than Sakura thought possible.

The pinkette jerked away before Kakashi's fingers could capture her hand. "It's what you said."

Kakashi didn't reach for Sakura a second time. When he saw her reaction, he raised both hands with palms toward her, then carded his fingers through his hair. The way the spikes stood up like a hedgehog would have been comical under any other circumstances. Kakashi exhaled and regained control of his tone. "If that's how it sounded, then I worded it poorly."

"Right," Sakura snorted in disbelief and turned away. When Kakashi started to speak, she waved him off and shook her head. "It's fine; I'm sure you're right. You know him better than I do, and everyone has been saying the same things. You can't all be wrong. In fact, I think—"

"Are you in love with him?" Kakashi's question halted the flood of words from Sakura's mouth. She spun back to face him, shocked that he'd asked the question so bluntly instead of beating around the bush as he so often did.

When Sakura opened her mouth to respond, there were no words inside. She snapped her teeth back together and stared at Kakashi as if he was a foreign animal that might be dangerous. He half sat on the edge of his desk, arms crossed over his chest like it provided another layer of armor over what he already wore. Dark eyes focused on hers, holding her gaze as if to read some secret there that she wanted to hide. Maybe, he could.

After a couple of heartbeats, Kakashi pushed away from the edge and closed the space between them. Unable to stop herself, Sakura glanced up at him through her lashes, surprised to see something like pain in his eyes. "I watched Sasuke break your heart, once. Don't ask me to let Genma do the same."

The growled words left Sakura stunned, even more so than the question about whether or not she loved Genma. Pity smothered her growing anger, but Sakura couldn't go down that path. Shaking her head, she pulled back. "I never asked you to do anything."

Kakashi chuckled without a trace of humor and brought his hand up like he might cradle Sakura's cheek. It fell back to his side without making contact. "You never had to ask, you mean."

Sakura tipped her head to the side, studying the man's expression with open curiosity and confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"I have always done what I thought was best for you, even when you couldn't see it. When you wanted to chase Sasuke, I let you go. When you wanted to take the twice damned mission that led to this mess, I didn't stop you. When you needed to confront Genma, I recalled him to the village." Kakashi ticked off the points on his fingers, shoulders tensing with each scenario that he threw out. Sakura stared at him, mouth falling open in shock.

With a heavy sigh, Kakashi turned away and stared out the windows behind his desk. Sakura knew he did it to put distance between them, and she let him go. She wasn't sure that she could have moved, even if she wanted to. When Kakashi continued, his voice was soft. "A relationship with Genma is a mistake. Don't ask me to watch you do that without saying something. I've stood aside for too many things already."

"I don't need you to protect me." Even as the words left Sakura's mouth, she tasted the bitter tang of a lie. Kakashi had been one of the first people that she'd revealed her pregnancy to, second only to Tsunade. She'd run to him, interrupting what was probably an important meeting with Yamato, and Kakashi had let her sob it out like a silly, frightened girl. He must have thought her a fool for falling into Genma's arms.

Sakura had never talked to Kakashi about what happened on that mission. She'd never admitted that in her poisoned, exhausted state she thought that it had been him who pulled her out of that situation. Sakura had never revealed the ache at realizing Kakashi had sent Genma in his stead. She sighed, pushing those memories deeper. "I never asked for your protection."

A sad smile crossed Kakashi's lips, visible even through the mask. "No, but you've had it all the same."

"Kakashi—" A knock at the door interrupted Sakura's response, which was just as well because she had no idea what to say.

At Kakashi's call, Raido popped his head into the office. "Sorry to interrupt, Hokage-sama, Haruno-san," the man bowed with his upper body, not fully entering. "You wanted me to remind you of your meeting with the elders this afternoon."

Kakashi glanced at the clock above the door and nodded. "Yes, thank you, Raido."

As the door shut the world away from them for a second time, a change came over Kakashi. Sakura hadn't realized how much he'd lowered his walls until he put them back in place. Kakashi walked back to the opposite side of his desk and rifled through the papers for a moment. When his gaze returned to Sakura, his eyes were no longer soft and open, but flint hard and focused. "Duty calls, I'm afraid."

Sakura started to say Kakashi's name, but he waved it away. "Think about what I said. The job is yours if you want it, and it would really help me out if you accepted."

A million questions rose and died on the tip of Sakura's tongue. A lot of things had been said or hinted at, but she didn't think that anything had changed. Kakashi offered a tight eye smile as he lifted the robes of the office from their hook on the wall. Sakura watched the white fabric transform Kakashi into a stranger. When he reached for the hat, the dismissal was obvious, but Sakura's feet were rooted in place.

One hand reached toward Kakashi, and to Sakura's shock, he captured it with his. The rough warmth of his glove made her heart skip a beat, as did the light brush of his fingertips. Kakashi squeezed, then released her fingers. "Let me know when you've made a decision, but you can take as much time as you need to figure things out."

Sakura nodded numbly, following Kakashi to the door. He paused, hand lifted toward the handle like he might add something else. Then, he shook his head and opened the door for her. "After you."

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

After leaving the Hokage's office, Sakura wandered through the village and tried to organize her chaotic thoughts. She felt out of place among the familiar scenery. Normally, Sakurawould have been at the hospital during this time of day, filling out reports or seeing patients. She knew that Tsunade would eventually reinstate her, but it could be a while. Six months ago, she would have killed for some time off to do all the things she never felt she could accomplish. Now, Sakura found herself bored and restless.

As Sakura walked, she considered Kakashi's offer. Overseeing administration for the Hokage's office should be easy enough. She'd helped Tsunade and Shizune do it for years, so she was familiar with most of the systems. Besides that, Sakura and Kakashi had worked as teammates frequently over the years. There would probably be some hiccups, but they had a foundation to build on, at least. And, it wasn't like Sakura would have to give up her career at the hospital; Shikamaru would be back in a few months.

Before Tsunade's dismissal, Sakura had assumed that she would work until the baby came, or at least until close to time. She had approximately five months of nothingness looming ahead of her. While she knew there could be a lot of complications, they were most likely to happen at the end of the pregnancy. In fact, Sakura should be entering the best part of it according to all the books she'd read. She couldn't imagine spending that time sequestered at home.

Accepting Kakashi's offer would give Sakura a job until Tsunade decided to let her come back to the hospital. Plus, Shikamaru would be thankful for her intervention. Sakura couldn't imagine the mess that Kakashi would leave if he didn't have an assistant. She pictured mountains of paperwork piling up while he leaned back reading Icha, Icha. Sometimes, Sakura wondered if Kakashi was quite as lazy as he pretended to be, like Shikamaru, or if he was more dedicated than he let on. She suspected the latter.

The thought of Kakashi left an open, aching place inside Sakura's chest, but she wasn't sure what to make of it. He'd said a lot of things during their meeting that she didn't have an answer for, things that she wasn't entirely sure that she'd heard correctly. It was natural for Kakashi to worry about her dating Genma. Tsunade, Shizune, and Ino had all tried to warn Sakura about the man. It almost made him more attractive, though it was hard to imagine that being possible.

So, Genma's fight with Kakashi was about you? Ino's words swam through the confusion in Sakura's mind. Even though she'd noticed the bruises on Kakashi's knuckles and the blood on Genma's lip, she hadn't connected the two. It had seemed innocuous at the time, two entirely unrelated things. Both men were shinobi; injuries happened all the time. But now, Sakura couldn't help but wonder. Had Kakashi punched Genma? And if so, why? Had it been protectiveness, anger, jealousy, or something else entirely?

Sakura almost laughed at the idea of Kakashi being jealous over her relationship, or lack thereof, with Genma. He'd never acted that way over Sasuke, and that had been a hell of a lot closer to dating than this mess. When you wanted to chase Sasuke, I let you go. Sakura sighed. Sasuke was another complication that she neither needed nor wanted. He hadn't once checked on her after the disaster mission. He'd been in the Land of Iron and stayed there for months; Sasuke was a problem for another day.

Frustrated, Sakura rose from the bench where she'd stopped to think and began moving through the village as if she could outrun her thoughts. Stretching her legs felt good, at least. Sakura had spent too many days sitting on the couch feeling sorry for herself. Exercise would be good for her and the baby. She walked to Ichiraku and ordered a small bowl of ramen. The rich, complex flavors stilled the quiet grumble that had been growing in her belly. Sakura wondered if the baby would like ramen as much as she did, then shuddered and hoped it didn't like it as much as Naruto.

Chuckling to herself, Sakura finished her lunch and walked to the market to buy fresh fruits and vegetables. She had lectured enough expectant mothers at the clinic to know how important it was to provide the right kinds of nutrients for her unborn child. It seemed hypocritical to fill up on takeout most nights, though that was certainly easier. After buying two bags worth of leafy greens and bright berries, Sakura resumed her meandering walk through Konoha.

Sakura felt good to be moving again, to be doing something for herself. Ever since finding out that she was pregnant, she'd been stuck in limbo. She wasn't depressed, but she definitely hadn't felt like herself either. Today was the first step in getting back to enjoying life again instead of hiding from it. On a whim, Sakura decided to stop by the bookstore and pick up a copy of the latest romance that Ino had been gushing about. While Sakura enjoyed reading, there hadn't been much space for it in her schedule. Now, she had an infinite expanse spreading before her, and nothing to fill it with.

Just outside the shop, a familiar chuckle pulled Sakura's eyes away from the glossy covers in the window. With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, she turned toward the sound. She had gone almost as far as the gates leading out of the village on her walk. Just around the corner was the stand where every person was required to check in or out of the village. Monitoring the incoming and outgoing traffic was just one of the ways that shinobi kept the village safe. There were always two or three chunin manning the station, except today Genma was there as well.

The tokujo sat on the edge of the long table with one leg tucked under him and the other stretched out. Sakura had caught Genma in the middle of telling a story; he gestured wildly with his hands, spreading them apart like an explosion. Izumo and Kotetsu, the two men usually responsible for gate duty, howled with laughter. A more sultry sound came from a woman that Sakura didn't recognize. But, she recognized the way the stranger's body turned toward Genma as her hand rested almost on his thigh.

Sick jealousy flooded through Sakura as she watched the pair. Genma shifted, and his senbon caught a glint of sunlight when he adjusted it. Sakura's heart did an uncomfortable flutter that she blamed on heartburn rather than the memory of those lips on hers not that long ago.

"Every word is true." Genma grinned, finishing his story with a flourishing bow.

Izumo's whole body rolled with his eyes. "There is no way that happened. I don't even think it's humanly possible."

"Well," the woman interrupted, gazing up at Genma through her lashes. "I think it sounds very gallant of you."

Genma rubbed the back of his neck and had the audacity to look sheepish at the compliment. "Nah, anyone would have done it."

Pain pricked Sakura's palms, and she realized that her nails had bitten into the skin. Exhaling, she shook her head. It was none of her concern who Genma decided to flirt with. They'd never been a relationship, just a series of questionable decisions. Now, they were working through the consequences of that, nothing more. He had every right to move on and talk to other people. She wished him all the best, even if the woman clearly was trying too hard.

Probably desperate for attention, Sakura decided, eyeing the pair once more. The woman had moved closer, body fully turned toward Genma in a way that practically begged for his eyes to touch her. But, his gaze was focusing on something over the woman's head. Sakura flushed and ducked into the crowd. She'd lingered too long and potentially let herself get caught watching Genma. It wasn't as if she'd expected to find him working gate duty; it had just happened that way.

As Sakura dodged into the press of people just finishing their work day, she thought someone might have called her name. She didn't turn around. Everyone was right about one thing, she needed more stability in her life and less of—whatever that was.

Sakura accepted the job with Kakashi the following morning.

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

Sakura's first week as assistant to the Hokage was a lot tougher than she'd expected it to be. Shikamaru had developed a filing system that was different from the one that Shizune used, so she spent the first two days trying to find everything. On the third morning, Kakashi surprised Sakura by having a small desk moved into the corner of his office so that they could work without Sakura running back and forth between rooms constantly. Whenever he was busy with private meetings, Sakura retreated to Shikamaru's office to file whatever they'd managed to complete.

As Sakura feared, the prodigious backlog of paperwork grew with every passing hour. Undaunted by the piles, Sakura threw herself into the controlled chaos of administrative work. She organized each request from most important to least, then delegated whatever jobs she could. Kakashi's time was a limited resource to be used for the best of the village, not spent on everything from the hospital budget to reviewing gate taxes. There were things that other people could take care of, and she quickly set anyone straight who thought otherwise.

When Sakura walked down the hallway to meet Kakashi on the first morning, Raido watched her with open confusion. The surprise in the man's eyes had only grown when Kakashi called both he and Iwashi into the office to explain the new arrangement. Sakura had stood behind Kakashi's shoulder, trying to hide her flush of embarrassment. She knew it sounded like a friend pulling a favor, but there was nothing she could do about that. Iwashi had appeared disinterested, but she read the calculation in Raido's eyes.

Sakura wondered if Kakashi had taken into account the fact that Genma and Raido were best friends. Would the man tell Genma about her new job, or did they avoid talking about her? Had they ever discussed her? Maybe Genma had moved on with the girl from the gate. But, if so, why was Raido looking at her that way? A small, cowardly part of Sakura hoped that the man would tell Genma about her job so she didn't have to. Another part wanted to tell him herself to judge his reaction.

Genma had been hurt when Sakura told Kakashi about the pregnancy before him. Nevermind the fact that he was half the world away in Suna on a mission that he requested. The pain had been unintentional on her part; at the time, Sakura hadn't decided if she planned to go through with it. Even worse, she'd injured his pride before that. In her poison induced haze, Sakura called Genma by Kakashi's name, thinking that he'd been then one to save her. The pair had never discussed it, but she knew the slight had buried itself beneath Genma's skin like a splinter he couldn't pick out.

While the idea of Kakashi being jealous over Genma sounded absurd, Genma falling victim to such a base emotion made more sense. Sakura wondered if Raido would carry rumors back to his friend about her and Kakashi. Would he read things into what Sakura wore, or how many times they worked late? Would he question what happened behind closed doors? Sakura could only assume that a man who had been part of the Hokage's guard platoon for so long would have some sense of decorum and privacy. But, would that extend to his best friend?

The truth was, if Sakura wanted to pursue a relationship with Genma, she should stay away from Kakashi. Whether or not the two men had fought over her wasn't important. Sakura knew that Genma was jealous of her friendship with Kakashi. But, she wasn't sure that she wanted more with Genma. And, even if she did, she had bills to pay and a life to live.

Over the years, Sakura had saved some money that she'd made on missions. But, with an apartment to pay for and a baby on the way, she needed to look toward the future. A couple months of work would let her put food on the table and keep the lights on while saving for her child's future. She had no real reason to refuse Kakashi's request, even if it felt a bit like betrayal.

With that in mind, Sakura threw herself into her work and didn't look back. She could handle Raido's cool, calculated stares from time to time. And, true to Kakashi's word, Sakura hadn't run into Genma since starting. While the Hokage was technically always on call for the village, his office followed regular eight to five business hours, which was less demanding than the twelve hours days that Sakura was used to. Though, she worked more of them to make up for that.

