#there's all the tea boxes above the stove

[bogkeep]

I HAVE DONE IT. MY JOURNEY IS AT ITS END

my friends gifted me these funky rock prints!!!! love to change things up a bit

can i power of friendship my way through the rest of this

[blkgirl-writing]

Valentine's day drabble HCs for the men of BG3 x Reader

These are a collection of small drabbles written in different styles for valentines day! Warning Gales is the longest, whoops.

Gale:

Gales cold warm hands grasped around your waist from behind, squeezing your skin gently as he rested his head on your shoulder.

"The earl grey lavender, please-" He kissed your neck softly, speaking in a quiet tone. It was a perfect day inside his tower, the rays of sun beaming through the stained glass, fluttering rainbows across the cozy kitchen. The kettle whistles quieting down as you took it off the stove.

"It's already in the mug, lovely" You gestured to his favorite mug, a heavy stoneware piece decorated with flowers of purple and pink encased in a golden heart, he said it reminded him of when he realized he had loved you. You never fully asked why, but it made enough sense to be sweet.

"How you know me so well." Gale Smiled. You finished pouring the water and handed him his extra-strong tea. He leaned against the counter, blowing on the drink a few times. "Maybe I should have told you earlier, but I do have a surprise for you."

"I thought we said no gifts!" You batted his shoulder playfully, "though I'll admit, I didn't follow that rule either."

"is that so?" Gale leaned in to kiss your lips through a smile. "We just can't seem to help ourselves."

"So what's this gift?" you asked. He set down his own mug, ducking into the pantry to retrieve a box, unwrapped and simple. He placed it on the counter and patiently waited, his excitement barely hidden in his smile.

You opened the small box to reveal a mug, a matching mug to his, but a dark blue with purple and red flowers, with a silver heart. It was gorgeous, less heavy than his and somehow it felt built to hold within your two hands.

"Oh Gale, it's perfect." You kissed his cheek, refusing to let go of the mug quite yet, the hug would have to wait.

"I had it specifically made by the same artist. Tara now has a similar water bowl as well. She felt left out" Gales hand slipped around your waist yet again. "as much as I love it when you steal my mug, I thought it was beyond time you had your own as well."

"Oh so you didn't want me using yours?" Your teasing turned into pecks, which led to kisses- "Your gift is waiting in the bedroom," You smirked, hand caressing his messy hair. "If that's ok, of course,"

"I was secretly hoping that was the case." His hand intertwined with yours, nearly sweeping you off your feet.

Wyll:

Wyll had been staring at you for some time before you'd woken up, the sun shining down on your resting face, the definition of peaceful. Wyll hadn't remembered pure peace, it had been years since he'd felt fully at rest, but with you, calmness was as easy as breathing. All he had to do was look at you, and he remembered serenity.

He had made sure he was the best man for you, the best man he could be. He loved you with all his heart and made sure you felt like a goddess above every waking moment of your lives together, however long that may be. He loved the small moments you shared, like when you'd tripped and nearly fallen, but straight into his arms. "Well I didn't think you'd be falling head over heels for me this fast," He'd said. And you'd laughed and smiled, and he swore he'd do everything to keep that smile on your perfect lips.

He remembered your first date, where he had tried so hard to reserve a seat at the best restaurant in baldurs Gate, but ended up in a dingy bar, getting more drunk with each cup, and instead of spending the night entangled in each other's bodies, you'd shared barely cohesive thoughts and stories from lives long past. He learned your favorite color, your old friendships, and the star that you felt most connected to, the smaller details that never seemed to have enough time for during your big adventure.

Or the time you'd styled his hair into braided buns, which he'd kept in until his hair was frizzy and far past wash day. But you'd worked so hard on it to be perfectly symmetrical that he never wanted to take out your work. He asked you to help him with his hair, after that, not just because you were good at it, which, hells, you'd made him feel confident in himself for the first time since he grew his horns, but because your light touch sent him into a nearly meditative state of bliss. The way your fingers carefully combed through his hair, spending time to detangle each knot with such care that he had barely noticed it at all. And eventually, you'd taught him how to do your hair, too. Eventually wearing matching styles (if he asked politely), and took turns in the "hair chair"

"Honey?" You whispered, groggy and barely awake, "have you been staring at me again?"

"Is it a crime?" Wyll asked, placing a light kiss on your forehead.

"Only if I was drooling"

"Oh, but you look too adorable when you drool." He chucked, holding you closer to his warm chest.

"Shut up..." You pouted, eyes fluttering open and closed, trying to force yourself awake. But sleep had you tight in it's arms, and so did Wyll.

Astarion:

Red was his favorite color, after all. The room was dripping with it, black, gold, and dark, burgundy. Candles dripping hot wax down into careful carafes, soon to be poured and decorating your skin. It was romantic, it was warm, and it was lustful. Astarions eyes never left you, dancing across your body in pure sin, he clearly knew exactly how your night would unfold, and the only hint he'd give you was the devilish smile on his lips.

"It's going to be a long night, hm?"

"Oh yes, darling" Astarion purred, his hand sliding into your hair and pulling downwards, revealing your neck to him. His fangs scraped against your bare skin, but not piercing it, no, that was for later, with much less clothing and a lot more sweat, when all you could see was his snow-white skin and the blood rushing through your veins.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

@shyminnie07 @makers-breath @claryvoyantfray @black-sapphic @fapqueen

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

(Consider supporting me on Ko-fi)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

[writersblockedx]

Something Inappropriate: Chapter Three

Pairing - Professor!Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader Summary - Spencer takes Y/n in, doing anything in his power to offer her comfort while she seeks safety in his apartment. Warnings - Mentions of toxic relationship, i think that's it x Words - 2.1K

Masterlist

Spencer Reid's apartment was exactly what Y/n expected but also not at the same time. Of course, his living room/kitchen area was lined with bookshelves, literature ranging from philosophy to quantum physics. All of the spines broken in. He had a leather couch, exactly like the one in his office only bigger and filled with a couple of plush cushions. He had spots filled with plants which were dying for some water but no other sign of life.

Y/n didn't know much about her professor's personal life. Only the information he spoke about in lectures - which barely ever exceeded his past workings alongside the BAU. However, she expected something more to him than well, himself. She first imagined him with at least a girlfriend, wife maybe. But, whenever she had been in his office, all that sat at his desk was a frame pictured of his team and another of him and, who she assumed was, his mother.

He wasn't a recluse, but he certainly seemed introverted. At the very least, Y/n had almost expected a dog or some small pet coming up and greeting her. But, within one glance, she came to realise the only other living thing in this apartment was the withering plants.

"I hope you don't mind the mess," Y/n gazed back around the room; on her terms, this was tidy. "I didn't realise I'd have company."

Y/n shrugged, still shaken from the events of the day, "Dont worry about it." Maybe she needed to clean her own flat if this was what the man considered a mess.

Suddenly, Spencer became very aware of himself. His hands fidgeted at the top of his trousers as he spoke, "Do you want anything? Food? Drink? I have erm-" He was already moving towards the wooden cupboard above the stove, "I have this tea," He graspped a small, unopened box of British tea that the girl didn't recognise. "One of my co-worker likes to try all of them, they're not really my thing." He rambled.

Y/n only shrugged once more, "Sure, I'll try it."

Spencer grabbed two cups, brewing himself a pot of coffee and attempting to make the tea which Penelope had given him. Within five minutes, he wandered over to the sofa and passed the girl her drink. "One of my team members worked in London for a little while, so," He offered an awkward smile.

"Is she the one for gave you the tea?" Y/n questioned as her knees found her chest and she blew against the boiling drink.

The boy laughed in a whisper, "No, no. Our technical analyst visited her once and demanded we all try the different types of teas from over there." He explained.

"I'm guessing you didn't like it then?" She asked.

He shook his head, "Not my thing." And Y/n looked back to the tea, letting it's scent fill her nose; surely it wasn't so bad. She sipped at it, the warmth of the tea filling through her lungs. It wasn't as bad as Spencer made it out to be. A similar taste as coffee: acquired. And, in her current state, she didn't care what she was drinking. All Y/n cared for was whether she was safe or not. When she glanced over at Spencer she felt safe, she felt comforted. Two things which had been rare for her in the past year.

"Could I ask you something?" Y/n speaks up after a moment of quiet, the only sound being the news channel which was lulling in the background of both of their thoughts. Spencer had looked over and nodded instantly, feeling a pull towards her, towards whatever it was which was swirling around in that marvellous mind of hers. "Do you think I could make it? In the BAU I mean. I like to think I'd be able to, but sometimes you talk about cases and all I can compare it to is horror stories."

It was a worry of which lots of students possessed. And it was true for some students, the very smell of a corpse had made several students whom believed they were ready, hurled over and vomiting. There was lots to it. And even now, after all the cases Spencer and his team had gone through, some hit hard. That was always going to be the case - it was just whether you could compartmentalise it or not.

"You're an excellent student, Y/n." Spencer commented, "Being in the field is different but you get used to it and you'll soon learn to draw a line between what happens in the field and what happens at home." The boy continued to explain.

She nodded along and glanced back at her tea, "Is that why you went back to teaching instead?" The girl wasn't certain as to whether she was overstepping. There was line. They had to maintain the relationship of student and teacher. Yet, she was here in his apartment, drinking his tea, sat on his couch. Maybe that line had already been crossed.

Spencer had shrugged, "Partly, I suppose." He answered, giving the girl a small smile.

After that, the girl became quiet. She sipped on her tea and mindlessly watched the brain-numbing tv show that had been playing in the background. Here felt safe. It felt better than had she dared go home, awaiting the sound of the buzzer, of the man she dreaded at her accommodation door. Or even in a motel, staring up at the ceiling, wishing she was somewhere she could call home - of even safe.

But here, here, was safe. He was safe - dare she come to admit such.

And when her eyes became heavy, she didn't stop herself. Not like she normally would. Sleep was scary when that certain ex-boyfriend was on her mind. Y/n's mind never felt safe enough to let her sleep. Not until she was sat across from her professor. In his locked apartment where no one could ever find her.

When Spencer glanced back at her, the girl lulled into her dreams, he slowly stood. He crouched before her, a gentle hand pressing at her shoulder, "Y/n-" He whispered.

The man was met with her jumping awake, a breath sucked right into her lungs like she had been drowning in her sleep. "Hey, hey," He rushed out, "You're okay, you fell asleep, it's okay." He soothed.

Spencer's hand had never left her shoulder and she was grateful for such. His touch was real. This was real - unlike what she thought. Without even thinking, her own hand moved up, grazing against his own, her eyes shutting as to give herself a moment. "Sorry, I didn't mean to jump." She muttered back before her eye fluttered back open.

His eyes explored her own. His hazel hues stared into her like he was reading her very thoughts. The girl wondered if he knew that she wanted him, that she was imagining his arms around her like a protective shield. When Y/n came to realise how inappropriate her own thoughts were, her hand fell. "How about you go to sleep?" Spencer suggested as he too pulled his touch away. "I'll get you some clothes, is that alright?"

Y/n nodded but the very thought of his material on her skin made her shiver. Still she waited in his spare room until he returned. It was like any guest room; bare of much personality. A bed that seemed to not have been slept in since it had been made. A dresser which was home to Spencer's Summer clothes he never wore and some books which weren't impressive enough to lay in his living area.

"Are these alright for you?" He questioned, passing over some joggers and a plain white t-shirt. "I don't know if they'll fit but you know-"

The girl glanced down at the clothes and simply shrugged, "They're perfect, thank you." She offered him a grin as a wave of awkward silence passed over the room; maybe she shouldn't have called his clothes perfect. They were just joggers and a top. Nothing special.

Spencer fidgeted and rolled on the balls of his feet, "Well then I'll erm- I'll let you get some rest." He spoke, already heading to escape what had become an awkward situation.

Once his back was turned, Y/n spoke up; a pathetic attempt to voice the true appreciation she felt for her professor, "Doctor Reid?" She called before the man slowly glanced back at her.

His face softened, his stiff shoulders relaxed, "Please, just call me Spencer."

Y/n's face bobbed down as her smile fought to the surface, "I erm- thank you, again, I mean it. I don't know what I would have done without you." The girl truly meant her words. It was rare she had anyone step in the way Spencer had done, offering her anything and everything. All to ensure her very safety.

"I'm here for you, Y/n." The man assured, "I'm not just your professor, I want to make sure you're okay." He said such so easily. Like he hadn't just maybe said something he shouldn't have done.

Spencer was just her professor. The professor who was looking out for his student's wellbeing. Nothing more - nothing less. Or at least that's what he would be telling himself.

For that night, the two slept in different beds, in different rooms. Yet they were barely meters apart. The comfort of safety made the bed feel like clouds as Y/n finally had the rest she was in such desperate need of. But when morning came, the daunting idea of going into the police station suddenly suffocated her.

She wandered out of the guest bedroom, dressed in nothing but Spencer's t-shirt and her own pants. The man was already there, dressed in bed-head and lazy pyjamas as he leaned over the kitchen stove. It was the scent which met Y/n's senses first; the crisp, burning smell of what she assumed was bacon. "Jesus, what are you cooking?" She winced at the smell, daring to move further into the kitchen.

Spencer glanced back, spatula in hand, "Bacon and eggs." He was gazing back with a harsh shrug, "I don't normally have guests so I'm erm- I'm-"

"Struggling?" Y/n finished his sentence for him. When he nodded, the girl slipped into view of the food. She chucked away the charred bacon pieces, slipped some more oil over the pan and placed fresh rations into the pan. "You had it on too high," She informed as she turned the fire on the stove down, "Hopefully it's better now."

When Y/n looked back to Spencer, she found his eyes already on her, like he was staring into her soul, seeing something in her that he hadn't before. Maybe it was this feeling of a domestic atmosphere. Making breakfast in their pjs, not caring for the fact they weren't ready, the care, the urge to have her here every morning. That was something of which Spencer couldn't shake.

"Right, of course." He mumbled before returning to stare at the meat.

An hour of so later and the two had something which wasn't burnt for breakfast. They were dressed and ready. Or as ready as Y/n could be for something like this. Talking about her ex-boyfriend, even thinking about her, caused her a wave of nerves she couldn't quite escape. And when Spencer's hand reached the door nob of his apartment, he came to realise the girl wasn't following after him.

With it open a jar, he glanced back, "Everything okay?" She simply swallowed the lump which had grown in her throat and Spencer knew. He took a few steps closer to her, "I know this is scary, but it will be worth it. An hour of anxiety, is worth being free of it forever."

The man then extended his hand for her to take, an offer of support. And when Y/n interlocked her fingers with his, she felt more ready than ever. "Yeah, yeah." She nodded before the two exited his home.

She preyed this was the start of the end. No more fighting in the beer gardening, no more panic attacks, no more sleepovers at her professor's apartment....no more security. Maybe it was wrong for her to yearn for this to continue. Not the stalker ex, but these nights, these mornings. Maybe it was wrong for her to long for something so inappropriate. Yet she couldn't seem to help herself and neither could he.

--

Taglist: - @tonystankhere @ilikw @abbiesxox Let me know if you'd liked to be added!

[etherealising]

chapter nine | don’t say baby! [part one]

masterlist | ↢ previous chapter | next chapter ↣

pairing(s): carmen berzatto x fem!reader | male!oc x fem!reader

summary: the day of nat and pete’s baby shower has finally arrived.

warning(s): grief | angst | self-loathing | self-depreciating thoughts | guilt | implications of miscarriage | miscarriage not mentioned explicitly | slight fluff | HAYDEN | alcohol | mentions overdose | mentions substance abuse |

wc: 6.2k

skin tones used in mood boards do not represent “baby” imagine her however your heart desires!

