#untag them perhaps

[stedelovemail]

who’s “we”. i ain’t on the same planet as anyone finding that relationship to be sad or tragic

[the-acid-pear]

I never tried the option myself bc it'd probably mean skipping the Reason You Suck speech at the end (fire for speedrunners though) but I Love that you can frame your Phoneys in 3, especially so if you've already killed the previous two. Like yeah couldn't send you off to die so i'll let the goverment do it for me 🧸 like its just Peak evil imo.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: this one came out of no where.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

It’s uncharacteristically grim on the plains of Debray. Rains pelt the tall green grasses, flattening them in a slanted downpour that dims the horizon. Clouds blot out the daylight and lend to atmosphere of unease in the warring lands. 

Behind the castle walls, one can forget about the bloodshed staining the counties red, though it is all the dukes and his audience can speak of. The lords that bluster through those gates, sometimes at the toll of morning, some in the black swathes of night. You can’t count them all, you can name even fewer, but they come anon and leave just as brusquely. 

A peel of thunder shakes the land and a dark line limns the curve of the horizon. What appears first as a storm cloud advances quickly through the fields, appearing more clearly to the naked eye, distant nonetheless. Men. Another party fast on the approach. 

The alarm goes up at a man’s holler. Ethred, man at the gate hollers to the other men in mail. Niam peers out from the vantage of the tower and calls back down. A hush falls and bodies scurry all around, metal clinking and boots crunching. There’s something amiss. Something you can’t quite place. 

You turn away from the window, the steam rising from the basin in your hand swirling around your head. You carry on down the corridor, wool skirts around cautious steps as you balance the swaying water in the vessel. You approach the lady’s door and give it a rap with your knee. Merinda, another handmaid, opens it from within. 

You enter without a word and place the basin on the vanity table. The duke’s daughter preens herself with a painted fan, fluttering her lashes at her reflection as her curls spill down her long back. She tilts her head this way and that. She snaps the fan shut and puts it down, touching her soft brown cheeks with a devilish grin. 

“Do you know what father mentioned last eve?” Jazlene asks with a vain flutter of her lashes. 

“What did he mention?” Her mother, Lady Rezlyn prompts lazily as she plucks another cherry from a dish heaped in fruit. 

“A husband,” the daughter grins coyly at herself, “it is well due, isn’t it, mother? Who do you think it might be? Lord Gai, perhaps? He is young still.” 

“Perhaps the Earl of Mesafin,” her mother taunts back to a disgusted gasp. 

“Do not,” Jazlene pouts, “I could never... I am much too pretty for that haggard beast.” 

“Well, then, who might you have, precious?” Rezlyn goads. 

There is a clamour in the hall that keeps the younger of the woman from answering. She rolls her eyes and darkly glare at the door. You peer back behind your shoulder as a wail goes up carrying her father’s name; ‘Lord Dustan!’ 

“What is all that?” Jazlene whines, “as if it isn’t enough with the rain and the winds. It is summer!” 

“It’s always summer in Debray, darling,” Rezlyn scoffs, “otherwise I’d have never married your father. Pray you don’t hook yourself a winter lord.” 

You peek over your shoulder as you stand near the door, in your vigil, awaiting your next order. You face the ladies again as the elder continues to feast and the younger fusses over her thick brows. You scrunch your lips back and forth, a habit that often has your jaw aching. 

Jazlene turns to narrow her eyes at you, “what is it then? What has you making faces?” 

You bow your head, appeasing her ego, “my lady, there were men coming. A party approaching from the north.” 

“There are always men,” she shakes her head, “who was it then? Anyone I should wear silk for?” 

Her mother laughs, “I warn you, daughter, that trite tongue will not endear any husband.” 

“I do not know, lady,” you answer. 

“Ugh, useless, must I work as my own handmaid?” Jazlene tisks, “come, pin my hair. Merinda find me a gown. Mother... wipe the dribble from your chin.” 