By the end of the first week, Sakura had combed through the majority of the paperwork that threatened to overwhelm Kakashi's desk and organized it into more manageable piles on hers. They'd cleared out the handful of urgent tasks and started tackling lesser difficulties. Sakura found herself engrossed in an outline of the new teaching protocol being introduced at the academy. It had shifted from 'an immediate need of soldiers' approach to one that nurtured the strength and intelligence of the individual shinobi. Sakura wondered if Naruto would have—

Kakashi cleared his throat, interrupting Sakura's thoughts. "It's getting late."

Glancing up from the paper, Sakura frowned at the darkness that had gathered outside the wall of windows behind Kakashi's desk. Dusk threw the room into a state of half gloom that the lamps fought to contain in the corners. Sakura blinked and rubbed her eyes, surprised. "So it is."

With a soft chuckle, Kakashi shook his head. "You do know that you aren't supposed to be working harder than I am, right?"

Sakura laid the report aside and shifted to pop the bones in her back. She ached from sitting in one position for too long. "I don't think that's right. In fact, I'm pretty sure that I'm supposed to work harder so that you aren't swamped by things that other people can take care of."

Eyes creasing into a smile, Kakashi laughed. "Or, you're trying to make me look bad so that they'll name you Hokage instead."

"As if you could ever look bad," Sakura teased, picking up the outline and smoothing the pages across her desk. She liked the proposal and what they were trying to do, but she needed to read it more in depth to be sure. That would be a problem for another day, though. "I'm just trying to get you in shape before Shikamaru gets back so he'll owe me a favor."

Humming noncommittally, Kakashi reached for a book with the familiar, battered orange cover on the corner of his desk. "You know, Shikamaru lets me read for an hour or two a day. I mean, I tried to sneak it in, but he pretended not to notice whenever he caught me."

"Yes, well, I'm not Shikmaru," Sakura observed as she picked up several reports that needed to be finalized. Carrying them to Kakashi's desk, she spread the pages across the polished wooden surface, then trailed her finger over multiple lines. "I need your signature here, here, and here."

Kakashi reached for his pen as Sakura was pointing out the last place, and his fingertips brushed the back of her hand. She pulled back, dragging one of the pages along with her palm. The paper fluttered to the ground between them in slow motion. Blushing, Sakura knelt to pick it up. "Sorry."

"No harm done," Kakashi answered, scratching a spidery scrawl across the first two pages. Sakura laid the third report on the desk, and Kakashi's eyes flicked up to hers. There was something in them that hadn't been there before, and he held her gaze a heartbeat before speaking, voice lower and deeper than normal. "And, I know you're not Shikamaru. The differences are hard to miss."

Don't do it, the rational part of Sakura's mind begged even as her voice asked the question. "What differences?"

"Your hair for starters," Kakashi answered, tipping his head to study Sakura's face. For a moment, she thought that Kakashi might raise a hand to brush the tresses away from her cheek, but he didn't. Warmth crawled up her neck anyway. "It's much pinker than his."

The nervous knot inside of Sakura's chest loosened as she laughed. "You're a little shorter too," Kakashi added, studying Sakura with mock intensity. His gaze traveled from head to toe, then back again. "Also, your eyes are a much brighter shade of green."

Snorting, Sakura shook her head at the silliness that had stolen the moment. "I suppose that's true. You know, since his eyes are brown."

"Are they?" Kakashi's gaze never left Sakura's, and she found it hard to breathe under the weight of his scrutiny. "I'd never noticed."

But, you've noticed mine. Sakura didn't realize that she'd spoken the words aloud until the soft, amused sound of Kakashi's chuckle died. Pink rushed into his cheeks, infinitely more noticeable by their close proximity, and he blew out a breath. "Your eyes have always been striking."

Unsure what to do with the compliment, Sakura blushed more deeply. "Thank you."

The tension stretched for a moment, amplifying the blood rushing through Sakura's ears, then Kakashi turned away. He glanced toward the clock above the door and startled. "You should have left an hour ago," he chided, voice light. "We can finish the rest of this on Monday."

"I don't have anywhere to be if you want to keep working on it." Sakura gathered up the reports that Kakashi had signed and straightened the pages. "We could order takeout, then knock out most of that stack in an hour or two?"

The offer hung in the air as Kakashi studied the papers in question. When his gaze returned to Sakura's, he shook his head. "It's been a long week already, and you need your rest. Monday is soon enough for what's left."

Sakura started to argue, but the look on Kakashi's face stopped her. It was a mixture of pleading and pain that she couldn't grasp. The man's features smoothed to shinobi emptiness as soon as he caught her looking. "Go on," Kakashi motioned toward the door, "enjoy your weekend."

Humming under her breath, Sakura placed the paperwork in her outbox and flicked her lamp off. Shadows surged forward, shrinking the light to a pool of gold around Kakashi's desk. She tucked her water bottle under one arm and grabbed her bag from the floor. When Sakura turned, Kakashi hadn't moved. A frown slid onto her face. "What are you doing? Aren't you coming?"

Kakashi shook his head a second time, eyes unreadable in the gloom. "Not yet. I need to finish a couple of things. You go ahead without me. I'll see you next week. Goodnight, Sakura."

Toying with the strap of her bag, Sakura considered the words, then nodded. If Kakashi had wanted her help, he would have asked for it. "Goodnight," she returned, moving toward the door without looking back.

Sakura didn't see Kakashi's gaze linger on the place where she'd stood beside him, or hear the heavy sigh when the man dropped his head into his hands.

[r6shippingdelivery]

A small one-shot I wrote for @ojiisan01! The Spetsnaz are on vacation from Rainbow and go back to their families. Kapkan is helping his cousin with his flower shop and Tachanka keeps coming to spend time with him. 

As always, you can read it on AO3 too!

Free time, Maxim mused, was both a blessing and a curse. After being in the military for so many years, he was more than used to the unpredictable flow of work and down time that lifestyle entailed. What he wasn’t used to was having nothing to do.

When Harry informed the Spetsnaz of their impending month-long vacation, Maxim immediately booked a ticket back to Russia. It had been so long since the last time he went home for a visit, and he missed seeing his family. However, just because he was on vacation didn’t mean the rest of the family was too. His brothers had work, his niece and nephew had to go to school, and Maxim remained alone in the old apartment for most of the day. Boredom was inevitable, and after a few days Maxim was already sick of spending his days doing nothing.

He was antsy and missed his homely little cabin in the woods, or at least the freedom that living in the middle of nowhere afforded. Maxim was already thinking of how to leave a few days early without upsetting the kids too much, when the message arrived: cousin Boris broke his knee.

Apparently a bicycle accident smashed his knee badly enough to need surgery, and he was looking for someone to baby-sit his dog and take care of his business while he was in the hospital. It was all they talked about during dinner: poor cousin Boris, all alone in St. Petersburg. And then Maxim’s sister-in-law suggested that he could go help Boris, and everyone agreed it was a fantastic idea and started acting like it was already decided.

While Maxim was a little irritated they all just assumed he would do it, he knew it was a good idea. After all, hadn’t he been complaining about having nothing to do? And it would be nice to see his cousin again, they used to be really close as kids before Boris’ family moved out. But it still stung that nobody asked his opinion before giving him the task.

_ _

St. Petersburg was exactly like any other big city Maxim had seen: noisy, full of people, and severely lacking fresh air. It was a curious sensation of never being truly alone, yet feeling strangely isolated.

Maxim enjoyed the opportunity to catch up with his cousin, even though it was awkward at first, but soon they found common ground in their love of the outdoors. It certainly explained why his cousin’s apartment was full of plants, to the point it resembled an interior garden, almost. Or his choice of business that Maxim was supposed to oversee for a few days: a flower shop.

Despite his vast experience fending off for himself in the wilderness, Maxim didn’t know the first thing about flowers. Perhaps growing plants wouldn’t have been so daunting, Maxim was used to hard physical work and getting dirty. However, arranging flowers in bouquets, or worse, giving advice on which paired best together? He was utterly lost.

Cousin Boris didn’t seem too concerned, though, assuring Maxim that most customers already knew what they wanted or chose arrangements from a catalogue. In fact, he joked that the hardest part of Maxim’s new duties would be keeping Zoya, his little dog, out of the couch and bed. Still, he took time to show Maxim around the flower shop and how things worked, the basics, so he wouldn’t be completely clueless. And the next day he bid them goodbye, both to Maxim and Zoya, before heading to the hospital and leaving Maxim in charge of the shop.

It was strange, as if he was playing a role in an elaborate play, wholly unlike Maxim’s life. But it was bearable. For the most part, clients were sparse, allowing him time to get familiar with the new environment. And yet through the whole first day he was nervous, needing to remind himself why he was here: because his brother’s wife thought it was a grand idea. And because family helped each other, and Maxim literally had all the time in the world for the next few weeks.

That night, lying on an unfamiliar bed, he realised how accurate Boris was when he said keeping the dog out of the bed would be the hardest job. She was relentless, jumping on his legs despite Maxim’s scoldings, yipping piteously at him. He was almost asleep when he felt the mattress dip again and a small weight settled next to his feet. Sighing, Maxim decided he was tired of kicking her out uselessly, and what Boris didn’t see would hurt no one.

_

The people seeking the services of the flower shop were more varied than Maxim first imagined. Lovers wanting to impress their sweethearts, gifts for mothers, presents for bosses about to retire, funerals, brides-to-be seeking their favorite blossoms… And even his comrade, Sasha. Alexsandr fucking Senaviev.

Maxim knew that Sasha’s family -ex wife and kids, as well as his sister- lived here, and that he used every chance he had to visit his children. With the city being as big as it was, the chance of stumbling into each other like this was astronomically slim, yet here they were.

At first Maxim didn’t realise who the customer was. He heard the door and barely directed a quick glance at it, knowing that people liked to look around the shop before coming to the counter. It was only when he heard a loud “Maxim, is that you?” that he looked at the person in question. Sasha looked different in civilian clothes. Maxim had almost expected him to wear a balaclava here too, and he couldn’t help but stare in disbelief at him.

“What are you doing here?” It sounded vaguely accusing and suspicious, yet Alexsandr laughed at Maxim’s borderline rude attitude and came to lean against the counter, as if he was in the bar rather than a flower shop.

“Is this your retirement plan, a secret life outside of Rainbow?” Alexsandr was grinning at him in that way that made Maxim feel like he was important and noticed. It was an absurd notion, and he hated feeling foolish. “Maxim the flower boy, who would have thought.”

“Are you going to buy something or not?” Maxim crossed his arms, annoyed.

“I saw you have this small potted cactus, and I think my little girl will love it.”

That was… reasonable. It could even be called cute, he supposed. Maxim nodded briskly and went to fetch a handful of the cacti. In the end Sasha picked the one with the shortest and softest spikes. So his ex wouldn’t yell at him for giving something that could hurt their daughter, he said.

“This is not my shop,” Maxim confessed while Sasha paid. “I’m helping my cousin for a few days, that’s it.”

He didn’t want any stupid rumours to spread, or worse, Alexsandr calling him flower boy again.

_

Maxim thought it was a one off thing. A coincidence, an isolated curiosity. He should have known better.

Alexsandr became a regular visitor at the shop, but not a customer. No, he was there to drive Maxim up the walls with his closeness and easy banter and acting like Maxim was an integral part of his life even now. Every day, he would invite Maxim out for lunch, or if he declined, to a few drinks after the flower shop closed. He stayed by Maxim’s side for the greater part of the day, and it was both familiar and comforting as it was exasperating. That mix of emotions was normal when it came to Sasha. He was an expert on eliciting fondness and irritation in Maxim’s heart, as well as something more dangerous that he avoided thinking about.

At his temporary home, when Zoya was the only witness to his wistful thoughts, Maxim allowed himself the truth of why Sasha’s presence during the day made him feel so lonely at night. He hated how he started to anticipate Sasha’s visits to the shop, how his heart would skip a beat when his comrade smiled at him in greeting. Maxim refused to set himself up for heartbreak, it was a stupid thing to do.

Thankfully, his interactions with Sasha didn’t carry any awkwardness despite Maxim’s private moments of weakness. Still, some conversations were harder to go through than others.

“What flowers would you use to tell someone you like them?”

He regarded Sasha as if he’d grown a second head, but the man was busy inspecting the daisies and didn’t notice.

“The flowers alone are usually clue enough,” Maxim deadpanned, because really, people didn’t go around giving flowers to others regularly, did they?

“Yes, but in the movies they use this or that flower because it means ‘I love you’, or some other contrived message. Has nobody asked you about that before?”

“What movies do you watch?” Maxim chuckled, because that sounded like old-fashioned romance movies, and picturing Sasha watching those was hilarious. Alexsandr remained serious, discounting the amused glint in his eyes, so Maxim shrugged. “No fucking idea. Red roses are always popular. But I would get a bouquet of whatever is your girl’s favorite flower.”

“And if I don’t know that?” Sasha appeared pensive, and Maxim swallowed the bitterness he felt when considering who might be the person motivating these questions. Lera deserved the best, and he had no right to feel jealous.

“Then picking flowers in her favorite color might be a good idea? I don’t know! I know shit about romantic advice, maybe the roses are popular for a reason.” Maxim shrugged, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken.

To his relief, Sasha nodded as he got closer to the counter. “I like red. Red is a good, strong color.”

“Of course you think that, Mr. Red Army family.” Maxim couldn’t help teasing him, because Sasha did it to him all the time and payback was only fair.

“Red is a color suited for hunters too! Or do you prefer green?” Sasha literally poked him, and Maxim swatted his hand away, fighting to hide a smile.

“I don’t care about colors.” His declaration was met with a scoff of incredulity, and Maxim suddenly felt the urge to defend his position. “Colors are all a distraction, a way to either blend in the surroundings or give yourself away. Especially when it snows. When white covers everything you can see, colors are either meaningless or your death sentence.”

Alexsandr grunted. “I think red would make a nice contrast on white, like blood on the snow.”

He didn’t disagree. It was a vivid image, one that was alluring not despite its sense of danger, but because of it.

_

A couple of days later, cousin Boris was back home, and Maxim knew his time as a florist was ending. It wasn’t the worst experience ever, but it was also something he couldn’t see himself doing regularly.

He notified Sasha of the impending end to their new routine, and how he wasn’t sure what he would do now. They still had another week of free time, and Maxim didn’t think he would go back to Kovrov, but he wasn’t sure if he’d stay in the city either, or if Boris would even welcome him for a longer stay. Maxim wanted to say Sasha looked disappointed at the news, but it was a momentary thing.

Alexsandr promised him that tomorrow, his last day as a flower boy, they’d celebrate by going drinking. Getting properly wasted as a way of celebrating was a time honored tradition between them, something they used to do after every successful mission.

There was a strange energy between them for the entire day, which Maxim blamed on Sasha, who was acting weird. The man was usually calm and at ease, but today he kept glancing at his phone, checking the time, and Maxim didn’t believe for a second he was that eager to go drinking. He even disappeared for a time while Maxim closed the shop, and Maxim started considering that maybe something happened and they should postpone their little outing.