You sat criss-cross applesauce atop your island, a cup of iced lavender crème earl gray tea grasped in your hands as you took in the lively decorations scattered around your house. You’d been at it since eight this morning, the clock above your stove now read 11 a.m. It probably wouldn’t have taken as long if you asked the extra set of hands still asleep in your guest room for help. But after waking up this morning, you realized you just wanted to set up alone while in the comfort of your own home, before inviting everyone into your space. From your vantage point where you sat everything was perfect, exactly how you imagined it; only the best for Natalie and Pete.

You weren’t sure what to do with yourself now, all the decorations had been set up and now you were just waiting for the last of the desserts to finish up. While Pete had taken Nat out for her first day off in a while she’d mentioned to him a slew of deserts your mom used to make for you all growing up that she’d been craving, and what kind of friend would be if you didn’t indulge her pregnancy cravings.

Pete was instructed to show up with Nat at one, your group chat invitation asked for everyone else to arrive anytime before then to ensure everyone arrived on time. As you glanced at the balloon arch in your foyer and the boxes spelling out the word ‘baby’ you were nervous you had gone overboard, that Nat and Pete would think it was all too much. But with Pete telling you about Nat’s ideas you couldn’t help but go a bit overboard.

You glanced around your house one more time, a small laugh escaping you at the theme you’d chosen. It would’ve been a missed opportunity if you did anything other than a bear theme, you hoped everyone else got a laugh out of it the way you did. The more you looked at each decoration the more you forced yourself to not entertain the dozens of “what if” scenarios bouncing around your head. Those thoughts would bring nothing but negativity and as easy as it was to feed into the jagged wound of what once was, what could’ve been; you weren’t sure you had the energy to juggle both past and present today.

“Could’ve asked me for help.” You flinched at the sudden gruff morning voice traveling down your hallway.

Feet padding against the hardwood floor now alerting you of their towering presence next to you. You felt your nose scrunch as the rough scrape of a mustache caressed your temple along with cold lips.

You watched as Hayden walked around you, maneuvering around your kitchen like it was second nature, wearing his now wrinkled clothes from the previous night as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

He stood across from you on the opposite side of the island, forearms leaning against it, eyes darting to the many decorations behind you.

“I gotta run to the office, finalize some things for the gala,” he paused, raising the mug to his lips and taking a long sip. “I shouldn’t be too long.”

You nodded eyes unfocused as you tugged your bottom lip between your teeth. Your eyes shot up as Hayden reached out thumb gently sliding your lip from its prison.

“You nervous or something? I remember you doing that before big exams.” You watched as he let his thumb linger in a soft caress.

“Something like that.” You muttered as he reluctantly pulled his hand away, eyes lingering a moment longer.

After the oddly intimate moment initiated by Hayden, the two of you sat in silence as the man drained his cup of coffee before moving to round up his belongings. It felt odd having Hayden in your house and you couldn’t exactly pinpoint why. You weren’t sure if it was because of the incident from the night before or if it was because deep down you were hoping another man would be the first to spend the night under the same roof as you.

Hayden approached from the hallway briefcase in hand, a small smile on his face as you got up to walk him to the door, neither of you saying a word as he slipped his shoes on before turning to look at you. “Uh…I guess I’ll see you later?”

You sent him a small smile nodding your head as you opened the door for him. You watched as his hand came up to cup the side of your cheek, thumb gently caressing the corner of your lips before he began leaning in. You froze, the moment reminiscent of the previous night.

His lips were hovering so close over yours that you could feel the tidy hairs of his mustache tickling your upper lip as he took your silence as an answer.

“No! hell no!” You flinched in Hayden’s hold as the loud Chicagoan accent rang from the steps of your porch through your ajar door. Hayden quickly removed himself from your space and straightened up like he’d just been caught doing something highly illegal.

You didn’t need to look to know who it was, that boisterous voice was a staple in your life for longer than you could remember. You felt flustered as Richie’s back came into view, his tall stature stepping through the door and between you and Hayden blocking you from each other’s view.

“I uh was just leaving?” The questioning tone of his voice proved he wasn’t sure who he was hoping to convince. “Good to see you Mr. Jerimovich.” A small chuckle left your lips at how uneasy Richie made Hayden.

You watched as Richie turned, handing you the dish he was holding before his free hand came down to cover the doorknob and wrench the door open even more, making it clear that Hayden had overstayed his welcome.

“Yeah mhm-hmm you too Hilary.” If the wrong name wasn’t enough, the tone of Richie’s voice sure was and it told you he did not share the same sentiment as Hayden.

Hayden furiously nodded his head taking a step over the threshold before searching for your eyes and sending you a strained smile. “Baby I’ll ca-,”

“Pack it up, Heather.” Richie’s last words were punctuated by the sound of your front door slamming in Hayden’s face. His tall figure could be seen through the mosaic window on your door, showing he was still standing on your porch in shock.

You watched as Richie quickly locked your door before moving past you to your kitchen, a small sigh left your lips as you could physically feel Richie’s ire radiating off of him.

“Good morning to you too Richie.” The sarcasm dripped from your voice as you took a seat at the barstool at your island, and set the dish down as Richie set your oven to preheat for the dish he brought.

He turned to you, arms crossed tightly against his chest, the disappointed frown on his face telling you all you needed to know as you prepared yourself for the lecture he was about to lay on you.

“You know Baby, I was okay with Carmen, not my favorite choice for you but I got over it. But that jagoff with his slicked back hair and carpet on his upper lip is where I draw the line.” It was taking every bit of control you had not to visibly roll your eyes.

“Richie I appreciate the concern, but need I remind you I am a grown woman capable of making my own decisions.” You shrugged, while you appreciated the love and care Richie had for you, this was not a topic you wanted to discuss on a day such as this one.

Richie’s lips rolled in as he nodded his head, a humorless laugh escaped him. “Are you though?” You frowned as he shrugged, holding his hands out in a placating manner. “I’m just sayin’ I learned you were a recovering addict 5 business days ago.”

“Says the 40-year-old divorcee still hung up on his ex-wife.” It was silent in the kitchen as the two of you just stared at each other. Richie’s jaw clenched in annoyance while you raised your eyebrow daring the older man to challenge you.

The stare-off was broken by the beeping of your oven, signifying it was ready. You watched as Richie took the tin foil off the top of the tray mumbling under his breath as he moved to place the tray in your oven.

Richie turned back around when he was done, eyes not meeting yours as he stood with his hands behind his back for a moment. “You’re really fucking mean sometimes you know that?” The pitch of his voice rose a bit as though he was whining.

A soft laugh rose in your throat before being dispelled into your kitchen at Richie’s childish antics, the noise causing Richie to laugh as well before the two of you settled on sharing matching grins. The moment was lost as you watched Richie’s eyebrows pinch together, his teeth beginning to worry his bottom lip as he leaned across the island, a position similar to the one Hayden was in not too long ago.

“Listen, Baby, I just don’t want you letting the emotions of today guide your judgment,” you listened intently as Richie held eye contact with you. “I mean I know I ain’t the best person to be taking advice from, but channeling your grief and feelings for Carmy into whatever the hell you’re doing with Hailey ain’t good for anybody.”

A small smile graced your lips at Richie’s innate need to constantly misname Hayden, but you knew there was some truth in his words. Honestly, you weren’t sure what the hell was going on between you and Hayden, in actuality, nothing was going on between the two of you until 24 hours ago. The small moment you shared was abruptly initiated by the man, and though the two of you worked together and rekindled your friendship, you weren’t sure it was a good idea for the two of you to try and relive your college years.

You let Richie’s words sink in a bit more as you realized how right he was. Hayden didn’t deserve to be used as another man’s replacement, and you didn’t deserve to fill the void his divorce left. And while there might always be some underlying lust between the two of you, you’d rather not lose a friendship you were just getting back and cherished more than the intimate times you shared.

“God we’re such losers Richie,” the man raised his eyebrows confused by your train of thought. “You’re still in love with your ex-wife, and I’m in love with a man I’ve never even been in a relationship with.”

Realization dawned on Richie’s face, head nodding up and down as he agreed with you. “How’s the Loveless Loser’s Club sound? I know a guy who can get us a deal on some shirts.”

The serious look on Richie’s face caused the both of you to laugh, coming to terms with how sad your lives were at the moment.

“You uh know Carmen’s coming today right?” Richie scratched the back of his head not sure where things were with you and the Berzatto boy.

You sighed nodding, grateful for Richie’s concern for you, “Would you believe it if I told you I invited him myself?”

“Is that why the kids been walking around the restaurant smiling like a fucking whack job?” Richie questioned eyebrows raising to his hairline like you’d just told him the juiciest piece of gossip ever. “No… wait a fucking minute, you were on the other line when I barged in on him on FaceTime in the walk-in!” If you didn’t know the context of this conversation you would’ve sworn Richie just cracked the biggest mystery of the century with how giddy he was.

“Little shit wouldn’t tell me who he was talking to, he was all smiles like he fuckin won the lottery or some shit!” You laughed at Richie's observations. “So the two of you cool again or somethin?”

You shrugged unsure as to how to explain the relative peace between you and Carmy at the moment. You couldn’t help the small smile itching to show itself as your mind went back to the myriad of text and phone calls the two you were exchanging since your confession. Half of the time the conversations the two of you shared were pointless.

“Or somethin'…we talked about the overdose but I wasn’t completely honest with him about certain things.” Your words became quieter towards the end of your sentence.

“You’ll tell him though.” It wasn’t a question and it wasn’t a demand either, just a simple statement of fact. “Baby I uh…it wasn’t my place to tell you to keep this from Carmy, and I’m sorry I made that decision for you. But I’ll be there by your side when you decide to tell him…I’ll support you through it.”

You nodded appreciating Richie’s words but feeling nauseous at the thought of telling Carmy such a horrible truth about yourself. “You didn’t make that decision for me Richie. As much as I hate to admit it, I…I think my mind was already made up.” Your shoulders raised in a slight shrug as the two of you shared sad smiles.

When the time was right you would be honest with Carmen, because if anyone deserved to know the truth it was him.

Hopping off the stool you walked around the island to wrap Richie in a hug, his tall frame embracing you in a hug you never knew you needed but always appreciated when given. You stood in each other’s arms for a moment longer letting the reality of life settle into you before stepping out of his embrace.

“Wanna help me frost the cupcakes?” You smiled as Richie rolled his eyes at your question before nodding his head, the both of you knew he wouldn’t turn you down.

Richie watched as you maneuvered to grab the cooling rack on the opposite counter. “I was serious about those losers' club shirts.”

A small huff of laughter escaped you as you shook your head back and forth at Richie’s antics before handing him a piping bag. The two of you engaged in quiet conversation as you worked around each other, a sense of ease falling over the kitchen as the pair of you worked like a well-oiled machine.

Richie shooed you out of the kitchen to go get ready after the two of you plated the various desserts you made. The man mocking you at times when you complained he hadn’t placed the sweets at the perfect angle, mumbling under his breath that you were no better than Carmy.

You finished getting ready a while ago letting Richie know you’d be in the backyard if he needed anything. And that’s exactly where you were now tucked into some lawn chair that’d been in the garage when you first bought the house. Your cardigan tucked tightly around you as your eyes focused on the small garden you’d started after moving in.

The pretty blue flowers that you’d grown to love had your sole attention as you watched the spring breeze blow through them. The solitude felt much needed before you prepared yourself to be a gracious host. Part of you wished you never agreed to throw this shower, the grief you never allowed yourself to feel, now painting your insides with resentment. Another part of you was grateful to have made it this far, to even have a chance to celebrate these milestones with the people you loved.

The longer you sat there staring at the flowers, the lonelier you felt. It felt a bit hypocritical, for you to have some sort of misguided resentment towards Natalie and Pete when you couldn’t even work up the courage to show Carmen all your cards, couldn’t let him in on a truth he deserved to know the moment you knew.

Blue flowers stared back at you mocking the emotional turmoil you were putting yourself through. You could be angry with no one but yourself, you were now reaping the consequences of the choices you made in the previous year. It was no one’s fault but your own.

A heavy hand resting upon your shoulder caused you to flinch, the gentle squeeze pressed into the fabric of your cardigan letting you know the person behind you wasn’t a threat, and the signature scent of the off-brand laundry detergent they used led to the conclusion that it was Richie.

He was so close you could feel the warmth radiating off of him onto your neck, you felt his hand begin to knead your shoulder, the soft touch easing the tension your body had been building up throughout the weeks of preparation.

��People are gonna start to arrivin’ soon Babes.” You nodded absentmindedly as your eyes stayed glued to the blue bulbs, forcing yourself to face the reality of the life you were leading; reminding you of what a shitty person you were for keeping this secret from Carmen. “I could say you’re not feelin’ hot let you waste away in that big ass fucking bed of yours.”

You let out a quiet hollow laugh at Richie’s words, wishing the world would swallow you whole at that moment. “We both know Nat wouldn’t buy that.” Richie made a hum of agreement before walking around to stand in front of you, a familiar cartridge in the hand he held out to you eyebrows raised in question.

Your eyes landed on the packet of cigarettes contemplating just how overwhelmed you were in that moment before your eyes flashed back to the flowers. You let out a small sigh before standing up, dusting the nonexistent dirt off your outfit, you gave Richie a small nod before walking around him following the path that led to the gate that separated your backyard from the front. At the lack of footsteps echoing behind you, you stopped before turning to look at Richie. “Not in front of the flowers.”

The confused expression once marring his features dissipated into understanding as he took the steps to follow you out of the gate. It was stupid really, they were just flowers, and depending on which way the wind blew they’d still feel the stinging caress of the nicotine you were about to indulge in.

But you couldn’t stand another second staring at those vibrantly sad flowers.

Carmen wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to the sight of you with a cigarette between your lips. His eyes traced you and Richie standing at the side of your house, the older man talking animatedly as you nodded along to whatever outrageous story he was telling. He sat there for a moment just staring at the two of you wondering how privy Richie was to the past year of your life, the sound of the car turning off not pulling him out of his analysis of you and Richie. He was almost positive Richie knew about your overdose and definitely was privy to whatever sickness you’d contracted upon returning to Chicago. It just made Carmy wonder if Richie knew about the tumultuous year you had, why didn’t he ever mention anything to him; why didn’t Nat?

“Carm?” He blinked eyes moving from the window to the wide green eyes staring at him from the driver's seat. “Lost you there for a minute, you okay?” Carmy watched as Claire’s brow furrowed in concern, eyes blinking rapidly as he nodded, sending a small awkward smile to the woman. “Well c’mon then Bear.” She laughed as she said his nickname sending a bright smile his way before she began exiting from the car.

A small huff of laughter escaped him as he followed suit, eyes catching yours as you watched the two of them move to the trunk of the car, face unreadable before you took one more drag of your cigarette before stomping it out, eyes leaving Carmy’s to dart back and forth between him and Claire obviously trying to piece that puzzle together.

Carmy reached into the trunk to grab his respective present and the dish he’d brought, patiently waiting for Claire to grab her share before he shut the trunk. The two of them made their way up the drive, Claire practically buzzing in excitement next to him.

“You know those things kill right?” Claire’s words echoed around the group as the two of you shared a hug.

“Not fast enough apparently.” Claire laughed at your statement as the two of you pulled away, Carmen gave you a blank stare finding your words less than amusing, as Richie raised his hand to swat the back of your head.