“Eh, watch yourself,” Lady Rezlyn rises and wipes her lips with her sleeve. She wears muslin in a dark shade of burgundy, embroidered with little copper finches. “Or hope you marry above me before you lash that tongue at me.” 

Jazlene merely trills with laughter. You take the pins and work at twisting her fine curls into place. Merinda brings to her a dress of teal satin and is promptly shooed away, “something pink. It brings out my bosom.” 

You ignore her bawdy jest as her mother harrumphs. You work in quiet tandem with the other handmaid. You add a touch of paint to the lady’s cheeks and kohl around her eyes. You tint her lips with pigment and she pushes out her lips at the mirror. You help Merinda dress her, pulling the noble daughter’s corset tight enough to leave her lightheaded. 

The pair of ladies, elder and younger, leave the chamber with you at their skirt tails. They sweep through the corridors with chins up. They are queens in their own minds. Their fine dresses and sparkling gems are untouched by the disparity of war. The lives lost are squares on a game board, tawdry talk for men in their studies. 

“Lord Dustan,” Lady Rezlyn mimics the earlier call for the lord of the castle, “my husband. Dear, dear husband!” 

The women go to the banister and look down upon the great hall as the flurry continues below. You and Merinda loom behind, not daring to stand at a level with the pompous nobles. You have never volunteered yourself for their impetuous lashings. 

“Woman!” Dustan booms back up, “do not trouble me now.” 

“Oh, has another lord come? Perhaps a suitor for our lovely daughter--” 

“Cease!” The duke demands hotly, “now is not the time for womanly games.” 

“Tell me it true, husband, she will be an old maid before you find a suiting son-in-law--” 

“Go away to your chambers. Now. The men who come are not to be trifled with and you lot do trifle overly much!” 

“Bah! Oh do not be so uncouth!” Rezlyn decries. 

“Father, please, is it a husband?” 

“Go before I send my guards up to put you away like thieves in a dungeon. Hear me when I warn you that this does not concern you. Not as yet,” Dustan snarls, “you would spoil this war with your puny concerns.” 

“Ugh,” his wife puts her hand to her forehead, “he does tax me. All I ask of him is to take care of us, daughter. As any husband should.” 

“I should have your lips sewn shut!” Dustan rebukes hotly, “be gone before I find a tailor.” 

The women share an aghast look. The turn back to flutter away in their skirts. You and Merinda follow them to the drawing room, closing them in as they fall onto the velvet cushions. Jazlene reclines dramatically on the chaise as her mouth mopes on a sofa. 

“Shall I be alone forever, mother?” Jazlene snivels, “why won’t he let me marry?” 

“He only wants to find the right man, that is all, darling,” Rezlyn coaxes. “He is overprotective and that is good for it means he will find a husband for you with a similar bearing.” 

“Such sweet words cannot convince me. He punishes me. When all my lady friends have wed and borne a whelp or two, I remain with the dust and stone.” 

“Do not be theatrical,” Rezlyn girds, “you are silly.” 

“I am not silly, mother. I am afraid. I am twenty and three and I have no suitor. I have only a war butchering any man who might have my hand. Why must this go on? Why must I suffer for the gripes of stubborn kings.” 

“We cannot fear. This war will be won and you will have a knight for a husband. Isn’t that better? To have a warrior you can be proud of than some bookish lord in his tower?” Rezlyn stands and moves to sit with her daughter, petting her as she cooes, “oh my beautiful, no man can resist you. You will see.” 

⚔️

Some hours pass with the restless women, pacing and chattering, about careless things beyond marriage and war. Like needlework and a banquet that should be had upon the truce. Would that the day would come sooner. 

You and Merinda stifle yawns that pass between you. The act is contagious as you stand in the tedium of the wealthy and wait for a duty to be called upon you. The hours you spend watching the women preen and swoon make you envy the stable boys and the shit shovelers. 

The noise beyond those walls continues. You heard the moat open and the clopping hooves of horses, even the clatter of carts. The voices had since hushed but footfalls carried back and forth. The wordless activity betrays an air of impatience, almost of nervousness. As the ladies within mirror the sentiment. 