However, before he was even done locking the front door, Sasha was back, acting all suspicious and holding something behind his back. Maxim frowned at him. “What are you doing?”

As all answer, Alexsandr smirked and revealed what he’d been hiding. A bouquet where most of the flowers were white, except for a few striking touches of red. Maxim stared at it, stunned, and not realising it was meant for him until Sasha gestured at him twice to grab it. Up close, he could identify white camellias and red chrysanthemums, along with the sweet fragrance of jasmine. The yellow ones he thought were irises, but he wasn’t sure. It was lovely, and Maxim still couldn’t believe that Sasha actually meant this gesture. Surely not in the same way Maxim wanted to interpret it.

“What’s the meaning of this?” He scowled, eyeing the bouquet with unveiled suspicion.

“I thought the flowers alone would be clue enough,” Sasha said, and he could hit him for using Maxim’s own words against him in such a way.

He wondered if there was any meaning to the flowers, if there was a subtle message he was missing. After the conversation from a few days ago, he wouldn’t put it past Sasha to do something like that just to mess with him. “If this is a joke, it’s not a funny one.”

“A joke? I don’t joke about things that matter.” Sasha seemed a bit offended, and Maxim wanted to believe him. He really did. But he still doubted. Sensing his hesitation, Sasha sighed. “I know I said we’d go drinking, but I thought we could go to my apartment, have dinner and drinks there.”

The way he said it made it sound like a dare, and Maxim couldn’t resist a challenge. “I never say no to food.”

Alexsandr’s answering grin was so radiant that it could have melted Antarctica, and Maxim suddenly realised he’d agreed to what sounded like a home date. The revelation made him nervous in an exciting way, similar to what he felt during hunts. Except he was pretty sure he was the one who had fallen into a trap this time. It was fine. Maxim loved the allure of danger, after all, and this particular danger was one he’d wanted to explore for so long.

This would be one of the worst mistakes of his life, or the best decision Maxim ever made. There was only one way to find out, and judging by Sasha’s pleased expression and the warmth in his chest as they walked side by side, Maxim was content with his decision.

_________________________

About the bouquet Sasha gives Maxim, I like to imagine he went to another florist who wasn't phased by the request, they made Sasha talk about what he wanted to say and then put a bouquet together. According to my quick research, the flowers used there mean:

White camellia: You are adorable Red chrysanthemum: I love you (Spanish) jasmine: Sensualtiy Yellow iris: Passion

So what do you think Sasha was trying to say with that? 😉

[writing-in-april]

Too little Too late

Spencer Reid x GN Reader, Spencer Reid x BAU Team (Plationic Angst) Spencer’s POV

The fic cycles by @zhuzhubii inspired this very angsty fic along with some help by @ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff and some Spencer Reid headcanons from @m0rcia​ about the ugly side of his addiction.

A/N: This is Very Sad READ WITH CAUTION, I warned y’all. This is my first fic in Spencer’s POV and my next one should be in his POV as well. Also I don’t have any personal brushes with addiction so this may not be an entirely accurate portrayal of what it entails. Also if you or someone you love is suffering from addiction this number- 1-800-662-4357 is a national hotline for substance abuse,  know you’re not alone and we all love you.

Warnings: READ WITH CAUTION MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING, Drug abuse (specifically dilaudid), Major character death, Depression, and Suicide ( I think that is it but please let me know if there is anymore I should add )

Summary: Spencer doesn’t know what he’s fighting for anymore. Set after revelations (season 2 episode 15)

Masterlist Word count: 1.4k

I was trying, truly I was. But, right now the cravings were too hard to ignore and I couldn’t quite remember what I was fighting for in the first place. The only things I had to look forward to as of late was when Y/N talked to me at the end of every day when we were on a case. Y/N always talked to us all every time we were about to go to our hotel to try to keep us positive and objective. But, this time as I looked around in the lobby of the hotel room filled only with moonlight and a small desk lamp for the late night worker I noticed something that made my heart drop to my toes. They weren’t here.

They weren’t here.

The very small part of my brain that still functioned on logic tried to tell me that the case was rough for them and they were probably affected just as much as the rest of us. However, the rage bubbling up in my mind came to one conclusion only.

I was utterly abandoned.

I had even told myself that I was going to come clean to them today, that I was going to reach out and ask for help. I knew now that no one cared how I felt. I felt like I had been rescued and no one even cared if it affected me, all they seemed to care about was that I was the same as before. I felt like I was a toy used just for decoration, lost by a child, when I was found again I was put back onto the shelf for display. No one cared if I had been chewed on by the dog, just that I still looked pretty enough to sit on the shelf. And the only one who had bothered to reach out was gone, I didn’t blame them, they were probably sick of all the complaining I did, my stupid little rants, the way I used my hands to much to talk, and all of my other stupid little quirks.

My rushing body and mind looked for the thing it craved for the most, to avoid all the emotions rushing to the surface just so I could feel nothing. As I stumbled to my room I vaguely thought about how I probably looked like a mad man running to my room but at this point nothing mattered above getting to the release that I desired.

We had single rooms on this case and I was glad that I wouldn’t have to hide out in the bathroom to experience my high. I frantically looked for the hotel key so I could finally get to the only comfort I had anymore before I caught sight of the door to the room right next to mine. It was Y/N’s and I briefly considered knocking, though the shaking need for dilaudid pulled me inside my own hotel room away from the person I was sure had abandoned me.

I barely got into my room before I rushed onto the bed and frantically searched for the little glass vial that would bring me relief. When I put the hypodermic needle in to measure out the dose I didn’t really bother to pay attention to how much was in the syringe, just that it was a lot. With the tourniquet wrapped around my arm I started to look for a vein, I groaned out in frustration when I couldn’t find a proper one and I had to switch to my other arm. Once the dilaudid was injected into my veins I breathed a sigh of relief, all I had to do was just wait for the high to hit.

I knew I had injected too much but I didn’t find it within me to care. All I cared about was the high that was now coursing through my body, taking away all my thoughts into a euphoric state. The little portion of my brain that refused to yet shut down was telling me that I had definite signs of overdose- my hands were clammy and cold, my breathing slowing down to long deep almost gasping breaths, and my heart was slowing down so much that I could barely hear the thumping in my ears. I looked up at the beige ceiling through my barely open eyes that had drooped down almost closed. I knew that when my eyes closed sleep would not follow, something more permanent than sleep was taking over my body. But, again I didn’t seem to care because no one cared about me anymore. My mind did drift to the people in my life wondering what would happen in the morning when they realized I was gone.

Would they cry over my body? Would they even try to use CPR? Would they even bother to use the NARCAN that was sitting at the bottom of his bag? Or would they take one look at my pale blue lips and tell themselves that it was for the best?

What would they tell my mom? It was selfish of me to leave her all alone but she has people who take better care of her then I ever did. They’ll tell her something more palatable than me dying from a drug overdose. Maybe they’ll even try to convince her I was still alive as to not push her fragile mental state. Maybe they’ll write letters pretending to be me to convince her I was still here, but it doesn’t matter what they tell her.

She doesn't need me. They don’t need me. She’ll be fine. They’ll be fine.

——-

Everyone knew something was off when Spencer wasn’t the first one downstairs in the morning guzzling coffee that was undoubtedly way too sweet and furiously looking over case files.

Y/N was the last person in the morning and when she noticed that he wasn’t there she made a mad dash to his room. Everyone had their suspicion of what had been going on with Spencer but no one wanted to say it out loud or push him too much. Y/N had been hoping he would reach out to her during one of their talks, they knew he would probably refuse if they reached out to him.

A sinking feeling sat in all their guts as they followed Y/N up to his room. Tears were all prickling in their eyes as they each took turns pounding on the door before Derek decided it was time to kick the door in.

The reactions of the team were all different to finding his body cold to the touch, lips blue, and a needle sticking out of his arm with a tourniquet wrapped around it.

Hotch immediately went into boss mode along with Derek, both alternating doing CPR while the other searched hopefully for NARCAN in his bag. They did happen to find it though using it to no avail but they never stopped trying, not until EMS came to relieve them from their duties. Throughout it all they tried to be stoic and calm but both couldn't help but call out brokenly for Spencer to wake up, tears from Derek falling onto what they both knew deep down was a corpse.

Emily and Rossi were the calmest ones out of the bunch, Emily being on the phone with 911 while Rossi went to get help from the staff. They couldn’t totally hide their pain, they both had silent tears streaming down their faces and they both could barely get the words out.

JJ was sitting in the corner of the room hands roughly in her hair, her face pale, and it almost looked as if she was about to be sick from the sight. She couldn’t fathom that this was happening right in front of her and she was shutting down.

Y/N had the worst reaction screaming hysterically at Spencer’s body while roughly shaking his cold hand. They tried to feel for a pulse in vain, starting to shake violently when they couldn’t find one. When EMS came to take him to the hospital Y/N had to be pried off of his body by Emily, almost punching her in the face as they violently tried to crawl back towards Spencer’s arm to look for the pulse again even though they knew they wouldn’t find it.

Besides an exchange between Derek and Hotch the ride to the hospital was completely silent besides stifled sobs from Y/N. Hotch had broken his rough facade while driving to the hospital with silent tears that blurred his ability to drive. He switched with Derek, not that he was much better, he had to drive extremely slow to avoid crashing.

No one wanted to admit it.

No one wanted to admit that he was gone.

No one wanted to admit that they were too late to save him.

Y/N blamed themself for not talking to him last night, maybe if they had talked they would’ve noticed how much he was struggling last night. They all knew they should’ve said something but the time never felt right. It was too little too late.

[bokunoheroanalysisforthefuture]

Whoo boy, been a little bit. I can’t really say much besides IRL sucks, so. Back to something that doesn’t suck, which is BNHA. This chapter is dedicated to the good bean Tenya, especially his little smile which forced me to change my pfp on discord because I just couldn’t.

I was kinda planning on doing arc summaries between sections, but honestly, the BNHA wiki already has those, so if you don’t want to go back and read through all the posts I’ve done for the pre-USJ chapters, just head over there and do a skim of the summaries there, I guess?

[No. 12 - Yeah, Just Do Your Best, Iida!]

I just love how his hand gestures are actual effective tools against enemies, I cannot even. Also, a good and friendly reminder that carbonated drinks stall his engines! I have never seen that used in fanfic, whether for crack or whump purposes… a shame.

We head right into the next morning from that battle training, with the kids being held up by the media as they ask about All Might. Izuku is a bundle of nerves as he awkwardly excuses himself to the nurse’s office, Ochako is a darling who describes All Might as super muscly, and Tenya goes into a whole ass speech with a lot of fancy language to explain the honor of being at UA and learning under All Might. 

(Honestly, I find it hard to determine whether this is genuinely earnest or if he’s picked up media warding skills from his parents and older brother. It’s probably genuine, but I just love the idea behind low-key troll master Tenya who learned from the best, aka his older brother.)

Katsuki, unfortunately, is still known as ‘the kid from the sludge incident’, which I mean. I am so fucking baffled at how long the media in this have held onto that 'sludge incident' thing, like, you'd think they'd have moved on to other things by now and don't really think about it much.

It’s the same with the general public (as seen in chapter 3), like, yes, I too would have a fucking complex and anger issues if all anyone thought about in relation to me wasn't my high grades or my skill in combat or anything, but that one time a year ago where I was almost suffocated to death while the people who were supposed to save my life did fucking nothing. I mean, Katsuki has always had a complex, but This Didn't Help.

Moving on, we see the media wondering who the fuck this messy looking dude waving them off is, while Aizawa just. Fucking shoos them like they’re dogs or kids or something. His words seem like a vague attempt at being polite about shooing them, but with the hand gesture, well. Basically comes off more as a chastisement. 

...honestly, this feels so weird that no one knew about it even though the kids who got in got a message from All Might saying he’d be teaching there. The only thing I and the others can assume is that there was an NDA on him teaching until it was announced to the newspapers on the first day of classes. Which would explain why it didn’t hit the news until said day…

Whatever, it’s weird, let’s just move on.

One of the reporters steps forward, asking/demanding a chance to speak to All Might about his sudden shift to teaching, only for the guy behind her to try and call out a warning - just a touch too late, as the sensors over the gate react, causing the daunting hunk of metal serving as a gate to slam closed right in front of her. Gonna guess she’s new to the reporting scene. The guy explains that the UA barrier locks down if someone without a school ID approaches the gate, and that supposedly there are more sensors throughout the campus.

The panel gives us a diagram of the three ‘levels’ of sensors - the gate/wall around the school, the walkway to the school, and the school itself. Which I think correlates to the security levels that come up later, since it’s a ‘level three’ breach, which means the school was broken into. Was it… always that fucking simple and I just totally glossed over that detail until now? orz

While the newsfolk complain about not getting comments from UA, we get to see the back of a ~mysterious figure~ who definitely isn’t the primary antagonist of the entire series. God, you can see his individual neck vertebrae.

Horrifying.

We transition to 1a’s homeroom, with Aizawa going over the battle training as well as their grades / evaluations. Aizawa calls out Katsuki and tells him to grow up and stop wasting his talent, which Katsuki grudgingly accepts. Izuku jolts at being called out next over his broken arm, and accepts the chastisement of learning to control his quirk, because trying isn’t going to cut it. Aizawa does soften the blow, however, by repeating that Izuku has potential, assuming he overcomes that issue.

With that done, Aizawa ‘Plus Extra™’ Shouta gets the whole class tense by drawing out the next class announcement. While I think it’s a translation error, the whole class sweating as they wonder whether it’s another brutal pop quiz is hella funny. (I’m guessing it was meant to be ‘test’ which would reference to the quirk assessment as well as the battle training, but ah well.) The whole class sighs in relief as one as Aizawa finally reveals that their task for the morning is to choose a class president - a normal, school-like thing in comparison to the past two days.

Pretty much the entire class has their hands raised to volunteer for the position, with Katsuki being particularly aggressive about it (as per the norm). Even Izuku has his hand shyly lifted up from the desk, while his narration notes that the position in normal schools entails mundane tasks, but in UA’s hero course means leading the group - a position suited for a top hero in the making.

Tenya calls for them all to quiet down, drawing attention as he goes on to explain how leading people is a task of heavy responsibility, but that ambition is not equal to ability. He is so intense it’s hilarious as he explains how the office demands the trust of its constituents, and that if it’s to be a democracy, then he puts forward the motion that they choose their leader through election.

Seriously this is just so fucking hilarious, I love this boy so much. And I love whoever it is that calls out that this is a classroom, not congress. 

Tsuyu points out that the class hasn’t known each other long enough to build trust, and Kirishima notes that everyone will vote for themselves. Tenya points out that that is precisely the reason that anyone who gets multiple votes will be the best suited for the job. He then checks with Aizawa if this is allowable, which the teacher agrees to so long as it’s quick. And a quick transition, we reveal the winners-

Izuku with three votes, and Momo with two.

Everyone else, it seems, still has one vote, which was their own (as predicted). Izuku is shook. Katsuki is shaking in anger as he demands to know who the hell voted for Deku. Ochako is whistling and looking away, thinking that she’d better not let Katsuki find out.