Claire and Carmy watched as you turned to glare at Richie, the man returning his own irritated gaze upon you. It was silent as the newcomers stood awkwardly watching you and Richie have some sort of unspoken conversation as the two of you stared each other down. The clearing of Claire’s throat pulled the two out of your moment but not before you sent your elbow into Richie’s rib cage and he flicked the tip of your ear.

“Claire Bear! It’s so great to see you, not sure why you came with this loser,” Richie offhandedly gestured to Carmy who stood there like a deer in headlights staring at you. “But nonetheless, welcome, let's get this inside.” Richie reached out to take the dish from Claire’s hand before gesturing for her to follow him.

Carmen watched as Claire and Richie fell into comfortable conversation, not letting himself turn his attention to you until the door shut firmly behind them. The small cough you let out finally drew his blue eyes back to your figure.

“So…” his eyes met yours a feeling of awkwardness floating between the two of you, while you may have been falling back into old habits through text and phone conversations being face to face like this reminded Carmy of when he was 16 and trying to force himself to ask you out.

“You and Claire look great together.” Your words caught Carmy by surprise considering to no fault of her own Claire was the exact reason the two of you fell out all those weeks ago.

Carmy nodded, eyes searching yours for anything other than the forced act he could tell you were putting on. “We’re uh not together, n-not like that. I mean we are together like we arrived together, b-but we aren’t…” Carmy found himself trailing off as you let out a soft laugh, eyes seeming to light up at his fumbling.

“Carm, you don’t have to explain anything to me,” he nodded watching as your eyes darted between his eyes before moving your focus somewhere past him. “If you’re happy I’m happy Carmen.” The smile on your face almost made it believable, but he knew you.

He knew that since your move back to Chicago this was the second time you lied directly to his face.

Carmy stood around pretending to listen to a debate between Marcus and Fak about something he didn’t have the mental capacity to care about. For the past 20 minutes, his eyes were focused on you, watching as you greeted the remaining guests which was mostly just the crew from work. The word subtle was not in Carmen’s vocabulary as he’d been caught by you too many times to make his starring a coincidence but apparently not enough times to shame him into stopping.

He found himself thankful that Claire was too preoccupied in her conversation with Syd and Tina to notice the way he’d been studying you since entering your house. He couldn’t help but wince as he thought of Claire, he wasn’t lying to you, the two of them weren’t together at least he didn’t think he was giving off those signs. It wasn’t like he knew how relationships worked, the only experience he had was 48 hours with you, and look how that ended.

Carmy wasn’t exactly sure what was transpiring between him and Claire. To him, it was just two old friends reconnecting, but sometimes he found himself noticing the way Claire’s fingers would ghost across his arm or the slight way she’d lean her head against his shoulder. All things he’d done with you and found comfort in, but with Claire, it felt like more than a friendly gesture. Not that he had much to say in that department considering he lost his virginity to his best friend a year ago, but he knew he didn’t want more with Claire in the way he wanted more with you; he just wasn’t sure Claire knew that.

Carmen watched as you answered the door, a small smile gracing your lips as you opened the door wider to let the guest in. He eyed the two of you, obviously, some type of familiarity between both of you as he wrapped you in his arms hugging you for longer than Carmy thought necessary. He felt his eyebrows crease as the man leaned down placing a delicate kiss into your hair before placing another one on your cheek. You stepped out of his embrace smiling up at him before removing the gift bag in his hands and gesturing him into the room.

Carmy couldn’t help but feel like he knew the man who seemed to walk into the room and gather attention, Carmy assessed the man feeling inadequate as he took in the fancy slacks and button-up he was wearing. The shirt almost looked purposely small accentuating the muscles through the sleeves, two buttons undone as though wearing the shirt properly would suffocate him.

The two men locked eyes, Carmy doing his best to appear neutral as the man made his way towards him smiling like he knew a secret Carmy didn’t.

“Carmen Berzatto man, it's been a long time.” Carmy watched the man laugh, clapping a solid hand onto his shoulder pearly whites almost blinding the chef.

Carmy nodded trying to place how this man knew his name, he didn’t want to be pretentious and assume it was through his culinary work or accolades, and even though the voice sounded familiar he couldn’t quite place the face.

The man laughed, dropping his hand from Carmy’s shoulder “Don’t hurt yourself. Hayden Ivanovski, from high school?”

It took every bit of control Carmy had not to outright frown in the man’s face, of course, Hayden fucking Ivanovski was standing in front of him. It was bad enough he was standing in his own way when it came to his chances with you, now he had to deal with his high school competition.

“Oh yeah, yeah, guess the stache threw me off.” Carmy forced a laugh

Hayden nodded as he made his way to the kitchen, something compelling Carmy to follow as the taller of the two produced two beers from your fridge handing one off to Carmy giving him no time to wonder why the beverage was in your fridge in the place.

“It threw Baby off too,” Carmy couldn’t help but bristle at Hayden’s use of your nickname, the two-syllable word didn’t sound right coming from his lips. “How’s the restaurant coming along?”

Carmy followed the bottle to Hayden’s lips, eyebrows furrowed as he watched the man take a swig, “Good yeah uh great…coming along great.” The underlying question in his words was obvious, confusion coursing through him at Hayden’s question.

“Don’t worry,” Hayden’s hands raised in a mock surrender. “Not stalking you or anything, I just okayed Baby’s article on the project.” Carmen’s confusion only worsened not following what Hayden was saying. “We work together at the Tribune.” Hayden shrugged like it was no big deal.

Because it was no big deal, at least to him. But Carmy felt his stomach sink at the information, the fact that Hayden had access to your attention far more than Carmy did to settle the bubble of irritation in his stomach.

It was quiet between the two men after that revelation was uncovered, neither of them eager to continue the conversation in any way. Carmy watched as Hayden finished the contents of his bottle before moving to place it in the recycling bin and making his way back to Carmy’s side.

“I actually wanted to thank you, man.” Hayden stood in front of Carmy arms crossed so tightly against his chest Carmy was sure his biceps would rip the sleeves of his shirt.

Carmy nodded unsure as to what he was being thanked for, his body’s fight or flight mode in overdrive as he offered Hayden one last curt nod before placing his unopened beer bottle down on the island prepared to leave the awkward confines of this conversation.

“Keep fuckin with Baby’s emotions the way you do and I won’t have to do much work to convince her I’m the better option.” Hayden’s words caused Carmy to stop in his tracks, the blank expression on his face finding the smug one painting Hayden’s.

“You see Carmen,” Hayden moved forward, stepping into Carmy’s space. “You keep pushing her away, and the more you push her away, the more I get to console her, dry her tears, make her feel better in ways you could only imagine.” Carmy felt his face flush at what the man in front of him was implying.

“Look at her,” Carmy reluctantly turned his head, your laugh jingling in his ears as he watched you converse with Tina. “You wouldn’t know what the fuck to do with a woman like that if she came with an instruction manual. Listen all I’m sayin' Boss, just quit while you’re ahead, let someone else give her the life she deserves.” Hayden shrugged, eyeing you from his spot next to Carmy hand moving in a small wave as you looked in their direction.

Carmy stiffened as Hayden gripped his hand pulling him into a hug and slapping his back harder than necessary. He tried to remove himself from the embrace as Hayden tightened his arms around the shorter man. “I don’t usually kiss and tell but…” Carmy could feel his blood boiling the longer he stood there locked in this conversation. “You wouldn’t believe how dirty she gets behind closed doors.”

Carmy stood frozen as Hayden finally let him go, what was a five-minute conversation felt like an eternity for him. He couldn’t help but feel like throwing up, the words Hayden had spoken with such confidence made him sick to his stomach. As disgusted as Hayden’s words made Carmen feel, he was sure there was some truth to them.

He wouldn’t give merit to the statements regarding whatever intimacy there was between you and Hayden, but he knew if he didn’t get his shit together you weren’t going to keep waiting around for him. A part of him knew the man was just trying to get under his skin, it was only a couple of nights ago when you asked for his friendship and he couldn’t let whatever misogynistic bullshit Hayden was trying to pull get to him.

As Carmy stood in your kitchen watching Hayden connect to you like a leech, he couldn’t help the images Hayden had procured from bouncing around in his head. Carmen didn’t think he was a jealous man, he didn’t seem to ever have anything in life to be jealous about; envious sure, but never jealous.

But as he let Hayden’s words play on repeat in his head, he couldn’t help but feed the little green monster growing inside him the longer he looked at you and Hayden. The tall man caught his eye from across the room as he smirked before leaning down to plant a kiss on your head before turning to greet Tina.

Carmy watched the moment with a blank stare trying to disregard the sour feeling settling in his stomach. His eyes glazed over the longer he focused on your small group and he couldn’t deny the fact that you and Hayden looked like the picture-perfect couple tucked next to each other. Carmy was broken out of his trance by the light touch to his bicep, eyes blinking rapidly as he found Claire now standing in his line of sight.

“Carm, hey,” He watched as Claire chuckled hand gently massaging his arm. “I’ve been trying to get your attention you know.”

He nodded distractedly eyes finding yours over Claire’s shoulder as you watched the two of them from your own corner of the room. Carmy held your gaze for a minute, neither of you daring to look away from the other, the emotions in your eyes conveying something Carmy couldn’t quite understand as he drank in the undivided attention you gave him. You broke the stare first, eyes trailing to Claire’s hand still latched onto him, he felt his heart clench watching as you sent him a small smile before turning to leave your conversation.

Carmen turned his attention back to Claire who sent another squeeze to his arm, eyebrow raised as she waited for an explanation. “My bad I uh I just zoned out.” He forced a small smile allowing her to take his hand and lead him towards the front door. She stopped them at a small table set up with various colorful pens, markers and stickers sprawled across it for anyone to use.

His eyes caught on a familiar Polaroid Camera that not only held memories for the two of you but printed out some of his favorite photos of you. He watched as Claire grasped it before handing it to him.

“It's to make scrapbook pages,” He nodded fingers clutching the camera like it held the secrets of the universe. “Baby’s gonna bind the pages we make here and gift them to Pete and Nat. Take my picture?”

Carmen’s head shot to Claire at the question, her smiling face encouraging him to do as she asked before he stared at the relic of a camera in his hands. He hesitated before nodding motioning Claire to pose as he stood in front of the balloon arch taking up most of your entryway. Carmy gave her a small nod before raising the camera to his eye readying himself to take the picture.

The gesture sent his mind reeling to the last time he’d used this camera the context of those memories sending a blush up his neck. He cleared his throat moving the camera to rest against his torso, “I uh…I think it needs more film.” His words went unanswered as Richie was distracting Claire with whatever he deemed necessary to bore her with.

Carmen felt a bit bad for lying to Claire about the camera needing film, but he just couldn’t get himself to snap a picture of another woman using the same camera the two of you used after such a vulnerable moment shared between you both.

Wandering away from the balloon arch, Carmen found himself looking at the camera in his hands mind racing with thoughts of you. The two of you didn’t have much time to converse since he’d arrived and for all the back and forth the two of you were doing over the phone, he was hoping for a warmer welcome in person. It would be naive of him to believe the two of you would fall back into your friendship from all those years and two things proved this to him.

The first was his ever-growing and constant feelings for you.

And the second; how easy it was for you to lie to his face.

a/n: suuurpriseeee! this update is so out of left field so please do not get your hopes up. if anything i hope this update can give you a silly goofy fic to indulge in for a bit 🤍

[roman0writes]

𝕃𝕒𝕧𝕖𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣 𝕋𝕖𝕒 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕊𝕒𝕜𝕖

Warnings: none

Summary: A quiet moment in the Going Merry’s empty for once kitchen

For someone who only has one eye, Zoro easily has the most intimidating glare on the ship. And while you’re glad you’ve never truly been on the receiving end of it, sometimes it certainly feels like it. Like now, how even when quietly reading a book at the kitchen table, you can feel his occasional glance crawl up your spine like some kind of demon spider. It comes and goes, and whenever you lift your eyes even slightly up from the pages, he’s back to polishing his swords like he wasn’t staring a hole into the center of your forehead.

It’s infuriating, and it causes you to constantly lose focus and re-read the same word over and over again in the cheesy romance novel you picked up off the island in some last-ditch effort to distract yourself from him. Of all the people you had to have a crush on, it had to be the one person on this ship that hated you. Just your luck.

You were enjoying it, the summary seemed promising enough: a runaway princess gets rescued by an exiled knight and teams up to stop an all-powerful crime lord from taking over the country in order to regain the respect of the royal family. Cheesy, stereotypical, and just what you needed to read. Until the knight was revealed to be just like Zoro. It was like reading a romance novel with yourself and the crush as protagonists, and what was supposed to be a cure for your boredom just became fuel for your problems.

“What are you reading?” Zoro’s gruff voice came from across the counter, and you look up at him. Your view of him is partially blocked by your empty cup of tea. He’s still looking at his swords, polishing them with a level of attention to detail you couldn’t possibly exhibit without a scope.

“Just some dumb romance novel I picked up off the island,” you mutter. You close the book, summary side up, and stand up to head to the stove. “I’m making some more tea; do you want some?” The offer is formality alone, you know what his answer is.

“No, thanks.”

But he doesn’t stop there, he also gets up from the table and heads to the cabinet you’re at. His body naturally slots behind yours, like pieces of a puzzle, and he reaches above you to the liquor cabinet. You freeze, holding and staring at the box of lavender in your hand while Zoro presses even closer to you, reaching to grab a bottle of sake further back.

You want to shout or say that he’s too close, but by the time you’ve already processed what happened, he’s backed away from you and is pouring some into a cup. He only drinks it from the bottle.

“That lavender tea is only going to do so much to help you relax,” he says, “sake would probably do a better job than that.”

You turn to look at him, tell him you don’t need alcohol thank you very much, but your hand silently accepts the cup he’s already handed you and takes a sip. It’s bitter and burns as it goes down your throat, but you drink it anyway. “Thank you, Zoro.”

You make eye contact with him again, but it’s more relaxed, the lazy grin he has on his face making it a lot less tense and nerve-wracking than eye contact with him normally is. He takes another swig from the bottle before clearing his throat to get your attention. Did you zone out again?

“So, is it clear that I like you, or do I need to buy you roses and call you (Y/N)-swan like that moronic chef?”

[thewitcheswitch89]

The Witches Image

Papa Emeritus IV - Part 2

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Min Heyoka (@TheWitcheswitch89) - Wattpad

"Hi, I'm Madison!" She held out her hand to me with a grin and pushed a strand of her straw-blonde hair behind her ear with her other hand. Her bright blue eyes scrutinized me curiously.  "You're really pretty!".

"Ehmm... thanks?" I grinned back and shook her hand. "I'm Lia! And it looks like I'm your new roommate!". Madison laughed.

"Yes, I've been living here on my own for a while. So please don't be surprised... I've made myself quite at home here in that time. If I'd known earlier that I was getting a new roommate, I would have cleaned up!" She put her hands in her pockets and nodded at me.

"Yes... I was taken by surprise too! It was more of a spontaneous transfer!" I let my gaze wander around the room. In the middle was a small couch with lots of colorful cushions. In front of it was a small table and a simple flat-screen TV hung on the wall. There was a console underneath.

"Wow... you have time to play games here?" I asked.

"Yes!" Madison laughed. "We sometimes have a lot of free time. Especially when we have another tour coming up...we often get to work on our own!".

I'd almost forgotten about the Ghost Project. From what I had heard, they had only recently returned from their last tour. I loved their music, but hadn't had the chance to really follow them recently. My day had been too full for that and I was too tired in the evening.

The kitchen was small, but had everything you needed to prepare a small snack. A small fridge, microwave, tea cupboard, kettle and, most importantly, a coffee machine. A small stove with a mini worktop was squeezed under the window next to the sink.