Finally, as the windows darken and the candles burn brighter, a knock shakes the door. The ladies snap their heads around. Merinda is asleep on her feet as you move first. You open to a man in grey and black waits on the other side. He is not Lord Dustan’s. 

“The duchess and her daughter,” he garbles through a mouth that sounds full of salt. 

You dip your head and look to the ladies in question. There is a tension, of unease, of unknowing, of excitement turned to dread. This is not as it has been. There is not call to the dinner table. There is no buoyant introduction of a lord Dustan met as a young scamp. There is silence and fear. Has someone died? Has a battle been lost? 

The women emerge and greet the man with niceties and tight-lipped simpers. He does not pay them heed as you and Merinda exchange looks. You trail after the ladies but the man stops. He turns back, a hand on the pommel at his waist, and sneers, a furrow in his brow. 

“One of ya,” he grits. 

Jazlene says your name. She must’ve noticed Merinda swaying on her feet. If she even cares so much about a maid. You keep your head down and follow as they press on. Down the corridor and around the duke’s study, recently deemed his war room. You’ve never been within. It is not the domain of women. 

The grey and black soldier thumps on the door. Mother and daughter clasp hands. Even they can sense the unusual frigidity. The door opens from within. It is Lord Dustan. He wears a serious look on his lined face. The ladies are beckoned in and the soldier nudges you after them as you hesitate. 

Lanterns light the space from the desk at the rear of the chamber. The large table draped in maps, wooden horses, and little wooden pucks stands central on a thick rug. A figure stands behind it, head down as his burly and broad silhouette seems to sop up the shadows. 

The ladies follow the duke to stand across from the man. His head is down as he slides a horse along a road on the map. He stops it and grips it tight. He looks up and the lantern light dances on his features. You suck in a breath, as the rest do, stunned by his appearance. 

His hair is white, his eyes are a goldish yellow, pupils deep pools of black, and his square jaw is just as thick as the rest of him. You have never seen a man like him before, but you have heard of one. Of him. King Geralt of Rivia. 

You stand in similar confusion to the ladies. Their silent confoundment is broken by Duke Dustan as he nears the table. He sniffs and presses his fingers to the table top. 

“Your highness, my wife, Lady Rezlyn, and my daughter, Lady Jazlene,” he introduces. 

The women glance at each other then curtsy to the white king. He watches them dully. You fold your hands, taking it in curiously. It is rather something to witness the scene. You are so unimportant as to not be a part of it. 

“Your highness,” the recite, “it is...” 

“An honour,” Dustan finishes for them, “of course it is. We fondly welcome you and your allyship. We hope that we will be essential in ending this war. In helping you attain the peace you have so valiantly fought for--” 

The king raises his hand to silence the lord. You can’t help but quork your head. Allyship? But King Geralt, he is of Rivia, he is of the hinterland, he is the one who invaded the summer country and bid it his own. He is the foe. That is what they told you. 

“Enough...” the king speaks in a silty tone that scrapes in his throat. His eyes wander over the women and narrow. You wince as your own meet his golden irises and you shy away, putting your chin to your chest. That’s a mistake. “...words.” He slaps his hand down, “you do not win wars with words.” 

“Yes, your highness, you are correct. I know it well. It is why I invited you here. It is the very reason I made my entreaty. You have my men, they will win this war for you.” 

The king is hardly impressed by the fact. He looks back to the table and moves the horse further before turning it back. He knocks it over and stands completely straight. 

“And the daughter of Debray, your highness. To have a wife of summer’s blood, men will bend the knee. If you show them you do not mean to eradicate but to join with them,” Dustan moves to stand closer to his daughter, “isn’t she a fine queen for a fine kingdom?” 

Jazlene swoons and falls against her father. She’s fainted. Rezlyn grabs onto her other shoulder and you peek up at the chaotic scene. You come forward to help, snatching a pillow from the single couch, and you place it under Jazlene’s head as they lay her down on the floor. 