(Also of note is that Sero is already approaching Katsuki and making a joke here about it being obvious Katsuki wasn’t one of Izuku’s votes, and then seemingly laughing a bit when Katsuki’s temper turns on him?

Hard to say for sure, but it seems Sero is the first of Katsuki’s future friend group to approach him and get away with poking at his temper. Which I feel is something very much overlooked by the fandom in favor of Kirishima for fairly obvious reasons.)

Tenya, meanwhile, is in a funk as he notes he has no votes, and that that is the harsh reality of office. Momo is concerned as she notes that zero votes meant he voted fro someone else, while Sato points out that Tenya was the one to suggest the election, so what did he seriously want? Izuku and Momo go to the front of the class - Izuku a nervous wreck while Momo’s just exasperated with the situation. Aizawa confirms their positions as he gets out of his sleeping bag, and the class talk a bout about the suitability of the chosen pair while Tenya continues to sulk in his seat.

With that, the first half of the chapter is done, so I’ll call it here. I can certainly say I learned a thing or two today, and I hope y’all did as well!

[d3-iseefire]

Little Swan Lost Chapter 39

Thorin hadn’t realized it was possible for a human to turn as scarlet red as the girl did when he opened the door. She then did her best to look anywhere but him but her eyes, almost on their own, darted toward his chest every few seconds. Every time they did, he swore she discovered a new intensity of red.

At least he didn’t have to worry about whether his young wife found him physically attractive.  

The thought passed idly through his mind, only to be pushed out by another taking its place. He had personally seen her being escorted back into the palace on their wedding night, and her cousin had all but accused her of infidelity. The media reports and rumors, many traced directly back to Shire, also painted her as…promiscuous to say the least.

Thorin had half expected similar rumors to crop up in Erebor, especially after discovering she’d found a way to sneak out of the palace.  

Those rumors had never come, however, and now, watching her reaction to him, he questioned if she’d ever seen a man without his shirt on much less done anything else with one. Instead of behaving like the tart the media painted her as, she was behaving far more like a…

“I’m sorry,” Bilba suddenly blurted, derailing his train of thought. She waved a hand vaguely toward where the worst of the bruising from the ocean fiasco had stained his torso a mottled yellow and black. “That must hurt.”

It did, but there was no reason to rub it in her face. “It’s fine,” Thorin said instead. “What about you?”

“Oh.” Her hand lifted slightly toward her side. “I’m all right. Thank you for asking.”

They lapsed into an awkward silence, until Thorin finally cleared his throat. “Did you want something?”

Bilba jumped. “Did you hear what happened today?” Her voice was so quiet he could barely hear her. She started wringing her hands aggressively, leaving the skin reddened.

Without thinking, Thorin put a hand over hers, stopping them mid-motion. She froze, and her eyes went wide.

“Sorry.” He pulled his hand back.

“No, it’s fine,” she said quickly, waving her hands in front of her. “It’s-- ”

She trailed off again and Thorin suppressed a sigh. They’d be here all night at this rate. “You were saying?” he asked, struggling to keep the frustration from his voice. “I was in meetings all day, so I haven’t heard much of anything.”

Meetings that had left him drained and fighting a headache, which was why he’d grabbed some pain medication and gone straight to bed afterward, only to be woken up less than an hour later by her knocking on his door.

Her shoulders slumped a half inch or so as if relieved to find him ignorant. Probably not a good sign.

“I just thought I should tell you. Before –”

“I hear it from someone else?” Thorin filled in. Definitely a bad sign then. He sighed and resigned himself to still more frustration before he’d be allowed to sleep again. “All right.” He gestured toward the couch. “Shall we?”

She nodded, and then paused, eyes darting toward his chest. Thorin raised an eyebrow in question. “Would you prefer it if I put on a shirt first?”

Another nod and Thorin pushed off the doorframe to retrieve a black t-shirt from his closet. It was one he used as an undershirt so it was on the tighter side, but it would have to do. He didn’t really have any casual clothes and he wasn’t about to get dressed back in his uniform for…whatever this was.

He returned to the door. “Better?”

She muttered something that sounded like “marginally” and headed for the couch with him close on her heels.

He sat on one end, and she immediately headed to the exact opposite side. In a seamless, graceful move she sat and pulled her legs up so they somehow fit perfectly beside her on the small cushion. Thorin would have dislocated a hip if he tried to copy that position, but she looked entirely comfortable. His own flexibility was limited to throwing an arm along the back of the couch and crossing a leg to allow him to face her easier.  

“You’re a dancer, right?” he asked, only to mentally kick himself. Of course she was a dancer, he’d literally witnessed her doing it.

“I danced for a company back in Shire.” A look of genuine happiness crossed her face, and Thorin realized it was the first time he’d ever seen it. “I was hoping I could maybe dance for the one here in Erebor too.”

Thorin tried, and failed, to find a diplomatic response. He suspected the girl didn’t understand being crown princess wasn’t just a title, but a full-time job. Nori had reported Bilba had lived a relatively civilian life in Shire, but Thorin had thought she’d at least have some idea of what being a princess entailed.

It was becoming increasingly clear that she did not. She’d never inquired about her duties and responsibilities, and while a schedule had been mentioned to her, Thorin doubted she understood just what it meant. The fact she wanted to work at a bakery, and attend college, and was now expressing interest in dancing proved that much.

The look on her face was fading, and he knew he’d waited to long to answer.

“We’ll see,” he said finally, lamely trying to salvage what little he could. “You can bring it up to Balin.”

Perhaps they could work something out where she did certain things part time or only part of the year. There was also the possibility of patronages where they could potentially incorporate what she wanted into her actual duties. It’d depend on what duties she ended up having, and the possible conflicts between those responsibilities and the things she wanted to do.

She gave him a weak, false smile and focused on where her hands were clasped in her lap. “I suppose.” She shifted in her seat and took a deep breath. “All right, I guess I should stop stalling and just tell you.”

The sense of dread reared up again and settled across Thorin’s shoulders. If she’d gone to the trouble of getting him up and was fidgeting this badly, he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it. “All right.”

She started talking, eyes focused on her hands and voice low as she recounted the events of the day. By the end of it all, Thorin had shut his eyes and was pinching the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to ward off the worsening headache behind his temples.

Bilba lapsed into silence.

“First off,” he said eventually, opening his eyes and straightening to face Bilba. “I apologize on behalf of my father. He’s an idiot and had no right to do that to you.”

Or at least he had no right to do it the way he had. Thorin doubted the Thain of Shire cared whether or not the girl could produce an heir, not with the crown having four already, but he wouldn’t put it past the man sending someone infertile out of simple spite. So Thorin could at least understand having the question.

Having the question after barely a month, however, was ridiculous and forcing the girl into an exam was asinine. He could imagine what his sister had said to their father, and he fully intended to add his own part in the morning.

He’d also need to speak to Kyra. She didn’t deserve whatever his father had said on top of everything else she was dealing with. The media had been split on her since the wedding, with some giving her sympathy and the rest mocking her mercilessly. He’d heard some of what was being said and it was brutal. Kyra hadn’t commented on it, but he had no doubt she was aware of it.

“It’s all right.” She bit her lower lip. “I tried to tell Dis I didn’t need--”

“Dis is a force of nature,” Thorin said, waving off her explanation. “Trying to control her just encourages her.”

A ghost of a smile graced Bilba’s face. Her shoulders slumped with relief, and she leaned a little harder into the back of the couch.

“I appreciate you telling me,” Thorin added, and he meant it. It suggested at least some level of trust, even if she didn’t fully realize it. Even if she’d believed his reaction might be negative, she’d still gone to the length of waking him up to have a private conversation with him.

She was more comfortable with him than she thought, and if that was the case...

An idea that had been percolating at the back of his mind for awhile pushed to the front, and Thorin acted on it before he could talk himself out of it.

“I wonder,” he started slowly, his own nerves suddenly on edge. “Since we’re already on the topic, if I could ask you something.”

She raised an eyebrow in question, and he froze as uncertainty settled in. This probably wasn’t the best time but, then again, when was a good time to bring up physical intimacy? He’d idly hoped she’d approach him, especially based on the reports from Shire, but that hadn’t happened. Was it because she’d been finding an outlet somewhere else, or was it that the reports were wrong all together?

There was also the fact that he hadn’t even spoken to her until just recently and, again, how did one broach such a topic, particularly to a stranger? Oh, by the way, I know we barely know one another, but I’m not a huge fan of celibacy so I was wondering…”

Yeah, that would go over well, wouldn’t it?

But now she’d brought it up, in a roundabout way, so wouldn’t this be the perfect time to…

“You didn’t consummate the marriage, did you?”

Kyra’s words, almost the first thing she’d said to him after he’d called her on the wedding night.

A sick feeling settled in his gut.

What was he thinking? How could he do that to Kyra? She’d be devastated if he did…that…and she found out.

“Of course not.”

That’s what he’d said to her. Of course not, and he’d meant it even though, in the back of his mind he’d been thinking of the duty of one day needing to produce a male heir.

Duty.

Just a duty.

An obligation.

Intimacy for a purpose, not because he simply…wanted it.

And yet, here he was, about to ask about exactly that.

Mahal, what did that say about him? Was he really that fickle? Was it so important to him that he’d betray the woman who’d been by his side since childhood?

But you betrayed her already, didn’t you? A voice inside his head whispered. You broke your engagement, and married another, didn’t you?

He’d thought he was doing the right thing. He still thought so, most of the time. He’d made his choice and it had been the right one, hadn’t it? He’d been taught since childhood that duty to the crown came above all else. It had been a matter of honor.

And, besides, if he’d refused…if he’d abdicated the throne in favor of marrying Kyra…would that have really been better? Frerin, who had neither the temperament nor the desire to rule, would have been named heir. The nobility would have torn him apart.

Dis would have been there.

Even so, Thorin knew his father would have disowned him and fired Kyra from her position as ambassador. He would have been left penniless, and at the mercy of living off Kyra’s finances.

Excuses.

It was highly possibly they’d have had to leave Erebor, and for what?

For what indeed?

Krya would never be happy living a simple life, and Thorin would be useless for it. He was a crown prince. He didn’t know how to be anything else.

He’d had an uncle once who left everything behind to marry a woman his family had not approved of. He’d ended up rotting away at the villa of some benevolent relative or another, unable to find work due to his notoriety and lack of skill set. There was little call in the workforce for an ex-noble that had fallen out of favor with those in power.

Over time, his uncle had begun to resent his new wife and that resentment had grown into a cancer that had utterly poisoned their relationship.

If Thorin had gone down that same road, would he have faced the same end?

He feared the answer was yes. Yes and, in that, the choice, in the end, had been that there was no choice.

His father questioned why he didn’t abdicate.

The answer was he couldn’t. The answer was there were no good options, no good roads or paths to take that would lead him to an end he desired.

There was only the least painful route.

The route that did the least damage.

The route that protected Kyra from the worst possible pain, even if she didn’t see it.

 If it was the right choice, then why work so hard to undo it?

Why are you questioning it?

Why not just ask?

 Kyra’s face when he’d told her the engagement was broken filled his mind and a surge of nausea roiled in his gut. He pushed to his feet, guilt making his very bones ache. “Never mind,” he said, voice sharper than he’d intended. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

He almost ran into his room and shut the door, the last sight he had of Bilba’s eyes, wide and startled where she still sat on the couch.

He pressed his hands on the door, leaned his head against it, and let out a quiet groan.

She probably thought he was insane.

He thought he was insane, sometimes.

He pushed off the door and paced to his balcony. He threw open the doors and was immediately hit by the bitter cold air coming off the ocean. The loud roar of the sea washed over him, and he heard the distant sound of a ship’s horn.

Thorin walked out onto the balcony, stone cold beneath his feet, and leaned forward to rest his hand on the stone railing. The skies were overcast, as they often were in Erebor, so there was little to see but he could imagine it well enough.

Light caught his attention and he turned to see it shining merrily from Bilba’s windows.

Those windows were supposed to belong to Kyra. The entire room in fact. She’d designed it, even slept in it when she wasn’t in his room. They’d been all but living together right up until the very end when he’d pulled it all down around her without warning.

What kind of man did that?

He tightened his hands on the railing until he felt the edge of the stone cutting into his palms, and then shoved off it angrily.

He stalked back into his room, dropped onto his back on his bed and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes.

Mahal, what was he doing?

This was done with. He’d made his decision. Why was he questioning it now? He needed to stop. Stop questioning, stop having Ori look for ways out, stop…

Kyra’s heartbroken sobs rang through his mind, and suddenly bile was forcing its way up his throat. Thorin lunged from the bed, and barely made it to the bathroom before he lost what little he’d been able to eat that day.

When he was done, he leaned forward to rest his head against the cold porcelain of the toilet lid, chest heaving as he caught his breath.

Some crown prince he was.

Some fiancé, or husband for that matter.

He and Kyra should have just eloped, years ago when they’d have the chance. He could have given Kyra the large wedding she wanted later, after his father had a chance to calm down. Bilba would have ended up married to Frerin, who was closer in age to her and had far less baggage to cart around.

It would have been better for all of them.

He pushed himself shakily to his feet and went to rinse his mouth at the sink. A glance in the mirror showed him looking haggard, dark circles under his eyes from the day full of meetings, and his hair unkempt.

“Get ahold of yourself,” he ordered under his breath to his reflection. “You’re the crown prince for Mahal’s sake.”

His reflection offered nothing but judgement in return. Thorin splashed water on his face, grabbed a towel to dry off and went to try and get some sleep.

It would be a long time coming and, when it did, his dreams were haunted by the sound of a woman crying and a voice shouting one single question for which he had no answer.

Why?

***

Bilba didn’t know how long she sat on the couch before finally getting up to retire to her room. At her door, she paused and looked over her shoulder toward Thorin’s room. She could hear him in there, pacing about, clearly unsettled.

“Since we’re already on the topic, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you about.”

Which topic? They’d talked about money before, and he’d never brought anything up so that left the topic of…heirs? He’d wanted to talk about heirs?

No, she thought as sudden heat flooded her face. Not heirs.

Sex.

He’d wanted to talk about sex.

Wanted to but, instead, had freaked out as far as she could tell and ran off to his room?

Bilba walked into her own room slowly and shut the door behind her. Her room, but Kyra had designed it. How close must they have been to the wedding for Kyra to have designed her room in the marital suite?

He must have been sleeping with her.

Bilba paused mid-step as the thought crossed her mind. She knew that already, logically. They’d been together for years, all but married. She knew it, but this was the first time she’d recognized it.

It must have been a drastic change, for both of them. Their entire lives upended in an instant.

A heavy feeling settled over her, and Bilba wrapped her arms around herself. She’d been congratulating herself on not being bitter but had simultaneously been judging Thorin and Kyra for every time they so much as looked at one another.

If anything, they should be the ones who were bitter. Especially Kyra. Every day she saw the man she loved but couldn’t touch him.

Bilba sank down onto the end of her bed and tried to imagine if she had been Kyra, having to watch Bofur with someone else.

It would have hurt, and she hadn’t even been with him that long. Not as long as Kyra and Thorin had been.