"It's not much!" sighed Madison next to me. "But we usually go to the canteen for lunch. The food is ok...We're also lucky here with the showers. We have one of the few rooms that has its own bathroom. The lower rooms have to share one! This is my room...and this is yours...it's even a bit bigger!". Madison winked at me and opened the door on the opposite side of the room.

"The sister who lived here before really liked the color black...I hope you like it. It's not so easy to get paint here."

I was amazed when I saw the dark walls. The dark wooden floor creaked with every step. A large metal bed stood in the middle of the room, on an old Persian rug, comforter, pillow and cover neatly folded on a gray wing chair in the corner of the large window. Next to it was a desk and a dark two-door closet.

"Amazing!" I marveled and dropped my bag next to my suitcases. "This room is as big as the room I shared with one of my sisters in the old convent!"

"Well... that's luxury for you then!" Madison leaned against the doorframe and watched me with a grin. "You'll have more privacy here."

"Privacy?" I laughed. "What's that? Sounds like music to my ears!".

"Speaking of music...I still have the old stereo from your previous tenant...would you like to have it?" she asked and disappeared into the living room without waiting for an answer, shortly afterwards she came around the corner with a box. "There are CDs here too! From Ghost, of course!".

I took the box from her and was amazed when I examined the system.

"Why would you leave something like that behind?" I asked myself.

"She moved out overnight! I don't know what really happened! But she must have been kicked out!" Madison sighed and knelt down next to you to look at the CDs. "Above all, I would have taken these with me...they're all signed!". I took the CDs from her hand in disbelief, wondering at the same time what you had to do to get kicked out of a convention. The realization hit me in the face shortly afterwards. Wasn't it almost the same for me?

"I'll let you unpack first," she said and stood up with a sigh. "When you're done, I can show you around later...I have to go to the library now...catch up on stuff. I'll be back around 6pm. Then we'll go to dinner...see you then!". She waved to me and reached for her bag on the sofa. Before she went out the door, she turned around again: "Nice to see you here Lia!". I nodded to her with a grin. The door closed behind her and I was alone.

The first thing I did was connect the system and insert one of the CDs. "Prequelle." The music filled the still empty room and I closed my eyes for a moment. How long had it been since I had had time to listen to the music I wanted to hear. Without having to pay attention to anyone. Copia's voice was beautiful and dark. It was only one song later that I was able to tear myself away from the trance state the music had put me in and start unpacking my suitcase. I put my clothes neatly in the wardrobe. I stowed my books and the stereo in one of the three dark shelves, which I dusted off first. The only decorative items I had were a wooden crucifix, which I placed above my bed. A wall cloth with a tarot card motif of the moon, candles and a string of lights that I draped over the headboard of the bed. I decided to visit the city in the next few days. Perhaps Madison would accompany me.

After making my bed, I took my laptop out of my bag and sat down at my desk. A quick glance at my alarm clock told me that I still had half an hour before Madison would come back. Enough time to surf the internet a bit.

The encounter with Copia had stayed with me the whole time. My thoughts were constantly revolving around him, if only because I was listening to the album for the second time now and just couldn't get enough. His voice was like a drug, I couldn't get enough of his singing and the words he was saying. 

First I typed Ghost into the search engine and was rewarded with lots of pictures. He in his various stage outfits, which looked more than just good on him. I scrolled and scrolled and lost myself deeper and deeper in this rabbit hole. Before I knew it, I found myself saving one of the photos to my laptop.  A picture, black and white, obviously taken during one of his performances. His stage make-up matched his outfit perfectly. His gaze was directed at the audience and his white eyes stood out under the dark make-up. He looked very different in this picture. Different from the man I had met in Sister Imperator's office. So confident and attentive. His broad shoulders under his military jacket looked muscular and strong. His hands in the black leather gloves. The tight pants that...

Stop... I closed the laptop and stared out of the window. What was I doing here? Just a few hours ago, I would have loved to get back on the plane and fly home. And now I was sitting here... all my thoughts focused on just one person. Sighing, I leaned back in my chair and stared at the ceiling. Faith was playing in the background. And I had to laugh at the irony of the lyrics. He was in my thoughts. He had crept in and taken up residence. From one second to the next. Just one look was enough. Ignoring the uneasy feeling in my stomach, I decided to freshen up for dinner.

"The food today was really exceptional...good!" laughed Madison. We had just eaten dinner. It hadn't been bad, but I was still glad that I hadn't had too much of an appetite.

"We could make Ramen later!", she suggested as we left the canteen behind the others.

"I'd love to!" I replied. And wanted to go the way we had come earlier, but Madison stopped me.

"Wait, we still have to do our Tour!" she grinned.

"But it's to late..." I said, frowning when Madison looked at me like I was crazy.

"Lia...you're here now...things are a bit more relaxed here!" she assured me with a raised eyebrow. I just nodded uncertainly and followed her. "Besides, it's much nicer at noon!".

Madison hadn't promised too much. The first thing she showed me was the chapel. Large candlesticks lined the aisle leading up to the altar. A figure of Lucifer raised one hand to swear and held a bare-breasted woman clasped around the waist with his other arm. Her face contorted in desire. His horns, large and pointed, reached up to the three large arches of stained glass windows behind him. I was sure that the woman in his arms represented Lillith. The first witch, the first wife of Adam, the mother of all demons and the wife of Lucifer. The candles bathed the scene in a beautiful light. The unholy writing was emblazoned on the altar. Surrounded by dark red roses and black candles.

"Didn't I tell you that it's much nicer !" Madison whispered, but her voice still echoed off the walls. The last rays of sunlight refracted in the window and made Lucifer's features seem almost real.

It was hard to tear myself away from this sight, but Madison wanted to continue her tour.

She showed me the Classrooms and Needlework rooms, as well as the Workshop, which smelled of resin. On the way to the library, we stopped at a large iron door, which was only lit by a single dim lamp in the dark.

"Where does it lead to?" I asked, taking a step towards the door.

"Wait!" said Madison. "Don't go in there...the door leads to the Ghoul's common areas...they don't like it so much when you enter their area...territory and all...". Without elaborating, Madison continued on her way in the opposite direction. With one last glance, I followed her towards the library. And if the chapel hadn't taken my breath away, this had. Huge shelves lined the walls and formed rows all the way to the back. Shelves filled from top to bottom with books and scrolls. Large arched windows lined both sides of the room. Tables with chairs or armchairs stood in small alcoves, just beckoning you to snuggle up and read.

"Impressive, isn't it? Come on, I'll show you my favorite place!" She grabbed my hand and pulled me behind her. One of the most beautiful chandeliers I'd seen in a long time hung magnificently from the ceiling with flickering candles.

"This is where I always sit and study...". You stumbled against Madison's shoulder as she stopped abruptly. I looked at her, startled, wondering what had startled her so much. Until I followed her gaze and looked into the eyes that I hadn't been able to get out of my head all day.

Copia was sitting in one of the armchairs in front of the crackling fireplace, holding a book in his hand and staring at us as perplexed as we were at him. The light from the fire cast a warm shadow on his face and made his white eye glow almost orange. His gaze traveled to Madison and then to me.

"Ohh...ehh...good evening!" he closed the book and a smile played around the corners of his mouth. His eyes lingered on mine for a moment too long and I avoided his gaze.

"Papa!" Madison had found her voice again. And gave Copia a look, which he returned. "We're sorry! We didn't mean to disturb you...I...I'm just showing Sister Lia around."

"Ah...buono!" he laughed and nodded at me. "Stick to Sister Madison...she's one of my best students!". Unable to speak, I just nodded at him, which only made him grin even wider.

"Let's get going then! Good night, Papa!" Madison curtseyed briefly and pulled me after her. We ran out of the library, taking one last look at Copia.

Back in your little apartment, I wished Madison a good night and got ready for bed. I slipped under the lavender-scented comforter and stared at the ceiling. I could feel the tiredness slowly pulling me into a deep sleep. When I closed my eyes, I saw Copia's face. His eyes, each a different color, but the white one stood out. Glowing white under the black make-up. This day had done me in. Mentally and physically.

I was glad it was over and wondered what else was in store for me.

"Lia!". A hand gently stroked my arm. Sighing, I turned onto my side and pulled the blanket up to my chin.

"No!" I mumbled.

"Lia!" laughed Madison. "Come on, you have to get up. It's almost noon. You've been asleep so long. Sister Emperor has sent a ghoul. She wants to see you in her office in half an hour!".

I shook my head and turned on my back to look at her out of tired eyes.

"Get up sleepyhead!" she laughed, "You go shower and I'll make you some coffee!". As she walked away, she grabbed my blanket and pulled it to my feet.

"Hey!" I called after her. Which she only replied with a laugh.

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and slowly got out of bed. For having slept so long, I felt like I had pulled an all-nighter.

The shower woke my tired bones and the coffee did the rest. 30minutes later I was standing in front of Sister Imperator's office and hesitated for a moment. I needed a bit more time to prepare myself mentally. Just as I sighed and raised my fist to knock, I was distracted by a throat clearing behind me. I winced and turned around.

"Ohh...Mi dispiace, sorella!". Copia was standing behind me, his eyes wide and his hand on his chest, "I didn't mean to scare you!".

For a moment, I lost control of my speech. He was standing so close to me, I could smell his aftershave and I swallowed hard.

He furrowed his eyebrows worriedly and took a step towards me to put his hand on my upper arm.

"Are you all right?" he asked. I shook my head almost imperceptibly, almost as if I was trying to get my brain to work.

"Ehh...yes. Yes!" I stuttered. "I was just so lost in thought! I'm sorry!".

"No need to apologize!" He shook his head and stroked my upper arm. A warm shiver ran down my spine. I looked at his hand and then back at him. The warmth crept into my cheeks as our eyes met. My brain paused for a moment.

"That feels good!" my lips moved as if of their own accord. His eyebrows lifted. And his gaze seemed to glaze over, the pupil of his green eye widened.

 For a brief moment, there seemed to be this tension between us. His fingers gripped my upper arm tighter. His eyes wandered to my lips, lingered there. His mouth opened as if he wanted to say something. His fingers slid naturally from my upper arm to my shoulder and rested on the back of my neck. His thumb stroked my chin. Where he touched me, he left a burning sensation on my skin. I shivered under his gaze, which flitted back to my eyes. Deep inside me, I felt the desire to overcome the few centimetres that separated us. Without realizing it, my back pressed against the door leading to Sister Imperator's office. Copia took a step towards me and I felt my heart pounding against my chest. Unable to move, I just stood there, wishing for his lips on mine....

With a jolt, I was snapped back to reality.

The door I had been leaning against opened with a jerk, and the next moment I saw myself lying on the floor in front of Sister Imperator.

"What the...", startled, she looked first at me and then at Copia, who was staring at me with wide eyes. I sat up and rubbed the back of my head.

"What's going on here?". Her eyes wandered questioningly back and forth between me and Copia. Copia was the first to regain his voice.

"Oh... I'm sorry, Sorella!" He bent down to me and held out his hand to help me up. Which I gratefully accepted. "I'm afraid I startled Sister Lia when she was about to knock...Mi dispiace davvero per la mia goffaggine...!".

"It's all right! I'm fine!" I replied. Sister Imperator let out an annoyed sigh.

"Come on, my dear. Sit down!" She gently placed her hand on my back and gently pushed me into her office. "And you... I'm sure you're busy! I'll talk to you later!". I gave Copia a look over my shoulder, which he returned with a nod. Before he turned to Sister Imperator and said: "Of course. Sister! I'll talk to you later!". He put on a smile and disappeared down the corridor with one last fleeting glance at me.

Translation

Mi dispiace davvero per la mia goffaggine - I'm really sorry how clumsy of me 

[uraniumwriting]

The Handmaiden's Grave

A short piece for the @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt "An Empty Grave"