A shadow shifts as Dustan and Rezlyn fuss over their daughter, fanning and calling to her. You look up as darkness clusters over you. You see the king staring down at the scene. No, not them. He staring at you. Before he can reprimand you, you put your head down. 

You must quit that lest you find yourself at the wrong end of a switch. 

[the-fat-raccoon]

🌌 astro-gnomey Follow

Some of you don't want to hear it but at some point we're going to HAVE to acknowledge the effects of storm sorcerers (and keiromancy as a whole) on the environment. The wizard council has been pushing for regulations on these practices for years due to its large ecological effect on the realm, and yet it still stays unregulated because of misinformed petitioners who insist on preserve this harmful practice.

x x x

🌬 420haz3it Follow

hey ops ex here. they literally went through my family's tome of spells and destroyed every page that contained keiromancy. spells that were in my family since the Wizardry Renaissance, that saved towns from floods and droughts alike, are now lost to time and space

also as people in the notes pointed out all of those links are blatant misinformation that ignores what storm sorcerers have done to protect not only their local communities but the environment as a whole for centuries, and the people who spread this information are the exact same people who advocated to repeal the wishing star protection act.

hating keiromancy has always been a distraction so astrological mages can push for more unsafe practices in their own field. don't let them lie about their intent, and don't let the wizard council rush the process to earn an astromage liscense.

🪄 tradmage12 Follow

Being from a family of storm sorcerers puts a direct line from you to the Great Calamity that wiped out our magic for a millenia. You deserve to lose that tome and every last spark of magic in you.

🌬 420haz3it Follow

what

🌬 420haz3it Follow

theres no way youre serious. you dont actually believe that.

🪄 tradmage12 Follow

We all know it, the Great Calamity would have never happened if the sorcerer faction had listened to the wizard councils orders and steered clear of dragon hunting. But they didn't listen, and everyone suffered because of it. Don't act like there's no reason to not trust your kind with their own practices. You just can't help yourselves.

🌌 astro-gnomey Follow

I leave for the Berry Harvest and come back to this mess, really funny how you'll mention me taking action against your family's evil dark spells but don't mention that you only dated me for your weird gnomeplay fantasies. Also pay attention to the language used, very Anti Mage rhetoric being spread. What else would you expect of a storm sorcerer, of course they want to keep their powers, I'm going to shut off reblogs if people in the notes cant see how they're being manipulated by keiromancers. Quit trying to be 'progressive' when you just want to keep ruining the course of nature and keep down the mage class.

🌬 420haz3it Follow

get me off this fucking lichsite. there is no 'anti mage rhetoric', that's not a fucking thing. mages aren't some repressed class no matter how much you want to pretend that, they haven't had to deal with magical restrictions since before the great calamity even happened, meanwhile sorcerers to this day are still fighting to be seen as magical equals.

and while im at it 'keiromancers' is a made up term to put all weather magic users under one umbrella, as if forms of keiromancy arent so diverse amongst the realms that you cant even begin to compare them. it is not the same as saying necromancers. dont even start that bs.

also, gnomeplay is perfectly normal and acceptable between consenting partners, which we were, so idek why you bring that up. if i as a half elf want to have gnome partners theres literally no issue with that, youre mad because gneillielle has a more bountiful gourd harvest and far more whimsical tunes than you ever brought to our relationship.

storm sorcerers have done nothing wrong, you're the problem.

perhaps some shadow work could unlodge the staff youve got stuck up your cap and you could see the filthy fuckign system youre supporting as an astromage, im sick and tired of this.

🎱 claire-vances-fourth-eye Follow

op starts posting untagged wizard council x reader failed abjuration content in a year btw

5,482 notes

[themonotonysyndrome]

Ě̸̡̞̱̘̹̮̫͚̯͍͕̟̪͂̀̋̉̾͛̂̑̅͜͝c̴̢̺̟̣̠̤̽͋͒̄̄͂̆̿͗̑̊̒̒̕ḧ̷͇͍͉͉̺͈͙́̀͆̀̒̒̅̒͒̔̽ó̶͔̜̓͛̓̂̔̆͌́͆̉͂͘͝͠es of regrets

So! I saw this post from @rivyx (if you like, I can untag you. Just wanna give credit where credit is due):

And I thought:

"Man. It's been a while since I broke my own heart. Oh! Angst between Geordi and Cutie? How about I make Geordi regret for making Cutie believe that they need to multiate and hide the magical part of themselves and even the Empowered world because he doesn't understand a Telepath's needs?"