She sighed and studied her hands. She wasn’t so good a person that she fully sympathized with either of them, but she supposed it wouldn’t kill her to try a little harder to be understanding, would it?

A soft scratching came from her balcony doors, and she got up to go open them a slit. Immediately the beach cat strolled in, damp and irritable but with tail and head held high.

“Did you get caught by the tide coming in?” Bilba asked. She scooped the small creature up and went to grab a towel to dry the small animal off with. Once that was done, she changed, turned off the lights and climbed into bed. The cat burrowed under the covers and curled against her stomach, purring softly.

Bilba absently stroked its head, while staring blankly into the darkness.

Had Thorin really wanted to talk about…that? She suppressed a shiver. If he had, it’d probably come up again, or maybe not. Maybe it wasn’t even what she’d thought. Maybe he’d been wanting to ask her if he could continue to have sex with Kyra.

Bilba scowled. Sympathy or not, she didn’t think she’d be okay with that. But she also didn’t think she’d be okay with him wanting to be intimate with her, either.

That wasn’t particularly fair though, was it? If it was something he wanted enough to try talking to her about, then shouldn’t she at least hear him out? Should she bring it up, or wait and see if he mentioned it again sometime down the road?

She’d prefer the latter. Maybe he’d just forget about it all together and never bring it up again?

She sighed. It had been so much easier with Bofur. They’d had a foundation, a relationship that made it easy to just talk when they needed to talk. They’d talked about intimacy. He’d understood her hesitancy, if not the reasons for it, and had assured her he was fine with it.

It had honestly never occurred to her that Thorin might not be.

She sighed and pulled the covers up to her chin. The thought of him possibly wanting…intimacy…made her nervous but didn’t particularly scare her. Mainly because she was confident that, if he’d planned to bully her or pressure her, she’d have known that by now. So she could say no.

She hoped she could say no.

She hadn’t actually said it to him yet, had she?

Some men were so kind, until they heard the word no.

Bilba shook her head. She was reading too much into it, working herself up over something that probably wasn’t even what she thought. He’d probably wanted to talk about something innocuous and, even if it had been that, there was no reason to believe he’d turn into a monster if…when, she rejected him.

“Please don’t a monster,” she whispered out loud.

The kitty grumbled against her stomach, and Bilba settled against the pillow, hoping sleep would find her sooner or later.

Maybe she could try talking to him? Not about that per se but just…about…stuff? She’d talked to Bofur all the time, and she missed it.

Maybe.

She’d think about it.

Maybe she’d just solve the problem by ignoring it all together and hoping it went away.

It had never worked before but there was always a first time.

Right?

Follow on AO3: Follow on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1743620/chapters/3723188

[raelly-writing]

Until the Morrow

Thancred/fWoL, 5.0 spoilers for the MSQ. Takes place after the level 77 dungeon :)

-----

Thancred stared up into the top of the old bunk bed. In the dark, he could clearly hear the sounds of Urianger and Alphinaud’s slow and even breathing.

A vague, nonsensical feeling of envy stirred in his chest. Sighing, he twisted onto his side, pulling the covers closer around himself. The hasty movement made his muscles ache, battered and bruised as he still felt after all the fighting. Really, after a day so long and exhausting as the one they’d had, he should be dead to the world as well.

Try as he might tho, sleep would not come to him. His thoughts kept twisting and turning, picking over the events of the day, regret like a black void in his chest as each one inevitably made his thoughts loop back to another memory - of things he had not said when he should have, how he could now see how keeping Ryne at arm’s length had hurt her so deeply, and picking over each and every moment of the past few weeks, years, vowing to do better, to be better for her sake.

But he wouldn’t be to any good use on the morrow if he didn’t get some rest.

“Seven Hells…” Despite that his gruff whisper was muffled against the thin pillow it sounded so loud in the quiet room. Try as he might, even when resorting to old meditation techniques, the uncomfortable energy that simmered and crawled right beneath his skin just wouldn’t go away, leaving him twisting and turning in search for a comfortable sleeping position.

Finally, with a twinge of annoyance at himself, Thancred threw aside the covers and rolled out of bed. Maybe a walk would let him relax. The old worn floorboards shifted beneath his sock clad feet as he silently made his way to the door with his boots in hand, yet neither of his companions thankfully stirred from their slumber.

When he closed the door behind him and the stillness of the dark corridor enveloped him, Thancred let out his breath in a slow exhale and quickly pulled on his boots.

Now that he was fully awake and resigned to contemplating the past day, that familiar, painful ache in his heart that had been his constant companion for so many years stirred. Minfilia truly was gone now - at last freed from her long vigil over this world and allowed to rest. A part of him wished he could have seen her one more time, heard her calm melodic voice for the last time... That he could have told her those things he should have so long ago, and been allowed to say his farewells to her, to assure her he’d look after Ryne and the rest of their friends.

Automatically, his steps carried him to the next door, where he paused and let his fingertips settle against the rough wood, as though he could sense the rest of their group sleeping beyond it.

Well, Minfilia was not entirely gone - part of her did live on in Ryne. A faint smile curled the corner of his mouth. The events of the day had clearly taken their toll on her, yet she’d put on such a brave face right until they arrived back here to Twine, unwilling to admit to her fatigue until everyone else had been yawning widely.

It was a very strange and confusing mix of feelings but despite his restless mind, he felt… somehow more at ease than he had in a long time. Like he finally could see the hints of a clearer path ahead of himself, no longer obscured by the darkness of his mourning and sense of failure, that there was no longer an old intangible weight bearing down on his chest and shoulders.

Shaking his head, Thancred silently stalked further down the corridor of the former mine workers’ quarters, towards the door out to the balcony. He needed some fresh air, to let his thoughts settle until they no longer twisted and turned in whichever direction they pleased. If they didn’t linger on the past, it they trailed forward - to the battles ahead, the things he’d need to speak of with Ryne so he could properly clear the air between them, the old regrets that still clung to his conscience that he felt he needed to make up for, the lingering hypervigilance against Eulmore’s pursuit of them, of Viana and the sudden change to their relationship after so many years…

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth at the pleasant memory of kissing her, still so fresh that he could almost still feel her lips against his. If he didn’t know better, he’d think it had all been a pleasant dream, and that he’d wake up at any moment with Urianger and Y’shtola hovering above him as they tended to his wounds.

Wouldn’t be the first time his dreams elected to taunt him with what he thought was beyond him. He pushed open the door, the refreshing cold night air rushing into his lungs and immediately nipping at his skin laid bare by his pushed up sleeves. The glow of a lantern took him by surprise, as did the figure leaning against the banister. Thancred stopped dead in his tracks, just as the very person he’d been thinking of whipped around, her body language tense and ready.

Even though they both immediately visibly relaxed, the air was at once thick with tension as they stared at each other. They hadn’t been afforded any time to speak in private, not with their friends around, everyone utterly exhausted after the day’s events, and the multitude of questions the inhabitants of Twine had had upon their return.

The surreal sensation tugged at him once more. For over five years he’d clung to memories of quiet moments he’d spent in her company, missing their comfortable companionship, worrying about what was happening on the Source, his heart yearning to be by her side once more - all while trying to force himself to cut off those stubborn feelings that had blossomed from that friendship. He’d been so certain that it’d been for the best not to act on them, that if he did not, she’d let go of whatever she thought she might feel and move on to someone more deserving of her affections.

Someone who was more trustworthy than he.

And yet, there in the soft lantern light, he saw the undeniable warmth in her gaze as she looked at him. Clearing his throat, Thancred offered her a small, apologetic smile. “Pardon me, I didn’t know the balcony was occupied.”

Viana huffed out a quiet laugh, her smile earnest if a tad tired. “Fret not, I believe there’s enough room for the both of us,” she replied quietly while shrugging one shoulder. The blanket she had wrapped around herself, already hanging precariously after her sudden motion when he’d startled her, slipped a little further off that shoulder. Instantly, Thancred felt an itch in his fingers to readjust it, to pull her close once more - to feel her lips against his again and soak in the warmth of her leaning against him without the hard press of their respective armours in the way.

An unfamiliar nervous tingle sparked in his stomach as he carefully nudged shut the door behind him. Hells, he’d yanked her into that first kiss out of fear and adrenaline - a leap of faith, before he lost his nerve and accepted the easy out she had given him of what her accidental confession could entail, to let him just carry on as he had without confronting what lay between them - but he wasn’t about to act quite so impulsive now.

With slow, measured steps he closed the distance between, giving him time to observe her. Viana leaned against the banister, despite the uncertain energy to her pose looking more at ease in his presence than he could recall for… well, ever since they’d been reunited in this dying world. It no longer felt like there was a vast expanse between them - one he knew had mainly been of his own doing, holding her at arm’s length, until it had reached that breaking point in Twine.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?” he asked.

She raised an eyebrow at him, the teasing glint in her eyes so painfully familiar from years past, when they had both been standing on the Source. “I could ask you the same thing.”

Thancred couldn’t help but huff out a quiet laugh. This felt familiar. Comforting. Perhaps grabbing her around the waist to keep her from leaving had been less a leap of faith off a steep cliff with a long drop and more a leap to join her on her side of the rift between them.

Perhaps that was why he felt so uncertain in this moment, his footing not yet stable on this new ground he’d suddenly found himself on.

Thancred leaned against the banister, keeping a small if unassuming distance between them, and shrugged while staring out across the moonlit landscape. “Hard to shake the feeling that Eulmore will be snapping at our heels any moment now,” he replied.

“I think we’re safe for now,” Viana hummed and turned to rest her elbows on the railing. “The loss of Ran’jit is sure to upset the chain of command for a little while, maybe even rattle morale a bit. Suspect we’ll be bringing the fighting to them, if we wish to reach the Kholusia lightwarden...”

“The sooner the better,” he replied. “Vauthry has a lot to answer for.” It was hard to keep the grim tone out of his voice. For years he’d harboured anger towards the city for locking away Ryne in a dark cell, far below the sea level. While striking down Ran’jit for good eased some of it, he was not the sole person responsible for the treatment of her. And three years were not enough to wipe away the memories of the weeks he spent infiltrating the city, of the debauched acts of hedonism and heartless cruelty that he’d witnessed while slinking from shadow to shadow, seeking a way down to the gaol.

The remnants of his anger from earlier in the day stirred at the back of his mind, but a warm touch to the bare skin of his arm drew him back to the present.

It was a small, hesitant touch - just the back of Viana’s fingers pressed against his arm, thumb brushing over his wrist - but he felt it as surely as the comforting heat of a fire on a cold day. “Did you have a chance to speak with Ryne yet?” she asked softly.

Thancred cast a glance at her, and shook his head. “Only a little. She was so tired that I said we’d speak further once we’re back in the Crystarium.”

She made a quiet sound of understanding, and much to his regret she withdrew her hand. After a moment of hesitation, he reached back out for it, sliding his fingers along the inside of her wrist in a silent question. Something in his stomach twisted, a nervous jolt of energy he was unfamiliar with, when she immediately opened her hand so he could loosely entwine his fingers with hers.

They stood in silence for a moment, with only the muted sounds from the other side of the small town where the miners were celebrating the night’s return as their company. Her hand was warm against his, and he found himself relishing in the small, innocent contact.

Exhaling slowly, Thancred rubbed his thumb against her hand. How many times hadn’t he seduced and tempted men and women, confident that his easy smile and grandiose compliments would win their favour - be it to coax information out of them or merely for a night of simple pleasure. Those grand words had never worked on her. But, where Y’shtola had always had a sharp, dismissive remark at hand, Viana had thrown his words back at him with an amused roll of her eyes, her teasing retorts just as void of sincere intent as his.

As memories of trading jabs and barbs with her, faded by the many years that had passed, played in his mind, an awareness crept up on him of his every touch and word that quickly grew into a nagging worry that any gesture of his now would be mistaken as disingenuous.

“Hey… something wrong?”

Wetting his lips, Thancred kept his eyes on the far horizon. “Forgive me,” he drawled with a self deprecating lilt to his tone, “I used to be good at… all of this.”

Viana was quiet for a moment, before the warm weight of her upper arm settled against his as she leaned against him. It prompted him to look up to see her give him a reassuring, if nervous, smile. “It’s okay Thancred, I don’t have any expectations.”

By reflex, he raised an eyebrow, a joking remark right at the tip of his tongue, but before he had a chance to speak her eyes grew wide and she jerked upright, yanking her hand out of his loose grip in the process.

“I mean - Hells, that came out wrong,” she rushed to explain as a deep blush coloured her cheeks. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t how - It’s not that I think you’ll-” Embarrassment flitted across her features and she sharply averted her gaze, turning her head away from him with a frustrated sound.

Thancred blinked, caught a little off-guard at seeing such a flustered reaction from her, but then gave her a lopsided smile. With a fond laugh under his breath, he felt some of his own worries ebb away. Turning his body towards her, he pulled up the blanket that barely clung to her arm so it rested more securely over her shoulder, then let his hand settle at the small of her back. “Viana, relax.”

A couple of seconds passed before she exhaled slowly, her shoulders slumping a little when she turned to mirror his pose, leaning on one elbow against the banister, gaze downcast and an uncertain frown on her face. One of her fingers tapped against the banister in a nervous manner before she reached out and took his hand between hers.

“What I meant is that I have no experience with these sorts of relationships either,” she finally said, her tone even and measured, like she’d thought each word over. The feeling of her trailing slow, random patterns over his palm that left a tingling sensation in their wake, but he kept still, his other hand having fallen to rest at her hip. A look of weary amusement flittered across her features, “Casual encounters, yes, though those never seemed to be particularly satisfactory.” Her fingers stilled, and she just held his hand between hers, enveloping it in her warm grasp. “But there was never that… trust, to let someone close for something more long-lasting.”

The weight of her words settled in his chest. Swallowing thickly, Thancred curled his fingers around her hand and raised it so he could brush a kiss to the back of her fingers. Wherever this between them went, for however long she wanted him by her side, he’d rather the gods struck him down on the spot than ever risk hurting her. “I suppose we’ll just have to learn together then,” he rasped out.

Viana laughed quietly under her breath as she moved to cup his jaw with her free hand. “I’m willing to,” she replied gently. A warm sense of contentment swelled up in his entire body when she lowered her head to rest her brow against his - there were no urgent tasks to see at this moment, no need to do anything to rush things. Humming, he slipped his hand beneath the blanket to wrap his arm around her waist, relishing in the warmth radiating off her through her thin shirt. Slowly, he nuzzled his nose against hers, soaking in the moment, before capturing her lips in a tender, lingering kiss. There'd been so many times that his traitorous dreams had fed him figments and shards of what it’d be like to kiss her, to hold her close, that part of him still reeled at the knowledge that he was welcome to do so now.

He could feel her smile against his lips, her thumb brushing over his cheekbone while her other hand slipped out of his grasp to settle on his shoulder. With a dull thud, the blanket fell to the floor, but she made no move to break away from him. The kiss melted into another, then one more. A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold night air rolled down his spine, and he subconsciously tensed his fingers, pressing them into her back, his other light on her hip. After all these years without much physical contact, his entire body sang with satisfaction at feeling her body settle against his - not accidental brushes while they sparred or went about their daily business, but comfortably leaning her entire frame against him. When they finally broke apart, the stillness of the night settled around them, and Viana moved her arms to rest around his shoulders.