Not about anything in particular, just trying to get into the writing groove again :D

~~~~

The last time the grave was opened, the world went to hell.

At least, that’s what my father told me.

For generations, my family guarded the Handmaiden’s Grave. Her name was lost to time a long, long time ago, but we continued to take our place at the front of her tomb every hour of every day. At birth, the children were deemed to be either Day- or Night-Watchers, a designation which stuck with us to our retirement or our last breath, whichever came first.

I was lucky enough to be designated a Day-Watcher. The Night-Watchers were more common, but retirement for them was rare.

When the sun rose, I was already up and dressed, the light blue ceremonial robes flowing around me. I silently ate my breakfast in the empty, one room cottage I shared with my brother, a Night-Watcher, and made sure to put a pot of water on the stove for him. After all, he would be cranky at his next shift if he didn’t get his tea.

As I stepped outside, the world slowly woke up. A thick layer of light gray clouds hung over the sprawling hills of my home and signaled an end to a particularly nasty dry spell for the local farmers. A flock of birds flew overhead, with their dark wings contrasting against the lighter clouds above. Walking down the path to the Handmaiden’s grave, I saw a few rabbits scatter at my approach.

I held tightly onto the staff made for me at birth (that I always believed to be slightly too large and unwieldly for me, but my family claimed there were never mistakes with the weapon made for each child), and hastened my pace to the grave.

The last thing I needed was for my brother to snark at me for being late.

Remember the Handmaiden’s last wish, I reminded myself of my mother’s teachings. Remember her desire to burn down the world and take any and all power for herself.

It was said that the Handmaiden tried to sabotage the princess she had sworn her oath to in a desperate grab for power. Power that was not, and would never be, rightfully hers. The Handmaiden had mastered the most powerful magics and curses, to the point where even death was a temporary state.

The kingdom had found a way to control her, but only if her grave remained sealed.

That was why my family stood guard at the Handmaiden’s Grave.

“Kil,” on approach to the grave, I called out for my brother. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”

There was no answer.

“Kil?” I rushed around the final bend and froze.

There, sprawled on the ground and covered in loose dirt and blood, was someone I could only assume was my brother.

The body had been nearly torn in half, with parts of the ribcage scattered around the grave. The ceremonial robes, originally the same color as mine, had been stained to almost a pinkish color from the blood. Worst of all, the head was gone.

Well, not quite the worst, I quickly realized. As I walked over the Handmaiden’s Grave, I noticed the hole which went deeper than I would’ve liked. Stone and dirt crumbled into the hole and piled around it, and a simple, obsidian box with runes carved into it was exposed. The Handmaiden’s coffin, I presumed, though I hadn’t seen it before.

The coffin was open.

I opened my mouth to scream, to warn the world of what had occurred, but my voice caught in my throat. My staff slipped from my trembling hands, but my focus remained on the open coffin in front of me.

A chill ran down my back like a gentle caress, and I knew someone was behind me.

“Who?” I choked out, afraid to turn around.

A sickly soft, feminine voice responded.

“Princess?”

[foundtherightwords]

The Firebird - Chapter 7

Pairing: Prince Paul (Catherine the Great) x OFC, Fairytale AU

Summary: When Paul, a spoiled young prince, spots a strange bird in the forest near his palace, he impulsively chases after it, hoping to both escape from and prove himself to his disapproving mother. Thus he is plunged into an exhilarating adventure across a magical realm populated by enchanted princesses, dangerous monsters, and powerful wizards, an adventure that may change him more than he can ever imagine.

Chapter warning: some injuries (no gore though)

Chapter word count: 4k

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6

Chapter 7 - Crossing the Mountains

They departed before dawn, while Simeon was still snoring on the stove. They left some tea, cheese, and a bottle of kvass for the old man by way of thanks. Then, putting the little stone hut behind them, with Zhara flying ahead and Paul following behind, riding one of the donkeys and leading the other by its reins, they scaled the slope that led into the heart of the mountains.

The road climbed steadily, becoming narrower and narrower the higher they went. By contrast, the trees and bushes were reduced to dwarfish versions of themselves until they disappeared altogether, and there was nothing around but bare rock walls, rising toward the sky on one side, blocking out the sun, and dropping down on the other, toward the ground strewn with more ragged rocks, far beneath. Up ahead, there were yet more rock walls, sheer, dark, forbidding. It was a lot colder as well—it may be summer down in the valley, but here, winter seemed to never have left, and snow still clung to the rock faces high above their heads.

Paul's entire body was on alert, his ears strained for the smallest sound, his eyes strained for any movement, but there was nothing save for the hiss of wind through the cliffs, the monotonous clip-clop of the donkeys' hoofs on the rock, and the flashes of red and gold from Zhara's wings, the only flashes of color in that cold gray world. How is one supposed to prepare for a threat when one doesn't know where it is coming from? He tried to remember what the tales of Nightingale said about how the mythical robber was defeated, but they were always so maddeningly vague. He could only hope that Nightingale would see that they had nothing of value and decide not to target them.

And so it went all day. They stayed the night at another shelter, though this one was all but abandoned, with no cozy stove or tea kettle, no furniture of any kind, only an empty stone hearth. At least the wood box next to it was full, though the wood had been there a while; it was damp and took a while to catch.

While he watched the flames struggling to take hold, Paul recalled something about the tales of Nightingale the Robber. "Are there any poppies around?" he asked Zhara.

"Poppies?" she repeated, lifting an eyebrow quizzically.

"It's what Ilya Muromets used to stopper his ears against Nightingale's whistle," Paul explained, only realizing how idiotic he sounded as he was saying it.

Zhara's lips twitched, but she didn't laugh. "Why poppies?" she asked, sounding genuinely curious.

"I don't know. It's never explained." He paused, then added, "It always bothered me as a child."

"No, there are no poppies to be had around here, I'm afraid," Zhara said. "And I don't think we can count on Ilya Muromets or Dobrynya Nikitich to rescue us either. My brother has captured Alyosha, so it's only a matter of time before he catches them as well. Besides," she added, sadness returning to her eyes, "haven't you learned that those tales don't always unfold the same way here?"

The next day was more of the same, only the cold was more biting. It was so cold that Paul's teeth started chattering despite his thick cloak, and Zhara had to return to her perch on his shoulder to give him some extra warmth. By mid-afternoon, however, a patch of blue sky showed overhead as the cliffs became a little lower and the peaks in the distance became closer. A dark smudge on the horizon suggested a forest in the valley below.

"We're nearly through!" Paul said, relieved. Zhara nodded at him and flew on ahead.

There was a sharp sound, like the screech of a bird of prey, only much more piercing. It went straight through Paul's ears and down his spine, making him shrink back in fear. The donkeys kicked and screamed, and Zhara's wings faltered.

As its echo died off amongst the cliff, a strange, dry, crackling noise immediately followed. Paul was looking around, trying to figure out where this new noise was coming from or what it meant, when a clump of snow hit him on the head.

Confused, he looked up.

To his horror, he saw an entire cliff of snow breaking off on their left, sliding down the mountainside, slowly at first but picking up speed as it went, headed straight for them.

"Watch out!" he yelled. Jumping off the donkey, he tried to pull both animals back, out of the path of the avalanche. The one behind bucked up and ran in a blind panic down the slope. Paul dove after it. The reins ripped out of his hands, burning his palms. The mass of snow was close, so close now. Zhara swooped down and headed the donkey off to stop it from plunging into the gorge below. Right before she could reach the animal, the snow hit. The last thing Paul saw was the red and gold of her wings, then the snow crashed over his head, and the whole world disappeared in a stinging, blinding, choking wave of white.

A moment later, or perhaps a lifetime later, Paul lifted himself out of the snow and shook the sharp crystal out of his wig. He discovered that, either by a stroke of luck or by managing to jump out of the way in time, he had escaped the worst of the destruction. One of the donkeys stood next to him, calm as ever, taking no heed of the snow covering its head. The other one stood a little further down the slope, buried up to its shoulders in snow, but looked otherwise unscathed.

Another screech rang through the ringing, buzzing hum in his ears. Paul looked around wildly, bracing himself for yet another avalanche. A shadow swept across the snow. A giant bird—no, not a bird, but a man—or was it a man? Paul couldn't quite tell. It would be most accurate to describe the figure as a half-man, half-bird creature, covered in feathers of the same mottled gray as the rocks around them. It had human arms, only these arms were also covered in feathers. A pair of wings extended from its back, and instead of human feet, razor-sharp talons extended from its legs.

As this creature plunged low, Paul glimpsed a craggy face, with cruel yellow eyes and a hooked nose. While Zhara retained her human eyes even as a bird, this creature's eyes were more bird than human. Paul cowered. The creature sailed over his head, and, before Paul could blink, closed its talon around the saddle of the other donkey, the one standing further away. With a powerful beat of its wings, the creature rose into the air, taking with it the donkey and all the supplies on its back, leaving behind only the echoes of the poor animal's frightful screams.

Paul clutched at the remaining donkey, too terrified to move. That must have been none other than Nightingale the Robber himself. Paul could only be thankful that he and the remaining donkey had been so well hidden by the snow that the robber hadn't seen them, or perhaps he wasn't interested in them.

It was a long time before his heartbeats slowed and he could breathe normally.

And then his heart dropped again.

He couldn't see Zhara anywhere.

He jumped up, all thoughts of Nightingale the Robber gone from his head. Where had she been before the avalanche struck? When had he last seen her? There had been a flash of gold...

He remembered now—she had been trying to stop the donkey from running away. He scrambled down the slope to where the lost donkey had stood, calling out for her. "Zhara!" Though the snow had been churned up like a sea of foam, he could still make out the four hollows of the donkey's legs. Getting to his knees, he started digging into the snow around the area. The cold stung his palms where they were scratched by the reins, but he barely even noticed. "Zhara!" he called again, his heart hammering in his chest while he kept digging and digging, not caring that Nightingale may come back. There was no sign of her. His hands found rock underneath, and he turned and dug in a wider circle. Still nothing. Could she have been swept all the way into the gorge? Could she have been thrown against a rock and gotten injured? Could Nightingale the Robber have taken her somehow? Each possibility was more terrible than the last, and they all squeezed Paul's heart in a cold grip.

But there was nothing else to do, so he just kept digging in the snow until his fingers were too numb and he was too tired to stir another muscle. The sun was going down, shedding a pale pinkish light over the snow. Paul leaned against a boulder and tried to breathe some life back into his frozen hands, missing Zhara's comforting warmth on his shoulder. The last rays of the sun died away. At that very moment, he saw a faint gleam beneath the snow, like the sun seen through the clouds, a mere few feet away from where he sat, and when it disappeared, there was a shape under the snow—the shape of a girl.

Paul bounded across the snow and rushed to her side. Plunging his still-frozen hands into the snow, he touched skin, cold and stiff as marble. His heart shot to his throat. He scraped the snow away until he unearthed Zhara's prone form, her skin nearly as white as the snow around her. He brushed the hair out of her face with a shaking hand and saw that her eyes were closed and her lips were blue.

"No, no, no..." he mumbled, stripping off his cloak and wrapping her in it. "Zhara? Can you hear me?" There was no movement. But she was made of fire! The snow couldn't hurt her, could it? Only... he had no idea how long she had been buried in the snow. Even the strongest fire would be weakened by that.

Leaning close to her lips, he felt a weak breath touching his ear, and some of his fear lessened. She was still breathing. He needed to get her somewhere safe and warm. Scooping her up in his arms, Paul trudged up the slope, and, after securing her on the back of the donkey, headed into the cold and the dark to find shelter.

He eventually found another stone hut nestled between two cliffs. It was almost as empty as the one from the previous night, though there was a small bed with a straw tick on it in a corner. Paul tipped the entire content of the wood box into the hearth and fumbled with the tinderbox until a fire blazed in the grate. He then dragged the straw tick off the bed, placed it directly in front of the hearth, and gently laid Zhara down on it. She remained inert, with only her chest moving up and down in a shallow breath, getting shallower by the minute. The crackling fire made no difference to her condition at all.

What to do? What to do? He knew he had to warm her up, but how? He went through the meager supplies they had left, took all the clothes he could find, and piled them on her. When that didn't seem to help, he dug through the packs again and found a bottle of some alcoholic-smelling liquid. He tried a sip. It was horrible, sickly sweet, with a bitter, herbal aftertaste, and was so strong it burned his throat and made his eyes water as it went down. But as it settled in his stomach, warmth started stealing through his veins, making him feel like he, too, could shoot fire out of his fingertips. Yes, this could work.

He lifted Zhara into a sitting position and carefully tipped the bottle to her lips. She didn't stir, but he felt her throat move, so he poured a little more in. There was a spluttering, and Zhara bolted up in his arms.

"Dear Alkonost and Sirin!" she exclaimed. "What is that?!"

Paul let out a sigh of relief. "Some sort of liquor Afron gave us," he said. "It'll warm you up."

"Get me d-drunk, more like," she muttered. Then her teeth chattered, and a violent bout of shivers took over her until she was shaking from head to foot, so much so that she had difficulty swallowing a few more gulps of the liquor. It frightened Paul to see her so frail, she who had always been so full of life and of fire—literally. He drew her toward him and vigorously rubbed her hands and arms and back, to get her blood flowing.

Gradually, her trembling subsided, and some of the diamond-blue pallor faded from her lips, though her face was still wan, and she still shivered from time to time.

"Feeling better?" he asked.

"Hmm." She nodded, nestling closer to him.

Paul's hand slipped under the cloak and grazed her bare skin. Though it was not back to her usual warmth, it was no longer marble-cold, and suddenly he was aware that she was practically sitting in his lap, and his arms were wrapped around her in a tight embrace. Embarrassed, he drew his hand away and set her back down on the straw tick.

"Wh-where are you going?" she asked.

"Oh, I—I'm just—I'm going to—make myself a bed—over there," he stammered, pointing to a corner of the hut.

"D-don't be silly. It's fr-freezing. This m-mattress is big enough f-for the both of us."

Paul hesitated. It really was cold—the moment he turned away from the fire, he could see his breath. Plus, Zhara was still trembling, and the fire felt nice on his hands and face. He gingerly sat back down. Zhara settled into his arms again with a contented sigh—had she always fitted there so well, so naturally? Paul felt a strange urge to run his fingers through her hair, damp from the melting snow, and he had to ball his hands into fists.

"Nightingale took the other donkey and half of the supplies," he said apologetically.

"'s alright," Zhara mumbled, turning her face into his chest. "You saved me."

"I—I didn't do much," he said, trying not to notice how close her mouth was to the open collar of his shirt, how her breath was tickling his skin.

"You did. Thank you, Pavel Petrovich."

It was the first time she'd uttered his name without a hint of mockery or teasing. "Please, call me Paul," he said.

She didn't reply. Certain she had fallen asleep, he carefully lowered himself to the mattress without letting her go.

"I'm sorry I called you a burden, Paul," she whispered.

Paul's heart stumbled. He looked down at Zhara, wondering how he'd ever thought her otherworldly or uncanny. There, snuggled up in his arms, with her eyes closed, her lips, which had started to flush pink again, slightly parted, and her hair falling across her freckled cheek, she looked utterly human, more real than anything he'd ever seen. His name sounded so sweet in her voice that he wanted to ask her to say it again and again. But she needed her rest. "It's all right," he managed. "Go to sleep."

"...You too."

And he did.

***

Paul woke with something tickling in his nose. The window of the hut was a light gray square, and there was a pile of ash and half-burned logs in the hearth. At some point during the night, the fire had burned out, but he was still warm as toast, and he soon discovered why. He was on his back, with Zhara draped over him, her limbs tangled up in his, her hair and his cloak wrapping around them both like a blanket. The tickling in his nose was one of her stray locks. And, to his horror, she was bare under the cloak, all the clothes he wrapped around her having fallen off, and he could feel the hard nubs of her breasts through his shirt, while her thighs were pressing perilously close to the hardness between his own legs. He jumped up and shoved her away as though they were both on fire—which was not far from the truth.

Thankfully, the sun came up just then, and poking out from under the cloak wasn't the indignant face of a girl but a beak and a pair of amber eyes blinking blearily at him. Somehow she managed to look irritated, even as a bird.

"Nightmare—sorry," Paul mumbled, scrambling to cover himself.

Zhara wriggled her neck and shoulders in a gesture that Paul had come to recognize as the avian equivalent of a shrug, and, tucking her beak under her wing, she went back to sleep.

She spent most of that day asleep, burrowed into Paul's pocket under his cloak as usual. He would check her from time to time to make sure she was comfortable, and was heartened to feel her warmth returning. The frigid air and the snow also receded as they descended the mountains, and that night, when they stopped at another shelter, the air was practically balmy.