Hence. This oneshot. Shout out to @moonandstarlightsposts for helping me come up with the title!

(Yes. Yes. I know. Cutie was canonically at fault, too. I just wanna focus on Geordi regretting his actions for a change.)

-

Summary: Second chances come and go. But for Geordi and Cutie, perhaps they should have let it go by.

First comes the awkwardness. 

It’s to be expected. A break was decided - no, needed - for the both of them after… well. No point in digging up bad memories. The two of them were heading down a dangerous spiral, and Geordi could no longer ignore the red flags. He’d been through too much to drown in toxicity and abuse again. Whether his partner realised it or not. And that’s the part that crushed his heart. A heart that Geordi painstakingly put back together with liquid gold and long nights of tearful frustrations. He told them about Ben. He told them how his ex callously disregarded his boundaries. And Cutie just - 

Therapy was something they agreed to during their break. Geordi needed to address old trauma that re-open like wounds and Cutie - 

‘I… I hope this isn’t me coming across as presumptuous, but one of my coworkers is a really good therapist. I think you’ll like him! His name is Cam - ’

‘I still have my old therapist’s number. Um. Thanks, though.’

‘O-Oh! Right. Of course. I should’ve thought of that. I just… never mind.’

That was the last text that Cutie sent. Even after they moved out of his apartment, the two continued to exchange careful messages with one another, awkwardly making sure not to step on each other’s landmines. However, as days gone by, the texts became more and more superficial: ’Morning. Have you eaten?’. ‘Just cereal. Thanks for checking up on me.’ ‘The weather forecast mentioned a thunderstorm. Don’t forget an umbrella, ok?’. When Cutie brought the subject of therapists to the table - 

The texts stopped after that. 

Geordi had no idea how lonely his existence truly was without Ben and Cutie. The two-bedroom apartment became too big. He cooked too much for a single person. His left side felt too exposed whenever his coworkers dragged him out for drinks and karaoke. It hurts. He has a habit of rubbing his left arm nowadays. 

His therapist is a kind woman, the kind that has laugh lines all over her face. Older than him, more at ease with her place in the world, unlike Geordi. She never judges him whenever he finds the courage to unravel before her. Ugly, jagged broken pieces for a heart. Gold and bitter tears for the next few months. 

Soon, a year passes. 

Something settled within Geordi then. New foundations were built. The world is a little less lonely now that he has opened up to his coworkers, reached out to some cousins on phones and slowly put himself out there again. He had fallen in love with building LEGOs recently. A hobby that happily kept him occupied while a slow, reverb version of Evil by Melanie Martinez plays in the background of the living room. 

It took a while, but he finally reached a point and mental headspace to put Cutie back into the equation. 

His therapist's words constantly echo in his head, grounding him whenever his fingertips run on the rim of their favourite mug, red with little ladybugs on the ceramic. Witty, funny, confident, mischievous and kind - Cutie’s best would always outshine their worst in Geordi’s eyes. Perhaps that’s why he subconsciously ignores the raising red flags the more and more they tested his boundaries. Anyway, being with Cutie brought out the best of Geordi in return, which he never even knew existed. He loved them, plain and simple. He loves learning about them and their world every day of the week. He was so happy and content whenever they were in his arms. Growing old together was something he thought about when they drove back home from his folks’. Cutie was fast asleep, with their head gently resting against the window of the car. That moment was magical in its own way. 

Geordi misses them. His incredible, one-of-a-kind partner. 

He thinks about them more often than not nowadays, wondering how therapy is going for them. Had they fallen in love with any new hobbies? Did Cutie make any new friends outside of the Department? If so, he wonders what they’re like. 