It took all he had to suppress a shudder as he pressed his nose against the crook of her neck, his thoughts fuzzy and disoriented, merely relishing in having her close, of being enveloped in her embrace, warmth and scent. If only he could stay like this with her for many more hours, just holding her and being held in turn.

“This is nice,” she finally whispered.

Thancred chuckled and gave her hip a small squeeze. “Glad to hear I am not too out of practise after all these years.”

Viana laughed under her breath, but made no move to break the embrace, not even when he a few moments later felt her shiver.

As if to remind him of where they were, the cold night air nipped at his skin, and he realised she was in just a short sleeved shirt. Concern stirred him to turn his head and press a kiss to her neck. “Do you want to head back inside?”

Immediately, she leaned back from him, her expression apologetic. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you from your sleep.”

With a low laugh from deep in his chest, Thancred shook his head and rubbed his thumbs against her waist. “You’re not, darling.” Then he leaned down, picking up the blanket from the worn out timber floor. When he straightened back up, he slipped his hand into hers and guided her over to the simple bench that was pushed up against the wall, the lantern perched on one end of it. “I’m not opposed to staying out here for a little while with you, ” he explained with, what he hoped, was a charming smile. Twelve, he felt so rusty.

There was an amused, affectionate glint in her eye as she accepted his invitation, and they settled down together, the blanket large enough to wrap around both of them.

“Comfortable?” he asked.

“Mhm,” she replied, just as her hand found his beneath the blanket and laced her fingers with his.

“Good,” he whispered, squeezing her hand. Despite the nervous simmering energy that lingered in his stomach, in the end it felt so… easy, knowing that his touches were welcome. No pretenses were needed, no sugar coated words to vye for her good graces or that game of measured and careful touches to tempt and seduce. Just the slow, timid return of the companionship he had missed so dearly since he’d been torn to this world.

He knew her. And for all his faults, she had accepted him, chosen him.

As they sat there, shoulders pressed together, quietly speaking about things that did not pertain to the labours that lay ahead of them, while staring up at the stars twinkling so far above, he felt himself relax, a small smile playing on his lips. There were other, practical things they would need to speak of - of their responsibilities as Scions, their pasts, and experiences - but those could wait for a later time.

After all these years, he could let himself just enjoy this small moment, as it were. Duty would call soon enough for both of them.

[doodleimprovement]

A Hat in Time :: The Nutcracker AU :: The Thrilling Conclusion

The Second “Climax”, Falling Action, and Conclusion! 

AND JUST IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS! 

Read to the end for a special surprise :3c 

2nd Climax

Clara: 

When they get to the land of sweets, Clara goes absolutely nuts, trying to grab at all of the candy, and the The Nutcracker finally has enough of her running around and picks her up, carrying her under his arm and rolling his eyes at her whining. When they get to the castle of Sweets, he puts her down and the doors open to them, greeted by the mysterious Sugar Plum Fairy. The fairy invites them into a banquet hall decked out in bright colors and food everywhere. They were led to seats and the fairy said that they would talk in depth later. That now, it was time for celebration! 

Clara basically gorges herself on food while the Nutcracker tries to stop her from giving herself a stomach ache. It doesn't work. After about an hour of feasting she’s leaning over the table groaning like the silly child with a tummy ache that she was. She crawls on him and the Nutcracker begrudgingly lets her stay as the Sugar Plum Fairy announced the celebratory performances. Clara spends the entire time watching the show from the Nutcrackers lap, the two of them commenting and making jokes together. Once the celebratory show is over, the Sugar Plum Fairy calls for the two of them to join the ruler in their garden. 

The fairy begins to ask the Nutcracker how his jaw feels, and he finally remembers the kerchief tied around him. They then ask who helped him, and Clara states that she did it. The fairy seems pleased with this, and the three sit down by a fountain, with Clara starting to truly look tired. The fairy starts to explain the Nutcracker's curse to him, revealing that the fairy knew what cursed him this whole time, and explaining that the bitterness that caused the curse can only be truly broken with a reversal spell.. And an act of selfless love. Clara states in her dozing state that breaking the curse should be easy, because loving is easy. The Nutcracker chides her, saying that love isn’t easy, but she’s too far gone and he picks her up so she’s not sleeping on a marble bench. 

The Nutcracker asks what an “Act of Selfless Love” entails and the scene ends with the fairy smiling at him, then looking down at the snoozing Clara. 

Francesca: 

Time passes quietly between the two, and Ludwig helps her with some of the difficult words and translations. The books are long, old and opaque, and while they are looking, Francesca starts asking Ludwig about his life. He doesn’t tell the whole truth, but does start telling her about growing up with his brother, how they were always there for each other, how Lukas was always the more boisterous and bullheaded brother, but when he went.. Missing … Ludwig had to step up. 

Francesca says that he’s a good brother, and that his brother should be so proud of him. Ludwig thanks her, and tells her that she’s a very good sister to Clara, and that Clara must also be proud of her. Francesca responds by telling Ludwig that they’re proud of each other, because they know that they only have one another. He asks why he thinks they won’t get adopted together, and She mentions that there’s a track record of people not wanting Francesca, but wanting Clara. Ludwig frowns, knowing what she’s implying, but assuring her that one day, the right parents will realize that those two are the perfect sister duo. Francesca smiles at that, and turns the page. 

She comes across a spell that seems similar to the one they’re looking for, and shows it to him. Ludwig seems excited, and starts overzealously translating. By the time he’s done, and realizes that it should be the correct one, he turns to see that poor Francesca has finally conked out for the night. He smiled and picked the girl up, taking her back to bed, and seeing that Clara was not in bed. He’s worried at this, and goes back downstairs to the parlor. 

Ludwig and Lukas: 

Ludwig goes downstairs and sees that Clara (back to normal size) is asleep on the chair, with the Nutcracker sitting on the arm of the chair as if on a vigil. The Nutcracker then moves, and stands when Ludwig enters. The two converse, talking about their long nights, and Ludwig shows him the book with the spell, Lukas then explains that this spell needs an act of selfless love, and Ludwig asks if he knows what to do. He looks down at Clara, then nods. 

There's a break to Clara’s half awake perspective, as she perks up at being moved, and some vague light behind her eyes. She barely opens them and sees someone is taking her upstairs, leaning into them unconsciously. Whoever they are places her in bed, and swipes her hair back, placing a small kiss on her forehead. Once under the covers, she’s out for the night. 

Falling Actions

The girls wake up on Christmas morning, both wondering if what happened last night was just some bizarre dreams they had, walking downstairs and hearing two voices in the dining room. She girls peek in, seeing another man talking with Ludwig. They stay there for a moment before the new man teases them by letting them know he’s aware that they are there. Clara recognizes that voice, and rushes in to see the man’s face. Lukas grins at her, asking if they’d met before. She squints, then smirks at him, and introduces herself, and he introduces himself as well, looking back at Francesca and introducing himself to her as well, stating how his brother was telling him all about them. 

The girls get into chairs for breakfast, and the group continues to talk, getting to know each other, and Ludwig ushers the children into the parlor where the tree is and they see that "Santa” got them presents! The brothers watch as the girls excitedly open them, neither noticing the absence of the nutcracker that once rested on the mantle. Lukas mutters something to Ludwig, and the brother grins and nods. 

Conclusion

The girls do go back to the orphanage for some time, and in the new year the whole town is buzzing about news that the lost Princes of Subkohn have returned and, for some unknown reason, are in town! Ludwig Drosselmeyer has also mysteriously left his position with the state recently. Clara has a hunch, but Francesca thinks that she’s ridiculous. 

The girls are called into the office of the head mistress of the Orphanage, and a flustered Mother Rumbi ushers them in, where two familiar faces are seated, with Miss Stahlbaum grinning from ear to ear, standing off to the side. Lukas is smiling smugly, and Ludwig looking far more excited. 

Clara grins from ear to ear with a triumphant “I KNEW IT!” and Francesca blinks in disbelief. 

There’s paperwork on the desk, and Ludwig starts talking about getting the girls things together so that they can get back to Subkohn post haste. Clara has promptly crawled into Lukas’ lap despite poor Mother Rumbi attempting to chastise her. Lukas thinks nothing of it, and asks if they can get the work expedited. He’s signing the paperwork for Clara, and Ludwig has Francesca’s paperwork. 

Lukas teases them, stating that they’re princesses now, and Francesca just lets out a wet laugh, allowing Ludwig to envelop her in a hug. 

The scene ends with the brothers giving one another a smile as they hold the girls, there’s happiness and hope in the new year.

BONUS: 

Thank you for reading! Merry Christmas! 

[apharine]

Perfect Storm

Chapter 2 - Dirty Talk

Pairing:  Nanu x Reader

Fandom: Pokemon

Rating:  E

Warning - this chapter contains 18+ content; DNI if you’re under 18!

Read on AO3

My writing commission info! | Buy me a coffee!

Summary:   Route 17's weather is always bad - but today, it's particularly awful, the usual drizzle having escalated into practically a hurricane. You had business in Po Town to attend to, but it's getting late, and it soon becomes apparent that it's no longer safe for you to be outside. You take refuge in the only place you can think of - the Po Town Police Station with Nanu - never imagining that before the night's end, things would get hot and heavy between the two of you.

                                         _____________________

Within a half hour, you’re sitting on Nanu’s couch with him, legs tucked under your body as you eat the stir fry you’ve created. You had to get a little unconventional due to the limited ingredients available to you, but it still came together pretty well, overall.

“Mm,” Nanu hums as he chews. “This is actually pretty good, princess.”

He’s made sure to call you that name literally as often as possible, as if to emphasize that it won’t be going anywhere anytime soon. Truthfully, you’re starting to go from hating it to loving it. The way he just said it now - so satisfied, his voice deep - had been enough to make you shiver in pleasure.

“I’m glad you like it,” you beam in response. “Thanks again for letting me stay here.”

Nanu gives you a small shrug in response.

“Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. Sorry for being so cranky at the door. I didn’t mean to make you upset,” he says.

You pause your eating for a moment and look at him - really look at him. He continues eating, a glance out of the corner of his eye his only acknowledgement that your focus had shifted to him. Those eyes - those unusual red eyes - that so many people thought were too intense or too apathetic or too off-putting just look plain old tired tonight, and perhaps a little sad, too. Now that you think about it, his cheeks look a little more sallow than usual, and he looks thinner than you’d remembered, too.

Combined with the state of his pantry, it’s not an encouraging thing. You don’t know Nanu well, but a vague sense of worry nags in your mind.

“Nanu?” You ask. He turns his head a little more to you, but continues eating. “Is everything all right?” When his eyebrows quirk in confusion, you try to explain. “Like…are you doing okay?”

Nanu is silent for a long moment, until he finally shrugs his shoulders, not even bothering to sit up from his usual slouch.

“I’m as all right as I usually am,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to worry about me, you know.”

“I know I don’t have to, but -”

“No, I don’t mean like that,” Nanu says with a shake of his head. He takes a bite of food and chews and swallows, then continues. “I don’t mean it in the nobody-asked-you way. I mean I’ve been getting by like this for a lot longer than you’ve known me. I’ll be okay enough, princess.”

You wonder what, exactly, this entails. You know Nanu has an infamous penchant for relaxing, slacking off; you know he’s often standoffish, sometimes bordering on cruel to people he deems irrelevant. You know he likes his alone time, guards it preciously, even. He had a long career in Interpol before becoming Kahuna, which it seems he didn’t even want to do, but took on because once a Tapu chose an individual, they were more or less obligated to fulfill the duties prescribed to them. Nanu had never been shy about the fact that he would rather have lived out his life in quiet obscurity, apparently sleeping on the job, collecting expired cans in his pantry, and struggling to summon the energy to cook a meaningful dinner for himself.

It’s not an encouraging picture, and you wonder how long, exactly, he’s been dealing with this. Surely, his career in Interpol couldn’t have been an easy one - you know Looker had confided in you that he’d seen some real horrors before, and Nanu had been Looker’s superior…

“I don’t want you to just be okay enough,” you say with a frown, taking the last bite of your stir fry. “I want you to be okay. Great, even.”

Nanu’s eyes widen for a moment, and he glances away from you.

“Why?” He asks sharply.

The question takes you off guard, and you collect your thoughts for a moment.

“Because…because I care about you,” you answer honestly, not really sure how else to explain what you were feeling.

You’re expecting some sort of a sarcastic comment, or a joke, or both, but instead you get Nanu setting his nearly-empty plate down on the coffee table in front of you.

“As a friend? Or…” he trails off, one hand brushing unexpectedly against your knee.

You suck in a breath, and Nanu jerks his hand back.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I don’t know what I’m thinking - as if you could be interested in an old man like me -”

“No, I - I do think you’re really handsome,” you admit, touching his forearm lightly. You run your fingers down the muscle that lies there, until you’re brushing over the back of his palm. “You have such nice hands,” you murmur, unable to resist admiring them. Nanu doesn’t answer, but you can hear the way his breathing comes a little heavier. After a long moment, he turns his palm up for you to continue exploring his hand, and you do so in light, gentle touches. “They’re just…so manly.”

“Yeah?” Nanu breathes, his voice low and deep. “Yours are so pretty. And so soft,” he adds, beginning to explore your hand in small, careful movements. “Just like I thought they’d be,” he mumbles, almost as if to himself, but you can just barely make out what he says.

“You’ve been thinking about me?” You ask, a blush and a smile both blossoming on your face.

“Been trying not to, before this,” he admits. “Didn’t think you’d find anything much about me appealing, after all.”

“You need to have a higher opinion of yourself, kahuna,” you breathe as he caresses your fingers, and you note the way he shudders just a little at the use of his title. “I wouldn’t let you tease me and flirt with me the way you do if I weren’t interested in you, you know.”

“Yeah?” Nanu breathes.

“Yeah,” you smile back. “What were you thinking about, with me?”

“You really want to know?” Nanu asks, his eyes raising to yours. They’re smoldering with a deep intensity, and his free hand reaches to your jawline, his thumb gently tracing the edge of the bone towards your lips. “Some of it is pretty foul. Might be a bit much for you…princess.”

“Try me,” you breathe. If he can joke with you about being wet, he can tell you what he wants. Nanu smirks at your words.

“All right. But if you want me to shut up, just say so.” You nod, and Nanu begins. “Where to begin, princess? I’ve been thinking about those pretty little hands of yours, for starts. I knew they’d be so soft and so small in mine. I imagine, sometimes, how perfect they’d feel, exploring my body.”

“I think the same thing about your hands,” you admit, boldly touching your other hand to the inside of Nanu’s thigh. He jerks at the contact, startled, but soon after, spreads his legs a little wider for you. 

"Do you, princess?” He murmurs. “When I think about my hands, I’m mostly thinking about how your thighs would probably feel so soft and so smooth under my fingers.” The hand on your jaw runs down your arm, down your body, until his fingers are brushing lightly against the outside of your thigh. After a couple light touches, they stay still, and you realize he’s asking for permission.