"How are we going to secure Tsarevna Elena's hand in marriage?" Paul asked over their supper, which consisted of bread and some dried meat—the best he could do under the circumstances. He was only grateful that Zhara had had the foresight to divide their supplies evenly. "Are we simply going to present Afron's suit on his behalf?"

Zhara, who seemed to have recovered completely, much to Paul's relief, didn't mind the meager meal. "No, that's not going to work," she replied, chewing her meat thoughtfully. "Her mother, Tsarina Kostroma, is half-leshy, and thus very proud."

"Half-leshy? Is that even possible?" Paul asked, thinking of the leshy's inhuman physique. Zhara gave him an exasperated look, and he threw up a conciliatory hand. "My apologies. Pray continue."

"Well, Kostroma is very protective of Elena. Other than a few official court functions, she never lets Elena do anything or meet anyone. She keeps her all but locked up." Paul was quiet, thinking of his own mother. Was Elena's mother protecting her, or did she simply want to avoid sharing power with her daughter, like his mother?

"A marriage with Afron would be greatly beneficial," Zhara continued, "as it would join both kingdoms, but Kostroma would never hear of it."

"Having met Afron, I can't exactly blame her," Paul said mildly.

One corner of Zhara's mouth lifted in a sardonic smile. "I agree, but we're not tasked with making Elena fall in love with him."

"So what are we going to do then?"

"How does it happen in those tales of yours?"

"Prince Ivan kidnaps her."

"Well then, we shall kidnap Elena."

Paul stared at Zhara to see if she was in earnest. She grinned. "We shall think of something." It was less than reassuring, but somehow, when she said it, he believed her.

When it came time for sleep, there was a bit of a fuss. Like the shelter the night before, this stone hut only had one rickety bed, which Paul insisted that Zhara take.

"But you've wanted to sleep in a bed for so long," she protested.

Paul may not be heroic or noble, but he couldn't bear the thought of being discourteous. "What, and let a lady sleep on the floor? I'm not some savage!"

Zhara sat down on the straw tick. "We can always share," she said. "It won't be the first time."

Though she said this quite matter-of-factly, Paul could detect—or thought he could detect—the slightest hint of a tremor in her voice, a conscious effort to sound nonchalant. It sent a flush throughout his body, starting from somewhere below his waist and spreading all the way to the very tips of his ears. He would not have a repeat of that morning's humiliation.

"I shall sleep on the floor," he said in a voice that invited no further discussion.

Later, as he was wrapped up in his cloak on the floor in front of the bed, Paul suddenly said, "Am I supposed to fall in love with Elena?" He didn't understand what made him say so; only the question of love had been on his mind lately, and he had gotten so used to speaking his thoughts aloud when Zhara was a bird that he was doing the same even when she was human.

"Why did you ask that?" came Zhara's voice from above him.

"That's how it happens in the tale. Now, I know nothing has happened exactly like it does in the tale so far, but—"

"I can't predict the future, you know," she said, sounding amused. "Why don't you meet her and decide for yourself?"

"I don't think you can simply decide who to fall in love with."

"Is that so?"

"My mother has been forcing me to choose a bride amongst the princesses of our neighboring kingdoms." He had never talked much to Zhara about his mother or his life, whether out of a misplaced sense of pride or simply because it was painful to mention such things, he did not know.

Zhara turned over, her eyes glimmering in the firelight. "What are they like, the princesses of your world?"

"I've never met them," he said with a shrug. "Their portraits were sent to my mother, and she picked out the ones she deemed suitable for me."

She propped herself up on her elbow to look down at him. "So you must decide if you can fall in love with one of them... based on their pictures?"

"I don't think love has anything to do with it."

"I suppose you're right," she said, lying back down with a sigh. "My father married my mother for love, and look how that turned out for him. She broke his heart."

They were both silent for a while, him staring at the fire, her looking up at the rafters of the hut, lost in their own thoughts.

"Still, though... I rather wish I could marry for love," eventually Paul said. It was a foolish notion, of course, a boy's dream. But he couldn't help it. In the stories, the hero and the heroine always fall in love at first sight and live happily ever after, never quarreling, never having to worry if they were good enough. How could he not want the same?

"Perhaps you'll meet someone here," Zhara said quietly, almost too quiet to be heard.

But he did hear her. Startled, Paul twisted his head to look at her. She had closed her eyes and appeared to be asleep. He turned back to the fire, trying to let the cracking and popping of the flames clear his mind. He didn't know how long he lay there. The fire was in danger of dying out and his thoughts were no clearer than before, when he felt something warm on the side of his face, warmer than the fire. Zhara's arm had dropped over the edge of the bed, and her fingers were brushing his cheek, almost like she was caressing him. Not daring to breathe, for fear of waking her up, he reached up, ran his hand gently over her arm, stroking the smooth skin on the inside of her wrist. And, pressing that warm, soft hand against his temple, he felt the wild thoughts in his head calm at last. He didn't remember falling asleep.

Chapter 8

Taglist: @ali-r3n

[twotangledsisters]

I don’t know if you have already mentioned this in one of your fanfics but before Frederic and Arianna were married and were dating, where did Arianna live? Did she live in the palace cuz she was an employee there or did she live somewhere else? And did this affect their relationship in any way at the time?

Great question! I don't know if it's been answered before but I'm happy to answer again if so XD

Arianna does not live in the palace, she's not 'important' enough for that and there's nothing about her work that'd require her being there at all times.

Instead she rents a place! Issue is she has no savings! So it's not a great apartment... In fact, here's the snipper of Captain helping her move in:

Arianna nodded, raising her head to look up at her new apartment. It was a studio apartment above a currently empty store, as they entered the stairway it was dusty and smelt vaguely of some type of food. “Couldn’t find anything better?” “Any place that lets me pay at the end of the month is a blessing,” Arianna smiled as she led Cap upstairs. The man frowned at the sight. Arianna had a tent set up with a sleeping bag in the centre of the floor, she had a kettle on the stove and an empty larder. She’d given all of the supplies to Willow when she’d come, as well as the horse. Leaving Arianna with almost nothing. “Need to do some shopping I see.” Arianna nodded. “Do you need help? Looks like you need to buy some furniture.” “Oh, I’ll manage. Thank you though! Can I get you some tea while you’re here?” she pulled a jar of tea from the cupboard, one of the few things she’d kept seeing as Willow didn’t like it. She frowned, Willow hadn’t been happy with her, they’d argued. Arianna felt guilty for staying but… As she remembered the puppy, she felt she had to for some reason. “I’m good, thanks.” He dropped the box of horseshoes down on the ground. “Are you sure you don’t need help with furniture?” “I’m sure.” Cap nodded. “Alright then, well, I best get back to the palace. My break’s nearly over. I’ll see you around, Miss Arianna.” “Miss?” she laughed. He rolled his eyes. “I give you about two weeks around the palace before you start doing it too. You learn to be formal first in this environment!” “We’ll see. Good luck and thanks!”

I think it did affect her relationship with Frederic, but in a VERY positive way! I think living in the palace would have been too much for Arianna at first, and I think Frederic greatly benefited from a space outside the palace where nobody was watching him.

Though the apartment is tiny and not the best place... Arianna does make it her temporary home and even creates a corner for Frederic to call his own after finding out he's not allowed to decorate his own room at the palace (not prince-like apparently).

In this small apartment they were able to be themselves and be together.

I wouldn't be surprised if Frederic bought this apartment when Arianna did move into the palace and they sometimes got there to relax!

[mischievouslittlecreature]

Part 5: A Sleepless Dream

Fandom: Inception

Pairing: Robert Fischer x OC

Summary: Alice finally opens up to Robert about what actually drove her back to him in the first place.

Word Count: 3,436

Notes: Warnings for references to self harm.

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Chapter 4: Insomnia

The beach house was much nicer than her condo. Spacious, with a beautiful view, a pool, and the biggest, fanciest television she’d ever seen. It wasn’t obscenely big, like his father’s mansion in Los Angeles had been, but it was still larger than any house she’d ever lived in before.

The bed in her room was something else too, soft and comfortable but firm enough that it wouldn’t hurt her back, with pillows squishy as a cloud and heating functions in the mattress pad and blankets that made her never want to leave its warm embrace. She felt a little like a cat, curled up in a nice patch of sunlight.

If only she could actually fall asleep.

Rolling from where she’d been laying on her side to her back, she sighed, eyes fixating on the ceiling fan above her. Exhaustion was heavy in her bones, leaving her head feeling fuzzy and eyelids drooping throughout the day, but still she could not sleep. Perhaps it was her body’s way of trying to protect itself from the frightful nothingness that a dreamless sleep would bring, or maybe her mind was too busy battling the sudden onslaught of repressed feelings that had come bubbling to the surface following her reunion with Robert.

Groaning in complaint, she rolled from the mattress, rubbing her eyes and staggering to the door, dragging the comforter from the bed with her. Still burrowed in the overstuffed, fluffy blanket, she waddled, penguin-like, down the hall. Taking the stairs slow, so as to not trip and fall, she ambled into the kitchen. Rummaging around in the cupboard, she found a half empty box of herbal tea, and a few packets of hot cocoa mix. Considering for a moment, she set the tea back into place, taking the cocoa with her. Filling the kettle with water, she set it on the stove, flicking it on.

“What are you doing up?”

She squeaked in surprise and dropped the packet, blinking with wide eyes at Robert from the little slit in her blanket that revealed her eyes, looking like a child caught by a parent doing something bad.

Eyes narrowing, she recovered quickly. “What are you doing up?”

Robert chuckled, stooping to pick up the fallen packet of cocoa. “I had some work I needed to finish.”

“Oh,” she looked down at the questioning raise of one of his eyebrows. “I just couldn’t sleep.”

Taking a step towards her, he frowned, fingers curling under her chin, thumb stroking just beneath her eyes.

“You have dark circles.”

“We can’t all look impeccable all the time like you do, you know,” she attempted to tease, blush blooming across her cheeks the moment the words had passed her lips. Trying to deflect didn’t work, as his eyes narrowed slightly, only somewhat offset by the barely noticeable pink dusting his cheekbones at what she’d just said. Hand rubbing his forearm in what she hoped to be a soothing gesture, Alice forced her lips into a smile. “I’m fine.”

The kettle started to whistle, but Robert didn’t move, instead continuing to examine her face, hand still settled on her cheek.

“Robert?”

Lips pressing together, blinking slowly, a few creases formed in his forehead as he continued to just stare at her.

“Robert, the kettle–”

Back straightening, like he’d just realized he was staring, he spun away, turning off the stove, reaching above her to grab two mugs from the cabinet. She shuffled a bit awkwardly back to the cupboard to get a second package of cocoa for him, the spoon he’d pulled from a drawer clicking slightly against the rim of the mugs as he stirred the brown powder into the steaming water.

“Mom would kill me for making cocoa with water instead of milk,” he said offhandedly.

“She’d be appalled that we were using the powder at all,” Alice laughed, taking her mug from him thankfully. Jocelyn Fischer had been an accomplished chef before she’d married Maurice, her talent for cooking something she’d come to share closely with Robert while he was growing up. Even after she’d died, he’d continued to take cooking lessons. Probably as a way to feel closer to her.

“Yeah,” the sad smile fluttering across his features was half obscured by his own mug. “C’mon,” taking her by the hand, he led her out of the huge kitchen and into the equally massive living room, pulling her to sit down next to him on the big sectional couch. Legs folding underneath him, he picked at a stray strand in his pajama pants, before lightly tugging on the comforter she still had wrapped around her. “You gonna share some of that?” the question was accompanied by a boyish grin. Setting her mug on the coffee table next to his, she untangled herself from the comforter just enough so that he could wrap himself up in it as well. They ended up nestled against each other, his side smushed against hers. Coughing, she forced her eyes to remain focused out the window. It was fully dark outside, leaving nothing but a black abyss to stare back at her. She knew that somewhere, not too far out, the waves of the ocean slid rhythmically back and forth against the beach. Alice tried her best to focus on that, instead of the steady rise and fall of Robert’s chest against her with each breath. Or how flustered she suddenly felt, skin tingling where it pressed against his.

“Alice…” she felt, more than heard, his chest shudder as he took a deep breath. “What’s really been going on?”

Grasping tightly onto the edge of the comforter to try to hide the way her hands trembled, she kept her gaze focused forward, blinking fast at the sudden, overwhelming pressure of tears building behind her eyes. She’d known that eventually, she would have to talk to him about the real reason why she’d come back. That didn’t mean that she was any more prepared to.

God, what was he going to think of her?

“Someone died,” she couldn’t look at him when she said it. “Someone died, during an experiment. And I think that it was my fault.”

For a long, terrible moment, Robert didn’t say anything as he slowly processed her words. “What do you mean?”

“I…” she had to take a few deep breaths, to quell the slight panic tightening in her chest. “We were running an experiment. Usually we just use our team, but this time we brought in another participant. We wanted to see how things changed with someone who had never been exposed to dream-sharing before. And…and…” her eyes squeezed shut, but that only made her feel worse, the darkness reminding her of what it had been like to be trapped in the embrace of death. Opening them, she found the baby blue of Robert’s eyes looking at her softly, listening patiently. “Something seemed wrong, and we should have stopped but we didn’t…”

Robert’s fingers massaged her back, both silently soothing and coaxing her to continue.

“And then the world started to, I don’t know, to melt and then it was dark and cold and I was alone and there was nothing there, Robbie,” she seized at him suddenly in panic, as if the nothingness was creeping in, about to swallow her up. He caught at her easily, drawing her in close until she was pressed flush against his body, arms and blanket creating a protective cocoon around her.

“You felt him die?” he asked quietly, breaths trembling in his chest at her nod. “Where was the rest of your team?”

“The projections, they’re like the white blood cells of the consciousness, they attack intruders, they’d already started coming after us. Tore Mal, Dom, Arthur, and Eames all apart. When you die in a dream, you wake up, so…they all got out before it happened.” 

“It sounds to me that one of your team leaders should have been the one responsible for pulling the plug, instead of you. You were just doing your job.”

Another trembled breath rushed from her lungs. “The family had an autopsy done, I think they were hoping for evidence that it was our fault so that they could sue, but it was inconclusive. Everyone keeps saying that he probably died from old age. But I can’t stop feeling so guilty. And that’s not all,” she glanced back out the window, to the dark nothingness that stretched out endlessly. Shivering, she turned her head back into Robert’s chest. “I can’t stop thinking about what it was like in his head when he died. How there was just nothing,” Robert squeezed her tighter to him, and she realized that she’d been trembling. “And I’m so scared of it–” her voice broke at the end, tears wedging in her throat to cut off her voice.

“Hey,” his arms tightened around her, as if he sensed the beginnings of sobs already growing within her. “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” his voice was soft, painfully gentle as he tugged her closer while the first of many cries exploded from her lips. Tucking her in safely against him, he pulled the comforter more securely around them both, shushing and rubbing her back as she started to cry on him. “Oh, sweetheart. I’ve got you. It’s okay,” she shook her head furiously, burrowing closer to him.

Robert continued to rock her gently in his arms until her cries stifled from heavy sobs to quiet sniffles, his cheek resting on the top of her head. Nuzzling at him, she tried to burrow closer. Being cradled in his arms made her feel just a little bit safer, comfort from his mere presence alone leaving her to want to just hide away in his chest and never have to face the rest of the world ever again. 

Hands moving from rubbing her back to trace up and down her arms, where the sleeves of her hoodie had been pushed up to her elbows, she felt him stiffen as his palms passed over the raised scars that marked her forearms and wrists. Drawing back slightly, his eyes cast downwards, fingers tracing delicately over the still healing cuts, eyes glazing over as though he were about to cry too.

“Alice…”

“I’m…” she sniffled, wiping her nose on the back of her sleeve. “I’m sorry–”

“Shh,” he shushed her gently, kissing her forehead and pulling her closer. “It’s alright. You’re okay.”

Shaking her head, she buried her face into his shoulder. “I can’t sleep. Because after you use the PASIV for a long time, you start being unable to dream without it. And a dreamless sleep feels too close to death…”

Robert continued to rub her back, holding her close while he clearly thought about everything she’d just told him. Her heart sunk in her chest. God, she was a terrible friend. To come bursting back into his life and lay all this shit out in front of him as if he didn’t have enough to deal with already.

“I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” she whispered. But Robert just hugged her even tighter to him, shaking his head.  

“You were trapped in someone else’s head while they died, Alice. I don’t think anyone would blame you for being fucked up after that.”     

“I was always scared of dying. But now that I know what it actually feels like…It seems like it’s always there. This thing waiting to swallow me up. And it still feels like it was somehow my fault.”

“You were good at your job.”

“You’ve never ever seen me work.”

“I don’t need to. I’m sure you were phenomenal at it.”