Thoughts turn to yearning. Yearning turns to Geordi, picking up his phone and texting Cutie first for once.

‘Hey. Good morning. How are you?’

The two of them never used to be awkward when they were a couple. Feeling hopeful, Geordi puts aside his phone as he continues about his day. Fixing himself a hearty lunch using a recipe that he can’t wait to share with Cutie and goes about doing the laundry afterwards. It’s only after his evening shower that a notification lights up on his phone screen. 

‘Hey. I’m alright. You?’

Superficial. That’s OK, though. Geordi is not giving up. 

The two resume texting every day soon enough as if the distance weren’t ever there. It makes him happy to be updated with every little thing that is going on in Cutie’s life. He spams GIFs and emojis at every picture they share and they, in return, slowly start to send over recorded audio of their little laughter and quips. It makes him miss them all the more. Enough to replay those audios over and over again whenever he can’t sleep at night. During those nights, his phone would always be on the right side of the bed.

Texting eventually evolves to calling when Geordi wakes up from a rather bad nightmare. Something so vague that it slipped from the recess of his conscious as he panted for air. Without even thinking about it, he presses on a familiar number. His call is answered almost immediately. 

“Geordi? Why are you awake around this hour?”

Relief floods into his very being. They once fondly tease him that, no, their voice isn’t magic. Unlike Vampires and their special eyes, Telepaths specialised in minds instead. It’s his love that makes their voice special and it’s love that dispels the lingering nightmare. 

“Geordi?” Cutie’s voice is hesitant at the end of the line. “Is everything ok? Do you have someone nearby that you can call for help?” 

“No! No, no. I’m fine.” Comes his quick assurance. The shirt that he brought to sleep is drenched in sweat. His hair is matted to his forehead. He feels gross, and yet he doesn’t want to put Cutie on loudspeaker while he cleans himself up. “I just… really miss you. So much.” 

Cutie’s reply is a whisper, “I-I miss you too. Can I ask if that’s the reason why you called me?” 

“Yeah… had a nightmare; can’t remember what it was about. What I do remember is how you used to bring me to the kitchen, and you’d make warm chocolate milk for the both of us to help. You’d then talked me through it, helped me calm me down. Did I ever thank you for that? Thank you, by the way.” 

“You’re welcome. I like taking care of you. And, uh, you did thank me. Always.” 

Geordi lets out a ragged sigh. Those happy moments were just what he needed. “Did I wake you up? I didn’t mean to.” 

“Nah, you’re good. I was doing some leftover documents for an assignment.” 

Cutie never used to stay up past midnight. They like to sleep early whenever they can due to how mentally, emotionally, and physically taxing their job as an intel extraction officer can be. Cutie often rants about how the Department inefficiently run things, especially when it comes to bureaucracy. Perhaps this is one of their new habits? Speaking of which - 

“How’s work treating you? Did you get that promotion?” 

“Work’s alright. Are you feeling better now?” 

Well, his heart was no longer racing, that’s for sure. But he still wants to hear their voice even through the static. “Like magic. You’re always the perfect cure for everything.” He waits for Cutie to laugh in that out-of-breath sort whenever he compliments them. Light and carefree.

Instead, they hum. 

“Glad to hear it. Are you going to try and go back to sleep?” 

“Only when you are, Cutie.” Geordi tries to flirt and perhaps coax them to rest for the evening. 

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll go to bed in a bit. Um. If that’s all - ”

Perhaps it’s because the nightmare that he can no longer recall had something to do with Cutie. Perhaps it’s because he hasn’t heard their voice properly in so, so long. Whatever it is, it gave Geordi a burst of courage. He quickly asks before Cutie can hang up, “Wait, wait! Can I see you, Cutie? I just want to talk. Please?” He swallowed thickly. “I think we’re ready to discuss about… us.” 

A thoughtful silence from Cutie. 

“I’d like that. Where do you want to meet up?” 