“Why don’t you go ahead and see for yourself?” You breathe, feeling wetness beginning to pool between your legs. Nanu flattens his palm against your skin, running his hand up over the top of your thigh, ever so slowly working his way higher and further in.

Now it’s your turn to part your legs for Nanu, and you do so, giving him more access to your inner thigh.

“Thank you, princess,” Nanu praises your action quietly, his eyes trained on the flesh he’s exploring. You give his inner thigh a squeeze in response, your other hand moving from his palm up to his shoulder, almost as if to steady yourself. He continues, “Do you know what else I think, sometimes?”

“What?” You breathe, trying not to squirm as Nanu’s big fingers shamelessly grope and squeeze your thigh. His other hand settles over your fingers on his thigh, and he slowly moves your hand up, higher and higher, until you’re dangerously close to his groin. With his loose grip and the way he’s moving so carefully, you know you could pull away if you wanted to - but you really don’t want to. Just before you’ve reached your goal, though, he turns and leans into you so he can speak into your ear.

“When I’m jacking myself off, I think about how pretty your slender little fingers would be, wrapped around my cock,” he murmurs, his hot breath tickling your skin.

“Ohh,” you moan, your voice sounding much needier than you’d expected it to be.

“You like that thought, too, princess?” Nanu groans, then slowly continues moving your hand in, until you finally settle on his manhood. He’s already half-erect in his pants, and his hips push a little into your hand, seeking friction. You oblige him, pressing harder against him and beginning to rub along the firm underside of his cock through the fabric of his black pants.

“I do, Nanu,” you breathe in response. He lets go of your hand, reaching instead to you and gathering you up in his hands underneath your hips. He pulls you easily into his lap, so that you’re straddling his legs and facing him. With the extra leverage this position affords you, it’s easy to press harder into his manhood as you rub at him, and you watch the pleasure at being touched in this way wash over Nanu’s face. His eyes flutter closed for just a moment as his jaw slackens, and he again pushes his hips harder against your palm.

He’s so desperate for more of this from you.

“Tell me, princess…” He begins, his breath coming heavier than ever. His hands grip your upper thighs intensely; then he moves his fingers so close to your core you’re sure he must feel the wetness soaking the pajama pants he’d let you borrow. “What do you think about when you think of me? Have you imagined me being the one touching you?”

“I have, big kahuna,” you purr, giving his manhood a gentle squeeze for emphasis as you say big. Nanu groans at this, his hips again pushing into your hand. “When I’m fingering myself, I imagine it’s your big fingers doing it to me instead. And, well…” you trail off, suddenly embarrassed, and glance away.

“Tell me, princess. Tell your big kahuna what you think of,” Nanu murmurs, his voice gentle and encouraging.

“Sometimes, if I have a toy, I, um,” your voice gives out, from your mounting embarrassment at sharing such intimate details as much as from the way his fingers suddenly glide over your clothed heat. “Um,” is all you can manage to say again, even as you press your hips forward into the light friction he’s creating.

“Do you imagine it’s me fucking you? My throbbing cock filling your needy pussy, princess?” Nanu croons. Your breathing hitches at his words, and you lean into him, caressing his cheek with your free hand. He has a light dusting of grey 5 o’clock shadow on his jawline, and it scrapes at your skin as you move.

“You have a filthy mouth, Nanu,” you say with a moan, too embarrassed to tell him that was exactly what you imagined.

“I didn’t hear you deny it, so it must be true, that you imagine my cock deep inside you. Am I right?” Nanu murmurs, pressing a little harder at your heat. You bite your lip, then drop your head to his shoulder, hiding your face from him as you nod. “That’s a good girl, telling her big kahuna what she wants. And you’ve known I have a filthy mouth for a long time, now. You like it, though, don’t you, princess? You like it when I talk dirty to you?”

You nod again against his shoulder, still too embarrassed to meet his piercing red gaze.

“I didn’t hear you, princess,” Nanu says, and you can literally hear the smirk in his voice.

“Mm-hmm,” you try, but Nanu laughs, pulling his hand away from your clothed core.

“If you want more from me, I want you to tell me you like my dirty mouth, and then I want you to tell me exactly what you want from me. Do you have it in you, princess?”

Something snaps in you at his challenge. You pull back and look him directly in those red eyes - those intense eyes, which are really rather pretty this close, like rubies flecked with orange stars.

“I love when you talk dirty to me, Nanu. The things you say with that mouth of yours are so filthy…but you’re so gentle and good to me as you say them. It’s just what I want,” you purr.

“Of course,” Nanu breathes, pushing his nose into your neck. He takes a long, steadying breath, inhaling the scent of you, then says, “A princess like you deserves no less.”

“But I’m sure that filthy mouth of yours can be put to better use than just talking, can’t it?” You murmur, carding your fingers through his short gray hair as you continue to rub at his now-very-hard cock. “I want you to show your princess how you can please her with your mouth. And then I want you to show your princess how you can please her with this,” you say, pausing your ministrations on his length to squeeze it firmly. Nanu groans at this, bucking his hips against your hand, but soon after, you feel a smile on his lips against the skin of your neck.

“That’s what I wanted to hear from you. Good girl,” he breathes. It feels kind of intoxicating, to have been so in control of the situation and to have him praising you for it, too. “Now let your big kahuna give you what you want, okay?”

“Okay,” you agree, turning the power back over to him just as easily as it had come to you.

Nanu’s stubble scrapes across the sensitive skin of your neck as he pulls away from you, and he gives you a lopsided smirk. To your surprise, though, it’s not quite so much the usual shit-eating variety you get from him; it’s softer, more tender than you’re used to seeing. He soon sets about pulling the Alolan Persian pajama top off you, exposing your breasts to him. He groans at the sight, arms wrapping around you as he pulls you in closer, his lips closing over one nipple. His tongue circles it lazily at first, though the heat of his mouth and the slow drag of the friction he creates is still enough to have you arching against him. The speed of his tongue gradually increases, and he takes your other nipple in between his fingers, rolling it between his thumb and index. He continues to roll over the sensitive skin as he increases his ministrations with his mouth on the other side, until he’s lapping at your nipple in rapid swipes of his tongue, sucking and swirling and, quite often, scraping gently - but almost painfully - with his teeth.

He pulls off your nipple with a wet pop and looks up at you through his eyelashes. His pupils are blown and there’s a slight flush to his skin.

The thought that he’s gorgeous like this crosses your mind.

A moment later, he moves to your other nipple, starting off much the same, with slow, lazy circles.

“You’re so good at this, Nanu,” you groan, one hand holding onto his shoulder while the other tangles into his short hair again, holding his head close as he picks up speed, lavishing this breast the same way he’d lavished the first. Your eyes flutter closed, and you repeat yourself breathily. “So good at this.”

“With age comes experience,” the kahuna says, and you can feel his lips quirk into a faint smile against your skin. “Not that I mind you stroking my ego, of course.”

“I’ll stroke anything you want if you keep doing this,” you reply, which pulls a rare genuine laugh from Nanu.

“Ordinarily I’d take you up on that offer, girl, but I‘m pretty worked up, and I want to save my shot until I’m inside you, if you understand my meaning,” he chuckles. “Stroking my ego for now will do just fine.” Suddenly, he lifts you up under your hips again, tugging at your pajama pants. “But let’s get these off you, and I can show you where else I’m good at using my mouth.”

You stand and help him wiggle the pajama pants down, stepping out of them once they’re on the floor.

“No panties?” Nanu breathes, his hands immediately reaching up to cup and grope at your ass.

“They were too wet from the storm to put back on,” you explain, then add, “It works out, though. Even if they had somehow stayed dry outside, they’d be too wet for me by now, anyway.”

Nanu gives a low chuckle at this, and moves to pick you up, but before he gets anywhere, you give a tug at his cop jacket and shirt.

“Can these come off? I’d like to see you, too,” you say, and Nanu lets go of you, setting your feet down on the floor once again. He shrugs out of his jacket quickly, throwing it to the side. You start to help him out of his maroon shirt, pulling it up, eager to not be the only one naked.

“Hang on,” he murmurs, untangling your fingers from the necklace that carries his Z-Crystal and tucking it under his shirt. “This always stays on me, princess.” Finally, he pulls his shirt over his head and throws it to the side, too, leaving him topless before you.

His chest is broad and dusted in silvery-gray hair, which turns into a thin line down his stomach, reappearing in a slightly-thicker happy trail that disappears into his pants. He’s got a bit of muscle on his shoulders and chest - this doesn’t surprise you terribly; he’s lazy, but he’s a cop and he has to be at least a little strong, after all. A thin layer of fat covers his stomach, and somehow, that looks even more attractive on his build than if he’d had washboard abs. Perhaps most surprising of all are the few scars that litter his body. There’s one that runs horizontally across his chest, and another thin line by his belly button crossing to his hip bone, plus one that looks particularly ragged on his ribs. He’s not covered in them, per se, but there’s certainly a few.

“I’m not much to look at,” Nanu mumbles, suddenly shy under your gaze. “But I can still make you feel really good if you want me to, you know.”

“Nanu,” you hum, settling down on his lap and pushing your body against his. The warmth of his skin on yours and the tickle of his fine chest hairs on your breasts both feel surprisingly erotic. His Z-Crystal, trapped between the two of you, pokes into your skin a little. “Like I said earlier, you need to have more confidence in yourself. I really like your body, you know. And I’m excited to see more of it.” You run your hand through his chest hair as you speak, paying no extra mind to his scars; now is likely not the moment to draw attention to them, given how insecure he seems. You decide to continue encouraging him, instead. “I definitely still want you, Nanu. I want you to make me feel good, and I want you to feel really good when you’re inside me, too.” You finish your sentence with a light peck on the corner of his mouth. It occurs to you, suddenly, that neither of you have actually kissed the other yet, and you’re nearly overcome by the desire to feel his lips on yours. You put some gentle pressure on his cheek, turning him just a little more until he’s facing you fully.

You watch his eyes flit down to your mouth, then up to your eyes again. To encourage him, you lean in just a little, but don’t fully close the distance between the two of you, wanting to leave that up to him. Somehow, a kiss feels emotionally intimate, not just physically intimate, and you want him to be the one to bridge that gap, now that you’ve shown him you’re interested.

And, to your delight, he does, pressing his lips against yours, gently at first, then more firmly as he realizes you’re kissing him back. He wraps one arm around your waist, holding you close as his other hand tangles into your hair. The kiss quickly grows hungry, deep, and passionate, with Nanu licking at your lips and you granting him entrance swiftly. His tongue darts into your mouth, tangling with yours, exploring your mouth at his leisure. After a long moment of this, he bites your lower lip as he pulls back for air. “Wow,” you breathe, and lean in, barely giving him a moment before you recapture his lips in your own. This time, your tongue enters his mouth, and he lets you take control of the kiss as easily as he’d handed control to you earlier. His taste is unfamiliar yet pleasant, and you find yourself moaning into his mouth.

“Princess,” Nanu moans back adoringly, and in that moment, you’re indescribably happy that this was the nickname he’d settled on for you. His hands sneak under your hips again, finding purchase, and he lifts you easily once more. “Let me eat you out, okay? Let me take care of you.”

“Please,” you beg, feeling giddy at the thought of his talented tongue on your core.

[aaluminiumas]

Be the First

Kalifa vividly recalled her first days at CP9: to be accepted, she had to go through a huge number of entrance tests and to obtain a pile of various certificates to become a rookie among other elite combat troops under the notorious Rob Lucci. Oddly enough, her relation to one of the leading assassins of the organization didn’t play a significant part in the whole process: obviously, the World Government was aware of the fact, but she could be certain that her father never petitioned for her. Kalifa was appointed to the post of undercover agent by means of her own strength, stamina, knowledge and skills.

She worked with Lucci from the very beginning. Despite a small difference in age, he seemed significantly older and more mature comparing to nearly anyone she was acquainted with. Although the woman knew what she would be dealing with and what her duties would include, the man nonetheless caused a slight spark of repulsion in her, he gave her an unpleasant impression. Appearance-wise, Lucci did not look like an assassin at all but something about his manners seemed so vaguely intimidating that Kalifa had to admit – this man breathed danger. He was peril incarnate.

She learned about her father’s occupation late enough to be able to compare the two: while Laskey managed to hide his real attitude, Lucci barely disguised his bloodthirst. Unbearably handsome, atrocious and completely aloof, the man stared at people with clear disdain as if the only thing he saw was, in fact, a stink fish that didn’t even deserve his attention. In addition, his movements, swift and economic, immediately exposed his perfect body-control. He already knew the victim’s weak spots – and would hit there without a heads-up – he wasn’t particularly coy not to harness the skill.

That was the first time Kalifa faced his unbiased attitude. Normally, she was surrounded by a group of persistent suitors attempting to touch her or to make a superfluously eloquent compliment – in all honesty, even the indifferent carpenters of Water 7 let themselves whistle in her wake, but Lucci, unlike many others, barely paid any heed to her: even a vase in the headquarters got a bigger scrape of it. His calm grey eyes hardly passed across her – he absolutely did not care whether he was training a confident woman or a garishly painted kabuki actor.

Evidently, for that reason exclusively she recollected her first training. She had already been considered as an equal to those men, and she did not beg for mercy, no matter how hard it was to prepare herself for the future trials. In all honesty, Lucci made no endeavor to offer it to her; while all the erstwhile supervisors before him spilled ribald comments over the woman, this one kept counting the attendees, undisturbed. To tell the truth, the woman was curious: the scuttlebutt fueled by witnesses mentioning a peculiar amalgamation of beauty, devious mind and excessive brutality outmatching the vilest pirates didn’t scare her off but confirmed the statement that this man was unique. He appeared to control even those who didn’t serve under his command – at any rate, Lucci needed a glance to shut a talker up. There’s little wonder how he got his place in the sun – he had become one of the few whose authority remained unscathed even after the destruction of Enies Lobby.

“I will not detain anyone,” Lucci’s cold, quiet voice came. “One whimper, and rest assured… we will never meet again.”

His opening address before the training turned out extremely terse and laconic – and did contain an obscure threat. Kalifa became the first who dared step forward for a sparring round. Kaku, Kumadori, Jabra, Blueno and Fukuro preferred to stay clear and watch: albeit they got an opaque understanding of what was prepared for them, they found solace in being last.

It was the first time when Lucci beat her up.

Kalifa failed to dodge, and despite her outstanding kami-e and soru skills, she hadn’t managed to show the level Lucci would consider satisfactory. Tired of the boring and stultifying pursuit, he effortlessly broke through her tekkai and kept mauling her after his initial powerful blow. Impassive and unaffected, he kept lambasting and clawing her fiercely, not a single emotion contorted the fine features of his visage. Seeing her staggering, he used his shigan against her – and the woman, bleeding enormously, fell on the ground.

However, she did not emit a single sound.

Out of the corner of her eyes she noticed Kaku growing paler. He wasn’t exactly spineless, but he for sure came short of stamina comparing to her… What’s happened, actually? Looks like no one managed to demonstrate sufficient knowledge of such techniques as kami-e and soru, let alone tekkai: they barely maintained it for a second, and it turned out useless as Lucci breached the invisible shield easily with the attack Kalifa calmly repelled. Though, she wasn’t quite positive of it, to be honest: the last memory faded away as she focused on standing up to walk to her room.