Whining with quiet bashfulness, she buried her head in his shoulder. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” the confidence in his voice took her off guard. As if even the possibility of it was absurd.

“How are you so sure?” her voice was pleading. Begging for him to tell her how he could be so sure of that even when she wasn’t.

“Because I know you,” he stroked her cheek with soft fingertips. “It wasn’t your fault.”

A heaving sob ripped through her lungs, so powerful she thought it would stop her breathing, arms flinging around Robert’s neck in silent, desperate gratitude. He held her tight, waiting patiently, until she’d finally cried herself out.

“Is that why you came back?” he asked quietly after a moment.

“Sort of,” sniffling, she straightened, but didn’t pull very far away from him, allowing herself to enjoy the feeling of his chest beneath her head for just a little longer. “I guess that I figured if anyone could pull me out of wallowing in my own self misery it would be you.”

“Have I?”

Tilting her head up, she looked at him, so close she could feel his breath fanning across her face and count the freckles on his nose. Hands flattening against his chest, she allowed herself to feel how warm and solid he was against her.

“I haven’t taken a box cutter to my wrists since we met up again, so I’d say yes.”

Features twitching with a combination of pain and relief, his palm cradled the back of her neck. “Good. That’s good,” his other hand was still wrapped around her, and she imagined that to any potential onlookers they would have looked like a romantic couple embracing. A wistful, melancholic pang echoed in her heart. “I want to help you,” he murmured. “You tell me what you need.”

I love you.

Biting her lip, she looked down. When she’d left for France, it was with the hope that with time and space, she would be able to let him go. Or at the very least finally leave behind the agonizing longing of unrequited love that she felt for him. And yet simply being in the same vicinity as him had been enough to undo all of her hard work. Or maybe she hadn’t made nearly as much progress in getting over him as she’d thought she had. Either way, the feelings had burst forth with a vengeance. 

But she would not ask him for something that she knew he would never be able to give her.

“Being back, taking some time…it’s helped. It’s working, I’m getting better. I think.”

Nodding, relief plain as day in his gorgeous eyes, he leaned forward until their foreheads bumped. If she tilted her head up just the slightest amount, she could have kissed him. 

“But I miss it,” she admitted finally, slumping dejectedly. “I mean. I still use the PASIV to dream by myself. But I haven’t shared any dreams with anyone since…I just don’t know if I can trust myself again.”

“What if you started out small?”

Lifting from his chest, she narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he was clearly treading carefully, not wanting to pressure her. “I’d like to see what it is you did for a living for the past few years.”

“I…” she would have loved nothing more, than to show him the very thing she’d grown to love while she was away. But… “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Is it normally dangerous?”

“Well, no.”

“I’m not old. I don’t have any underlying health conditions. And I’ll have you with me,” he pushed some hair away from her face, fingertips skimming along her cheek. “I trust you.”

Brushing a hand along his jaw, she frowned.

“It’ll be okay, Alice,” he assured her. “Has anyone else died using it?” a deep, resigned sigh left her lips.    

“No. Not that I know of, at least.”

“And you said that the autopsy had no conclusive evidence that it was you or the PASIV that killed him.”

“Right…”

Shrugging, he smiled “Sounds like it’s still safe to me,” his thumb brushed gingerly over the dark, swollen skin beneath her eyes. “And you need to sleep, Alice.”

On her next sigh, she blew out her cheeks like a pufferfish in exasperation. Robert’s eyes sparkled, knowing that he had won. “It annoys me when you make sense like that,” she harrumphed, and he laughed, kissing her nose. “Fine, fine. I’ll go get it,” she began the reluctant process of untangling herself from him, but before she could fully stand he grabbed at her, rubbing at the cuts on one of her arms, frowning with sad eyes. 

“Alice, please…try not to hurt yourself anymore?”

She looked down at the still healing cuts and raised scars. She didn’t like looking at them, it made a heaviness press inside her chest. “I’ll try.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” he let her go, and she whisked swiftly into her room, grabbing the silver case from where she’d stuffed it in the closet and heading back downstairs. Despite the pangs of anxiety shooting through her nerves, the beginnings of excitement, near giddiness, at the idea of showing Robert dream-sharing started to tremor through her spine.

“Okay,” she set the case down on the coffee table, opening it to reveal the mechanism inside. “So, um, you’re gonna need to lay back…” he pushed the button to recline the seat of the couch back. He’d spread the comforter out across it, so they could both lay on it while they slept. Getting comfortable, he watched her closely as she began to fiddle with the settings. “How long do you want to do this for?” she asked. “Five minutes out here gives us about an hour in the dream.”

“How long do you usually use it for?”

“A couple hours, at least.”

“We can do that, then.”

Nodding, she set the dosage levels and pulled free one of the IVs. “Okay. Give me your arm?”

He held out a pale forearm to her, her throat working as she swallowed, trying to focus on finding a vein and not the lean, warm muscle beneath her fingers.

“Good thing neither of us are afraid of needles,” he commented with a quiet laugh.

“I think Arthur’s a little squeamish about them. Not that he would ever admit it,” she said, slipping the IV into his arm. “There you go. It’s gonna get dark for a minute while I get myself set up.”

“‘Kay.”

Brushing some hair out of his face, she smiled. “I’ll see you in a minute.”

His eyes fluttered shut as the Somnacin entered his bloodstream, body relaxing back against the couch. For a moment, Alice paused. Just to appreciate the way that his face slipped into peacefulness as he slept. The sharpness of his jaw and cheekbones contrasted with the soft dotting of freckles across his nose and cheeks, the plushness of his lips. Without thinking, she leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead. He twitched the tiniest bit in his sleep at the contact, a muscle in his cheek jumping before his features relaxed again. Laying down beside him, she reclined her own seat, sliding the IV into her arm. Leaning forward, she pressed the button in the middle of the PASIV. Watching the steady stream of amber Somnacin rush through the tube towards her, she settled herself back against the couch, and closed her eyes. 

Then she was on a bridge, overlooking a river. Squinting against the sun, she examined the buildings surrounding her. Projections breezed past, and she quickly moved closer to the railing of the bridge to stay out of their way. Pigeons, disturbed by the pedestrians, suddenly took flight. Spotting Robert leaning against the railing a few feet away from her, bending over it to examine the river below, she began to make her way over to where he was standing. Stretching up on her toes, she tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

“Hi.”

“Hey.” he looked her up and down. “Where are we?”

“It’s not a real place. Just an old layout that Dom taught me for an experiment we ran about a year or so ago. He always tells us never to use entire places from memory in dreams. But sometimes I do, if I want to revisit someplace that I’ve been. As a general rule though, it’s best not to.”

“Why not?”

“Something about it being easier to lose your grasp on reality, if you build places from the real world.”

“Huh,” his eyes were wide in wonderment as they darted around, taking in every little detail of the area surrounding them. Alice bit her lip to keep from smiling too wide at how cute he was. “So, how does this work?”

Hands reaching out to grasp his, she began to tug him towards one end of the bridge.

“Let me show you.”

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Thank you for reading! Please consider leaving a comment, reblog, or like. I always appreciate feedback and love getting the opportunity to interact with you and hear your thoughts!

[foggedupwindows]

part two

After an hour of easy chatter, Evan finishes his second drink and looks at his watch. The sense of disappointment that comes over me is surprising. "Do you need to go?" I ask.

He looks up at me. "Well…." He looks around. "Kind of. But…."

"It's okay. I'm here most days." I realize that might sound pathetic. "I mean, not for this long. I stay up the street."

He turns toward me and leans in. "I would love to give you my number."

My cheeks heat up. "Really?"

He smiles. "Yeah. I have an errand to run but really want to see you again."

We exchange numbers and chat for a few more minutes before Evan's phone goes off. He holds it up. "Uber's here," he sighs. He stands and grabs his coffee mug. "I'll be free in like forty five minutes. I just need to run somewhere real quick."

"Okay. I'll text you," I say, standing with him. We drop our dishes at the counter and head for the door. As we hit the sidewalk, Evan smiles down at me. "This was so fun. You're really easy to talk with."

I return his smile. "You are, too. I can't wait to see you again."

He pulls me in for a tight hug before heading over to his Uber. He waves and they drive away. For a moment I am stuck. Like the last hour is all catching up with me. What a dream. He is so warm and engaging. Alert and methodical. I love the way his mind tries to tie into everything I say. Such genius.

I blink and look down the road. I see a mess of red hair moving toward me and my heart pounds. "Ally!" I squeal, running toward a stunning, frumpy babe of a woman.

"Girl!" she says, running toward me. "What are you doing?"

"You're not going to believe what I HAVE been doing."

I give her the rundown of the chat I had. After Evan and I talked about Crypticon, we kind of veered into darker subjects, obviously excluding the worst of the worst. But he's a pretty nerdy guy and enjoys many different genres. We had momentarily touched on the subject of sex.

"Wait," Ally says, grabbing my arm. "You… talked… about sex… with Evan Peters?"

I nod and we both squeal a little.

"And??" she asks.

"Well…."

Evan had mentioned he wasn't into anything super weird. I had tried to press the subject but he was adamant.

"He did, however… say…." I blush.

"What!?"

I cover my face with my hands. "He's submissive."

Ally shrieks in my ear. She jumps around in a circle before grabbing onto me again. "And?!"

I peak from between my fingers. "I told him… I'm a switch."

Ally primal screams up to the sky: "You are living my dream!"

I back away from her laughing. We have made it to her apartment up the street from the cafe. I've been staying with her for months. I've known her for years. We've both been hot on Evan Peters for over a decade. The excitement we're sharing is so fun.

We clomp inside then up the stairs to Ally's apartment. The dark-flowered wreath hanging from her door is always a welcome sight.

We go inside and Ally immediately heads for the teapot on the stove. I walk toward the small window above the kitchen sink and look out at the hazy afternoon. Springtime in Seattle is perfect. The water is a great dark blue, to match the clear skies. A breeze blows through the open window to cool the slowly seeping, warm promise of summer.

"What's your poison today?" Ally asks, standing in front of her tea cupboard. I look up at her porcelain cups (strictly Do Not Touch) and admire the delicately painted flowers and golden rims. There are boxes and containers of tea, ranging from a simple chamomile to exotic teas with foreign languages written on the packaging. My eyes stop at a rose tea, and I reach for it.

"Ooh," Ally teases. "Feeling a little lovely?"

"I try to hide a smile but Ally laughs. "This is kind of wild!" she exclaims, setting a couple of black eartherware mugs on her wooden counters. "Of all the people, all of the weird random dreamy scenarios…." She is shaking her head as she pours steaming water into both of the mugs. She has chosen an herby, nettle tea mix. The metal tea infuser floats to the top of her mug before bubbling its way back to the bottom. "I should have come with you this morning. We could be having a threesome instead."

"I doubt he would be down for that, anyway," I say as I reach for my mug. Ally gives me a sideways glance.

"Everyone can be persuaded," she says lightly.

I chuckle as we make our way into the living area. Ally has this great, overstuffed green couch that is almost too large for the space. It's full of silk pillows and a couple of cozy, hand-made blankets. We set our cups on her glass coffee table and pick up our knitting projects. Ally is making this intricate, beautiful cream-colored cardigan. I am making a square. To go with all of my other squares of various colors and yarn types.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and my heart goes wild. I try to ignore it, to enjoy some time with Ally. We knit for about ten minutes, alternating between knitting and sipping our tea. We talk about some small plans for our week. Ally's brother is coming to visit from Vancouver, so we talk about some of the bars she wants to go to. I tell her about this fun goth bar over in Tacoma, and she mentions a fun, dark bar in Fremont.

My phone buzzes again. Ally's ears perk up, and she beams at me. "Is that him?"

I take out my phone and unlock it. Two new messages. I smile up at Ally. "It's him." I look back down at my phone and immediately drop it. "Oh my god," I say, head in my hands.

"What?" Ally asks, grabbing my phone. She pauses a moment before saying, "Oh my god!"

The two messages are from Evan.

"Free tonight?" the first message says.

"Would love to hear more about you being a switch."

***

[shouldyouwakethewriteblr]

I really hope y’all don’t mind something that’s a little bit divergent from the norm, but I had pieces of this flashback scene come to me in a dream and when I got up, the scene went so naturally onto the page and I really love the foreshadowing and dialog here, plus the POV of a lesser-seen character. 

Here is a scene of a pregnant Flossie Howley, taking a bit of agency in a very important decision. This really helped develop her and her dynamic with her husband and was an enjoyable snippet to bash out in like a day. I don’t normally share little pieces like this, but I was really proud of it and wanted to share. 

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

Characters: Flossie Howley, Simeon Howley

Words: 1′768 (Single scene) 

Setting: The Howley farm, Platton, roughly 1871. 

Content Warning: Description of pregnancy and stillbirth. (Hidden beneath the readmore)  

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A log collapsed to crumbling embers, sparking the entire firebox a lively orange that drew her eye up for just a moment before it returned to the calm, evening flicker and she to her needlework.

Flossie folded a tiny nightgown of white cotton over on her lap and fed her needle through the fabric, continuing a delicate feather-stitch along the cuff in a silky white thread. At her feet, a hefty old sewing box sat with a nearly completed full layette folded on top, each piece as lovingly assembled and embroidered as the last.

She heard her husband fumbling around in the kitchen, thinking himself quiet as the grave in there as he stomped about, still in his boots, long before he popped into the adjacent room with her, placing a cup and saucer of steaming, muddy-black tea on the side table by her, leaning around to kiss the side of her face and rub her upper arms with freezing-cold hands.

"Sorry, darlin'," he said. "The animals went down fine, but the damned dog wouldn't come down out the field for nothing. Had to chase it down myself."

"Hm. Stove's off?" she asked without looking up.

"Stove's off," he confirmed, going to his chair and sinking down with a wearied groan, as if breathing the long day out of his overworked bones. She smiled a little. He was still pleasant to look at with the day's grime on him, fair-eyed and caramel-haired, with the darling little cleft in his chin she used to giggle to her friends about when they were girls together.

He caught her peeking and the corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile back. He leaned in over the arm of the chair, peering at her work.

"Nearly done, I'd say, hm?"

"Mm. Nearly."

"I still say we have plenty baby's things already."

"He will have his own things." The needle punctured the cotton with a hard pop. "I know, I know. You've said it and I've heard it." Simeon sunk back into his chair, wiggling as if he could burrow himself even deeper into it.

She paused to take a sip from her tea, about strong enough to stain leather, just as she liked it, clearing her throat as she picked the needle up again.

"I've named him," she plainly told him.

"Pardon?"

"The baby; I've named him. And I won't hear nothing about it. You've named every one this far– this might be my only chance to name one."

"Very well; what is it?"

"You can know when he's born. It's been in my mind since I was a girl."

Simeon gave an amused chuckle. "Alright, well what– uh, what sort of name is it?"

She stopped her hand to look up at the fire and think a moment before the answer came to her.

"A strong one," she said. "Thriving."

"All good things." Simeon seemed to accede entirely, though he still had questions. "Does it feel strong? In your belly?"

She frowned down at her belly, her red chintz wrapper tied just above the healthy, round swell.

"I don't know," she answered truthfully. "It– doesn't feel like much of anything, one way or another."

Unfortunately true, with the way she'd treated her pregnant belly the past few months. It reminded her of years before, when she'd not lived on the farm for long, before the Fossers.

They were hungry, hungrier than she'd ever been before or since. They couldn't afford to properly feed the chickens; they'd already culled all the ones they could spare-- and once or twice an egg would be laid with half a shell, so thin that even if she tried her best to lift one with slow, gentle hands, it'd burst at her lightest touch, spilling over her fingers, and the hens would cackle and crow with excitement. Simeon told her it was normal; just an unfortunate result of a poor diet, but it wasn't any less frustrating at a time when each egg was precious.

She pulled her wrapper more snugly around her middle. She'd reached this size only twice before. One baby she'd lost around this many months along and, as always, she had the midwife show her the poor little thing. The younger ones were barely anything, lumps of flesh wrapped in cloth. This was different. This was almost a baby, almost, yet not quite. Its body far too small, its skin shiny and translucent, its face barely a face at all.

That's what would be living inside her now. Tiny, pink and infirm. It felt that if she touched this one too much through her skin, if she loved with too many hands, his shell might break apart, then his body beneath, leaving her holding nothing but pieces.

So, she let him be. Occasionally she'd feel him move and kick, reaching out to her, reminding her that he was still there, but she would seldom answer him. Simply let herself feel the relief it gave, and move on.

"And if it's a girl?"

Simeon's query brought her back into the room. She offered him a quick glance, then shook her head.

"It's a boy, they've all been boys."

"I'm just saying."

"When's the last time your family had anything but boys?"

Simeon paused. "O-four. My great aunt Hitty, but she had half a beard, herself, so..."