Late at night, the woman clenched her teeth trying to tear off the bloodied rags of her clothes – they stuck to the gashes, and stripped off with the skin. Kalifa had to clean out the grazes she could reach, but as the ugly marks covered almost her entire back which was in tatters after the rampant onslaught – it was nearly impossible to swathe every wound. Moreover, the slightest touch caused searing pain in every cell of her body, and she couldn’t move wondering whether she was about to faint or could stay conscious. In fact, she did have the right to go to the hospital juxtaposed between the headquarters and the training site in order to get professional help, but it was obvious what consequences it could entail. Every assassin worked in “field” conditions, and Lucci, maybe unaware, was preparing them for the upcoming trials and impediments. Only a few succeeded, but those who were attested, became the best and later morphed into a legend within the confines of the organization.

Next morning, she stepped forward again. The man eyed her from head to toe with the similar concealed disdain and contempt she had noticed previously – and lambasted her in the same fashion though did not use his shigan for his own reasons: he either thought her to be unworthy of it, or failed to see an equal adversary in her as she knelt after several stabs. Albeit she surrendered shortly, her tekkai seemed to improve and got thicker – though moving much slower, Kalifa managed to resist for a while longer.

“There’s no point in your staying here if you cannot evade a blow.”

The gossip she’d heard were not untrue, Lucci turned out a real monster… As a human being, as a man, as a leader – but to her surprise, his brutality never baffled her: it failed to arouse any emotion inside of her as silent humiliation and battering became a part of the routine. Day by day taciturn insults reduced, Kalifa sensed that she was gradually approaching the ideal she had conjured in her head but the imperturbable pale face remained aloof as ever. In Lucci’s eyes she still remained a pathetic loser, even though she had made a long way to establish herself as one of the few female agents of CP9.

The man had eliminated almost all emotions except for perverse delight at the sight of the power he wielded: spoiled by his own abilities and skills, the intimidating Rob Lucci relished the consternation he inculcated in others, and when he saw her naked back painted in crimson red stripes, he simply grinned under his breath. His fingers lingered across the scarcely healed wounds and pressed on the freshest cut while indifferently muttering that she got off cheaply. He could’ve killed her during that training by aiming an inch higher.

He offered her a chance to be the best.

He improved her skills and knowledge through lambasting her so brutally and ingeniously as he did to no one. She learnt to avoid the most devious attacks; she escaped and hid behind him; she grew stronger: she was no longer Laskey the assassin’s daughter – she got her own name, she was the Kalifa everybody feared.

What about the cost?.. Thanks to an ointment, all the scars got healed pretty well. Actually, no one else needed it just as much: Jabra wiped blood off under his nose and spitted off chunks directly into the sink; Kumadori howled as the most lugubrious and woeful yurei complaining that “his hair were pulled with too much force”… Kaku may be the only to catch his breath after trainings, and Kalifa once took notice of his trembling fingers hovering over a fresh bite on his shoulder. But she was much better. She stood out.

She couldn’t be compared to Rob Lucci but at least she impelled him to respect her – if he ever respected anyone. After the humiliating defeat of CP9 he intended to do her in, just as any top-notch undercover agent would do, but wasn’t it the very same desire she used to read in those lackluster grey eyes all along? Wasn’t it exactly the thought that crossed his mind – didn’t he want to reciprocate in response to his personal setbacks and those of his own department?.. He definitely had a reason to track her down, and he assigned Kaku to be his lapdog in accordance with his ulterior motives. Rob Lucci always had plans – she comprehended it immediately.

The woman approached the mirror and stared into the reflection of the violet eyes. They darkened around the pupil but eventually grew lighter dispersing in the miscellaneous, minuscule streaks. The woman took her red lipstick and slightly tapped it on the lips.

Kalifa was no longer afraid. She had become the best.

And she will keep going.

[sxvxrxssnape]

Accio Sleep: The Wizard’s Guide To Battling Insomnia 

aka Snapetober 2020: Day 1

The Years Between Severus Snape & Minerva McGonagall 2424 words / gen / no content warnings apply

The pages of his book rustled softly. 

He wasn’t really reading, not in the way he usually did. He wasn’t paying careful attention to the words printed on parchment, wasn’t getting lost in the miniature infinities as the story came to life. He was only skimming, glancing through the text in hopes of tiring his eyes enough that they might finally choose to close.

It had been days since he had last been able to truly sleep, days since he could lay down without feeling his anxieties gnawing at him more than usual. It had been days of carrying this weight, this pit in his stomach.

The fire crackled.

Severus Snape sighed and put the book aside. He stared into the fireplace, watched the flames flicker and dance. He stood up, felt the chill of stone underneath bare feet, and padded into the kitchenette of his quarters.

He didn’t bother with more candlelight and made a cup of tea in the glow of the fireplace. He stared at the milky chamomile as if it held the answers to all the questions he couldn’t dare ask. He stared so long, that when he eventually took a sip, the tea had gone cold. 

He sighed again.

It only took a quick flick of his wand for gentle ribbons of steam to rise from the cup once more. He sipped slowly as he stared blankly at the walls of where he now called home, and willed sleep to come.

Perhaps it was futile.

Perhaps it was what he deserved.

He stared bitterly at the textbook sitting on the kitchen table. It was a different book from the one he had been paging through only moments ago; no, this book he had found in the library two nights before when the restlessness of the last week first began to take its toll. He twirled his wand between absentminded fingers and wondered briefly if Madame Pince would mind too much if he were to report the book as incinerated.

Accio Sleep; he scoffed at the title. 

He had tried everything the book suggested and nothing had helped. He was growing frustrated at his inability to do what his body needed. He’d tried laying in the silent darkness of his bedchamber for hours, turning this way and that, but no matter how hard he tried to clear his mind, tried to get comfortable and relax, sleep was determined to evade him. 

Or maybe you’re determined to evade sleep, his mind snarked at him.

He stood up abruptly and grabbed his cloak. Suddenly, he could see it very clearly in his mind - if he were to keep the useless book in his possession any longer, he would destroy it in his sleep-deprived anger. He pinned the black fabric in place, fingers lingering on the silver cloak pin Lucius Malfoy had gifted him when he had first joined...he shook his head. 

He was moving in a new direction now - a direction he should have gone since the beginning of it all, but dwelling on that was pointless and all he could do now was put one foot in front of the other and do what he could.

Right now, that entailed returning this wretched self-help book before he tossed it in the fireplace and got himself banned from the library. 

The castle was silent at night and a part of him found it comforting to wander about without the bustle of students and their inane chatter. He didn’t bother with wandlight - maybe he had been elsewhere the last three years, but the memory of walking these halls for seven was still ingrained in him, and with the dim light of occasional torches, the path  from the dungeons to the library was familiar. 

He was only two corridors away when he heard soft footfalls approaching. For a second, his heart stuttered and he looked around for a place to hide before he remembered he was no longer a student attending Hogwarts, but a professor. 

“Who’s there?”

“I-it’s me.” Severus winced at the stutter in his answer. How was he supposed to command respect from students who had once been classmates when he couldn’t even address the stern voice of Professor McGonagall without faltering? 

A wand light turned the corner and approached him, and soon enough, he could make out the scowling face of the deputy headmistress and Gryffindor Head of House. She was still dressed in the same blue robes she had been wearing earlier, but her greying brown hair was coming undone from her usual bun.

“Oh, Professor Snape,” she greeted and he tried not to react to the level of contempt she put into his title, “where are you headed at this hour?”

He could hear the accusation in her tone and frankly, he didn’t blame her. What reason did she have to trust him other than Dumbledore’s word? Still, it irked him deeply and he tried to keep the malice out of his voice as he replied, “The library.”

She arched an eyebrow and looked at the book in his hands. “Ah, having trouble sleeping are we?”

“Quite.”

They stood there for several minutes, neither willing to walk away first. McGonagall was studying him carefully and he wondered what it was she saw. Did she see the exhaustion that lined his face, the fear and guilt that weighed him down? Did she see his mistakes trailing him like ghosts? Or did she see the Death Eater his marked arm would never allow himself to forget he was, the deserving victim to her precious Gryffindor’s past endeavors?

He didn’t deserve her trust, her sympathy, her respect. 

He was a Death Eater, plain and simple.

He had denounced their ways, begged Dumbledore for help and forgiveness, taken up the mantle of double agent and spy, and now kept a foot on either side. He refused to acknowledge it because he knew what he had to do - there was no second choice - but at the end of the day, he had agency. He had both the leader of the Light and Dark thinking him loyal to their cause, could choose which side benefited him most, and McGonagall knew that. 

He wondered if she knew it was his fault.

“Severus?”

He blinked and focused his attention back on her. He would need to work on that; he couldn’t afford to make mistakes like that, not anymore.

“Pardon?”

“You’re the Potions Master, yes?” she asked, still scowling but he swore he could see something gentle in her eyes. “Brew a sleeping draught.”

He tried for a smile, but it felt more like a grimace. “Quite right, Minerva. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get right on that. How silly of me, to forget the basis of what my job is.” 

A pause. "You don’t want to sleep.”

He didn’t know what it was that possessed him to answer. He wanted to sleep, there was no doubt in his mind of that, but he just couldn’t. No matter how dark, how quiet, how still the room, no matter if he tried to tire out his mind, his eyes, his body, sleep would just not come. And despite knowing all that to be true, the word that he spoke so softly into the near empty corridor was a singular, “No.”

“May I ask why?”

He blinked, unsure of her intentions. Her face had lost some of its severity, and the curious gentleness remained in her eyes, but there wasn’t enough to determine what her angle was just yet. He wondered if his unintentional honesty, the sliver of vulnerability, had lessened some of her defenses. 

What had she seen when he had been lost in thought?

“This book is overdue.” he snarked.

A faint smile, the barest pull on the corner of her lips. “How are your classes going?” she asked, rather unexpectedly. “Come, I still have patrol of the castle to do and perhaps the activity will tire you out.” She started to walk away, in the same direction she had come.

He watched her idly, contemplating his options before ultimately deciding to follow. “Classes are fine.” he struggled to get out. In reality, classes felt like a disaster but he didn’t want to say it aloud because that felt like admitting defeat.

“Are they?” Minerva asked, side-eyeing him. Her eyebrow was raised in disbelief and there was a glimmer of amusement mixed with the gentleness. “The students are listening to you, then?”

He sighed. “The first and second years are.”

Minerva smirked and gestured vaguely to the book return slot outside the library. He rid himself of the book and they continued their stroll of the castle.

“A Hogwarts professor at twenty-one.” Minerva mused. “I believe you might be the youngest one we’ve had to date.”

“Yes, well.”

“I’m not surprised the older students are being difficult. They don’t see you as an authority figure, they see you as their equal, Severus. You have to learn how to carry yourself better. Stand up straight, for one.”

He scowled, but did as told. 

“It’s barely been a month and a half of term - you’ll get better at this.” She stopped at the door that would lead them to the Astronomy Tower and looked him over. “Are you warm enough to go up?” she asked and he blanked at the sudden concern for his well-being. He wrapped the long cloak tighter around himself in response; how had he forgotten until this very moment that he had pulled the garment on over a nightshirt? He wasn’t even wearing shoes. How Dumbledore trusted him to lie to the Dark Lord was beyond him; the lack of sleep was turning his brain to soup. 

Minerva’s soft exhale of breath was the closest to a laugh he had heard anyone direct towards him since he’d arrived at the castle. It made something in him ache as the realization hit: she didn’t know it was his fault, that his eagerness to please and mean something, was what forced the Potters into hiding over a year ago.

He wondered now if he could keep that fact from her forever. 

Their conversation remained pleasant and Severus drank up the positive attention that eased the knot his stomach had become ever since he had returned from a Death Eater meeting days ago and reported his findings to Dumbledore. Nothing had really changed, except now the Dark Lord seemed giddy. He refused to think why that was.

For all he hated Sirius Black with every fiber of his being, the one thing he knew to be fact, was that Black would sooner die than give up James and Lily Potter. As long as he was Secret Keeper, they were safe. She was safe. 

Still, sleep did not come easily.

Ever since Lily’s name had fallen from the Dark Lord's lips, time had stopped. He wondered how the world kept turning when he was still frozen in that moment when the Dark Lord had confirmed Harry Potter’s birth and decided he was the prophesied one over the Longbottom boy, who had escaped that fate by only a handful of hours. 

He wondered if maybe he was meant to be a Death Eater. If not for him, they would have never learned the Dark Lord planned to target the Potters. Then again, if not for him...the prophecy may have never been relayed to (and he forced himself to say the name) Voldemort in the first place.

“Try a sleeping draught.” Minerva’s soft voice interrupted his thoughts once more and then she walked away. 

He looked around himself and realized they had returned to the corridor where his personal chambers were located. He surpassed the wards and took off his cloak, letting it fall to the ground as he stared into the fireplace once more.

The flames had died down and only fragile embers remained. 

He cast a tempus charm and sighed as he learned it was past three in the morning. He climbed into bed, fervently hoping the weariness he could feel down to his bones would finally, finally let him sleep. Still, the voice in his head mocked him. 

You cannot sleep because you are refusing to let it happen.

He groaned, because as much as he wished to deny it, that blasted voice in his head was right. He wanted to sleep, he wanted to forget existence for as long as the world granted him, but he just couldn’t stop thinking about Voldemort’s sudden giddiness. 

They were safe, he reminded himself.

She was safe. 

He knew how it would all end though, he knew someone had to die. 

There was no use denying the third thing of the night he knew to be absolutely true: the Dark Lord would never stop trying to kill the boy he saw as a threat. If somehow, and oh Merlin, how he hoped with everything within him that this never happened, the Dark Lord learned of the Potter’s whereabouts, he knew Lily Potter would not step aside and let her son be killed. 

He wouldn’t dare ask that of her.

If the Dark Lord found them, there would be three casualties that night. He couldn’t bear the thought of falling asleep and waking up to a world without Lily Potter. He couldn’t even stomach the idea of waking up to a world where James Potter no longer existed because he knew when that happened, it would have been his doing. 

If turned to when because he knew and accepted what everyone else refused to see: the Dark Lord would not be defeated, not when the bringer of his decimation was barely a toddler. They had already been in hiding for a year; how many more would there be before they decided they would hide no longer and take their chances?

He wondered how much longer he would have to suffer these restless nights before he could finally ease his thoughts enough to fall asleep or if he had to wait for his questions to be answered, for the future to be decided, for someone to die before he could rest. He wondered if he would still be alive to see it all play out or if the deprivation would kill him instead. Maybe the Dark Lord would discover his deceit and kill him first. He idly wondered which ending he preferred. 

He sighed and spent yet another hour for yet another night laying silently in the darkness.

--- A/N: insomnia? did you mean: overthinking? and day one is live! i wasn’t sure what direction i was going in when i started writing, but it chose itself. i also wasnt expecting to write more than 1k oh no, ive set expectations of myself

anyway, im so excited to see what everyone else has created!! ty so much for taking the time to read this!!