"Exactly. It's a boy." She allowed a hint of a chuckle as she bit off and fastened her thread, running her thumb over the detailing before starting on the opposite cuff. So tiny, hard to imagine a little wrist in there, though she'd seen it done once before. She rolled the two sides of the cotton together between her fingers, sampling the softness, then pierced it through.

In her peripheral, she could see Simeon watch her for a while, then give up, looking back to the fire with his hands tucked up behind his head. She let him rest long enough to complete the first inch or so of her cuff, then laid her final decision upon him.

"You'll be near," she told him. "When he's born."

"Pardon?"

"You won't go out for a drink, or a ride," she elaborated. "You can be down here, in the parlor, or out in the field, I don't care a fig. I'll have you near."

Simeon chuckled. It seemed to entertain him. "You've made your mind up about many a thing, haven't you, m'girl? Supposing the Fossers have me out of town? If the little man decides to be early?"

"Then you'd best come running back like hell's fire's at your heels." She lowered her work to her lap so she could look right at her husband. "You have to be here for him, Simeon. You have to be near so the devil himself sees you and says 'I can't never touch this child; I can't touch him because his daddy is Simeon Howley and he's much too tough to try.'"

Simeon laughed until he met her eye and saw the look inside it. Then, he settled himself, but kept a sweetness to his expression.

"If it brings you peace," he told her. "Here I'll be, Miss."

She smiled, and reached out her hand to him. Taking the gesture, he rose from his seat and went to her, kneeling down by the arm of her chair.

"You hear that?" he spoke down to her belly. "You see this?"

He raised his bent arm, flexing until the fabric of his shirt stretched tight over the muscle, completing the show with an exaggerated arch of his brow.

"I got you, little man."

Flossie threw her head back and laughed out happy and loud, and when she came back down she gave Simeon a playful ruffling of the dust-coated hair atop his head. Settling in close, he reached in and rubbed a hand lovingly over her belly, and she pulled open her wrapper from the chemise underneath, so he'd have an easier time of it.

Simeon's hands were different, heavy and dirt-stained as they were. It didn't bother her if he touched. His hands were safer, they could protect the little one in his shell far better than she ever could.

"That your head or your arse, then, son?" Simeon puzzled aloud as he felt, making her laugh again so her tummy shook against his palm. He grinned like a child, absently running his hand back and forth over the summit.

"Well," he went on. "--I can't wait to know your name, pal. But listen, you go easy on your mother, hm? Come right on out when you're ready and when you're standing on your own, I'll take you fishing, and riding. I'll teach you to shoot."

"Simeon... Psh."

"--and I'll put you on my shoulders on the hill, so you can see the whole town, like my Pa used to do with me. It's a pretty little place, you'll like it."

Flossie smiled sadly, rubbing her thumb under his chin, then holding it in her hand. How terribly she wanted to make all the things he spoke of happen for him. She almost did, a few times before. And she knew, in the bones of her, that this was probably her last chance. This man loved her; she trusted that wouldn't change, but could a tiny piece of him, however miniscule, not resent her if she failed one last time? If this was all they'd ever be?

They stayed this way a while, Flossie setting her needlework aside so they could enjoy each-other's closeness next to the fire. Then, always tired far before she ever was, Simeon rose back to his feet, kissed her and asked her to come soon to bed, then wished her goodnight and disappeared to the other room and up the old, creaking stairs.

Instead, Flossie sat alone until the fire burned itself out to embers which barely cast their glow past the fender, leaving her in near darkness, save for the moonlight through the far shutters.

And there, all alone, she sat up straight and, like her former self, reaching so carefully beneath the bellies of the hens, she placed a hand upon her stomach, almost too light to feel the touch herself.

"Do you see how much we're counting on you?" she whispered, her fingers gently pressing the firm flesh beneath linen. "You'll be strong, won't you?"

She drew in a nervous breath that fit snug in her chest, allowing herself to lay her palm flat, feel the change in depth, the obvious life that lay there, changing the very shape of her.

"Won't you, William?"

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[deeisace]

Okay time to stop doing the adhd new-project thing with mum (who is worse than me for it) and finish sewing this bible!

I have plans tho -

Gonna put up so many shelves!

So most of my clothes are in the bathroom, cs my bathroom's massive so there's room for a chest of drawers an all sorts, but the plan is to put a rail above that, so I can hang up shirts and things I don't at the moment

Get rid of the wardrobe cs I don't use it ever, and mum's gonna come and help me build a bed frame into the alcove-y bit where the wardrobe currently is

And then lots and lots of shelves and clear boxes and drawers so I can see stuff, some moving round of stuff, get rid of the wardrobe and swap my current giant freezer for one that fits under the kitchen counter

I could get rid the second desk I have (mum moved into the boat, so now I have her uni desk and my desk) and have a little kitchen table over there under the window! Or actually, just swap them round, cs mum's desk is table-y and mine's very desk-y, if that makes sense. It'd be nice to have the space to use, cs now even did I clear off all the kitchen counter space, there's still not a lot of space - half a cupboardsworth where the microwave is, and the bit above the fridge which is currently covered over with the kettle, and the laundry tabs box and about ten different types of tea - so if I had a kitchen table I could cook without putting a chopping board over the stove top!

I'm very excited about finally having my flat be nice again (less so about actually doing the sorting cs I am really a little bit of a hoarder) and I have a long list of things to buy or make

None of which I'm doing now, cs I'm sewing the bible

Yes I am

[thepeonysbackup]

||Warm mugs, early morning hugs!~♡||

Wallace x M!Reader [Part one]

Summary: You go to surprise your mentor Wallace early in the library while he does inventory. You sneak in whilst he's busy to make some tea, grateful he thanks you, and before you leave, you steal a little something from him that just so happens to make his whole day a lot warmer then the tea.

°•°•°•°��°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

The crisp spring morning air fogged in front of your face lightly as you breathed in and out, the nip of the cold on your ear and nose making for the perfect motivation to venture faster across the streets you had always been so fond of. The crunch of the leftover snow from the week prior to the mini blizzard now sounded more like a slosh against your worn down steel toed boots, keeping you somewhat on your toes as you turned down a corner and nearly ate the slushy-like concrete below you for breakfast. 'Marvelous..' You thought to yourself, shivering as you took out your spare key. Your mentor was more than willing to allow you all-time access to the books he had to offer, his library was always open and welcoming, warmth pouring from every shelf as you walk through, even in darkness.

As you closed the door behind yourself, you move your hand along the wall to search for the nook that holds Wallace's handled-oil-lamp and matches, fingers knocking with a miniature thud against the match box before nearly tipping the ancient item over the edge of the surface. With lamp safely in hand, you fumbled to strike the first match, opting to break it instead with unsteady and shaky hands before lighting a second one perfectly. The small flame from the lamp gave a gentle ambiance as you shifted out of your boots and into your work slippers near the doorway, already noticing the absence of your bosses own slippers. He was working.

'Will that man ever rest?' You mumbled, shuffling to the side door that poked into a small section of the library with a staircase upwards. Quietly, your feet helped you ascend to the top of the stairs, helping you instantly into a kitchen with a silver teakettle on the countertop to your right, and a round table, cleaned and set neatly with sweets decorated in the middle to your left. All the lights remained off, save for your lamps flame flickering shadows upon the walls as you moved about the kitchen. Plan all working too well for your liking as you went to make a spot of tea for the morning shift, you leaned back and watched the flame cast its shadows on the cabinets, listening to the quiet rustle of the owner downstairs as the pot began to lightly hiss.

As it got louder, you used a rag to cover its whistling and moved the hot water from the stove and to the fine Limehouse teapot. Plopping in the proper strainer with the herbal morning blend, you stood for another good few minutes before setting three scones onto the golden tray that held the teaset, along with its contents such as the tea cups, sugar, creamer, honey, and a small loaf of bread. Breakfast was made, and now you had only yourself to prepare for the day as you stripped yourself of your puffy winter coat and stuffed it half hazardly into the coat closet in the hall just out of the kitchen past the stairwell.

With tray in hand, the lamp sat gently on the center of the surface. You made your merry way down and back into the library, finding now that it was lit up with bright and vibrant flames upon the walls and from the quaint little chandelier above. "Wallace?" You called, voice lingering as you drawled his name in soft question. Hearing the thud of books from up the ladder near his desk, you jumped a bit, quickly speeding over to it to set the tray down. "Y/n?" The librarian called back, head turning down to look at his desk, which he had dropped said books on and caused a small mess to be made by things flying off and onto the floor.

"Mornin' didn't expect to see you ruining your library this early." You teased in a friendly manner, "Always thought you'd go out like that character in your novel, 'In the sweet embrace of the dark-cloaked ruler of the underworld, breathlessly staring death in his unruly glor'—" Another book fell, cutting you off by landing directly on the crown of your head with a thud. "Shush, it isn't finished yet!" That was true, at least you assumed it was true. When you'd caught sight of the hefty pile of papers on his desk a few weeks ago, you'd been so engrossed into the last few chapters that he had been looking over, that you failed to take into account that he had been standing beside you with a rather disapproving look on his features, eyes glossed out by the menacing white shine that covered his glasses.

You had never felt like you had truly stared death in the face til that day. The mere idea made you shiver physically, making the book that was flat on your head fall forward, to which you caught it and placed it to the side before crouching down to the stray pages to pick them up. Now, it was Wallace's turn to stare down at you, blinking a few times before descending from the ladder to assist. His gloved hands worked diligently beside your slightly larger ones, thoughtfully humming as the smell of the tea finally reached his nose. "What are you doing here two hours before your shift? It's not like you to be excited about fantasy and history books." He was right. As usual.

You stood, papers in hand as you shuffled from his side to the desk again to set them down and turn your attention to the tea while responding. "I thought I'd help you get things to run smoother, everyone can use a little pick me up in the morning. Plus, it's chilly in here, despite how bright it is." You're words warmed Wallace's chest, happiness brimming to the very top of his lungs as he exhaled a huff of acknowledgment. As he adjusted his vest, lightly tugging at his blouse sleeves, he took his gloves and tucked them into his vest pocket before he moved to his chair at the desk. The chair creaked as he sat, motioning you to do the same as you prepared the tea for the both of you. "Well, I won't complain. I do enjoy your company-" You perked up, "Almost as much as Mister J?"

A scoff left Wallace as he cleared his throat, blush just barely apparent to you from the corner of your eye as you poured him his cup, adding two cubes of sugar, a splash of cream, and a half a spoonful of honey. Then, you slid a small plate with bread and two scones over to him with a smile. "You know I'm only joshin' with you, boss. Not like I'd steal him from you." He didn't respond, opting to sip silently at his tea while leaning back into his seat with a blissful sigh of contempt.

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

[onceuponanaromantic]

upstream and across the wind

(Written for @flashfictionfridayofficial's prompt FFF252: Spill the Tea. Enjoy!)

They tell stories about the Oracle who sits in a little cottage at the end of the wood. For you see, humans can only see the present, but the Oracle can move through the past and the future too.

            It bears some truth, but the stories do not know the whole of it.

            They call her the Oracle sometimes, and the Storyteller at other times. It depends on who seeks her. It depends too on what they want to know. When they want to know answers, they come through the forest, though sometimes they come from far away, from places with only sand or only ice. But always, they reach the cottage when they have a question, and they look for the woman who time does not touch.

            She wears her age loosely around her shoulders. She has never bothered with active deceit, but she always had tea available steaming and there are silver strands darting through the darkness of her hair. She lets them assume, although they usually call her an old woman with steady hands and deep red staining the fingertips.

            Heroes die, villains and mentors alike win their narrative’s battles and die later. Once upon a time, she knew better than to stand outside the circle of time.

            That was before she learned.

            Today’s visitor is another hero, who seeks to know the past. She likes these better than the ones who look for the future, and demand that she read their futures in her tea leaves. They come to her cottage where the darting shadows of the forest close in and the birds fly high above the forest, but never come in. In the distance, something burbles on a stove and a river is always running somewhere in the distance.

            As the sunlight filters in through the dusty windows, she sends off this one with a story about a young woman who fell in love with a god. She tells them about the flickering candlelight as the wax dripped on her lover’s face, waking him, and she tells them about the old lady in the woods who was a goddess herself who gave her a box of death to save herself. But in her arrogance, she opened the box, believing that it had beauty within.

            They all come with the same question, and she wonders if they ever get bored with it, even as it burns them alive. How do I win?

            The answer being: are you running away or towards?

            The correct answer, of course, is neither. But you must give the correct answer before you know it.

            ---

            “Don’t-“ A young woman with blood on her hands carries her lover’s body to her, eyes burning with determination. “Tell me how I save him.”

            “You can’t.”

            The young woman slams her hands onto the table, before the old woman. Around them, the flames paint stories on the walls and something bubbles in the background.

            “Tell me where in the past I must go.”

            The old woman looks at the youth. All this is relative, because the old woman is not so old that all her hair has faded to grey and the young woman has creases around her eyes and a tightness to her mouth that betrays the kind of love that only comes with living long enough to grieve.

            “Go upstream the river that leads to the end of the world.”

            She didn’t find the answer to her question there. What she did find was an answer.

---

This one comes offering a song. In exchange, he asks that she keep his name in history, and that she tells no one how to follow him down the path beyond the forest.

            She takes in the golden tinge to his hands and the stench of rot that clings to his feet, and she agrees. The summertime has faded by this point, cloying in its sweetness and the stench of death.

            Days later, she hears of a golden statue in an old palace, where a king blessed with the golden touch starved himself to death.

            She keeps her promises, and she tells a story of a noble god who blessed and cursed a human at the same time. And she leaves the truth of the story to fade.

---

She walks into a city of ruins.

            Her heroes died in valiant fights, perishing on the battlefield. Her mentors had long since perished to time, while she had gone upstream, trying frantically to feel for the knot in the fabric of time that would allow her to spill the tea from a pot and save everyone she had loved.

            It was unfair: the heroes died, their villains survived, and she, the coward, had outlasted them all.

            She fiddles with the fabric of time: a brushstroke on one document here, the ink spilling like blood along her fingers, a knife blade there in some minister’s pockets so he has something to defend himself with when his allies turn traitor.

            She returns to her time, screaming, fingers bleeding.

            “What is the point-,“ she whispers, voice hoarse as she lies on the ground at her mentor’s feet, “what is the point of it- of any of it- if I can’t change anything? What is the point of knowing anything?”

            “There are points in time that are fixed.” Her mentor says quietly but not without sympathy. “And there are points that can be changed. But you’ll learn, with experience, that the difference doesn’t always matter.”

            The letter gets burned, and a war sparks. The minister dies by poison instead of a knife to the back on a moonless night.

            She cries herself to sleep.

            “That’s the hazard of our position,” her mentor says quietly, passing over a teacup filled with tea when she’s finally recovered enough from the hysteria to sit upright. “We See and nobody believes us. And if they believe, they do not understand.”

            “I understand, my lady.” She did not understand then, but she would, later.

            “Call me Cassandra,” the teacup clinks back into its saucer, “You might as well.”

---

            A young woman steps back through the gate of her cottage, hands stained with blood and eyes wild with sorrow.

            “Tell me how to save him.” Her hands are bloody but her eyes are steady. Her face creases, and the light of the flame flickers across her face, dappling against the creases where age has left its marks. It looks like the underside of the river when it rains, when you submerge your whole body beneath the water because living is more painful than drowning and the cold of the rain and the water merge into one.

            Her hands too are stained in a healer’s blood and the furious grief of someone who can learn but will not. Not until it's too late.

            “Go upstream the river at the end of the world.” She says, placing the teacup down.

For you see, humans can only affect the present, but the Oracle can move through the past and the future too.

And they tell stories about the Oracle who sits in a little cottage at the end of the wood.