Geordi’s night becomes much sweeter after that. They talk and plan until his eyes grow heavy and Cutie’s documents are filed away. They even put him on loudspeaker and brought him to the bathroom so they could continue talking while they showered. God, the sounds of running water alone fill him with wants and images. He can’t stop picturing himself in that shower with them. So you can’t blame how incredibly giddy Geordi is when he finally sees Cutie walk up to the cafe the next day. They offered him a small smile as they made themselves comfortable across the table. Healthy and rocking a new fashion style when Geordi is busy absorbing every little detail about them. He could honestly stare at them like a work of art in the Louvre. 

“So I’m here…” Cutie says rather unnecessarily. They scratch their cheek nervously. “You wanted to talk?” 

He snaps out of a daze. Shit, he got distracted by his thoughts! For a split second, Geordi can’t help but wonder if they heard his inner ramblings. Judging by Cutie’s guarded expression, he lets out a sigh of relief. It sets his heart at ease to learn about this new side of Cutie. “Yeah. Thanks for agreeing to meet up with me. You look… god, Cutie. You look amazing.” 

“Thanks! You’re not too bad on the eye yourself.” Cutie’s smile is wider now. “We’ve practically caught up to speed with each other lives for a while now. So, this is it. Whatever you decide, I’ll respect it this time. I promise.” 

That assurance dissolves any doubts that Geordi might have harboured. He’s more sure about his next few words than ever before. “I still want us to be together, Cutie. That never changed. Even when we were on a break, I had no one else. I love you, even when you broke my heart. Do you… do you still feel the same?” 

Cutie reaches out to hold his hand, which is gripping a fork so tightly. He didn’t even realise it. The moment when skin meets skin, a familiar warmth spread across his arm. It’s like sunshine thawing out the chills in his bone marrow. He lets go of the fork in favour of holding their hand and squeezes it. “My feelings haven’t changed too. I love you so damn much, Geordi. I know I said it before, but I’m so sorry for hurting you. Words alone aren’t enough to promise you that I won’t do it again, but I’ll make sure my actions make up for it. From now on, you’ll lead where this relationship is going. I’ll follow” Steely determination glimmers behind Cutie’s eyes. God, they look so hot! Would his therapist finally judge him if he asked Cutie to drag him to the bathroom for a quickie? It’s been too long since they’re in him. 

“Geordi? Are you ok? You look flush.” Some of that hesitation creeps back into Cutie. Dimming that spark of fire. He panics when their hand tugs back. 

“Yeah! Sorry. My head’s a bit of a mess.” He begins to explain. Here, he lowered his voice; his eyes lidded. “Maybe you can make sense of it? You might like what you find, Cutie…” 

“Oh!” For some reason, Cutie looks positively alarmed. A deer in a headlight. He had never seen that kind of look on their face before. Their sudden reaction threw Geordi off guard. Any lustful thoughts are completely replaced with concern now. “Maybe later. So, uh, where do we go from here? I can’t move back in just yet due to my apartment lease. Or do you want things to stay as they are right now for a little while longer?” 

Continue this distance between them? Geordi doesn’t think he’s that strong of a man.

“Feel free to move in any time you can. My place is your home. You know that.” 

That gorgeous smile slowly returns. This is Cutie at their best. After that day, things begin falling into place without a hitch. Cutie is back in his life. They bring their clothes and toiletries over when their lease is up - 

“You kept my mug?” 

“Of course I did, silly. Why would I throw it out?” 

“Right… right. Sorry.” 

“Cutie? Is something wrong?” 

“Nah, don’t worry about it. Say, that recipe you bookmarked earlier, why don’t you let me take a crack at it? I’ll handle dinner tonight!” 

- their routines fall into one once more, and Geordi couldn’t be happier. His world is no longer filled with silence and bitterness.

Second comes the realisation. 

Geordi has been riding high on cloud nine ever since Cutie settled back into his apartment, into his life. Waking up to their sleeping face feels like a dream that he never wants to end. Their giggling when he rouses them with kisses is a bonus. He loves greeting the morning sun with a partner who is happy and satiated from the night before. And if Cutie is in the mood to play? Well! He’s more than happy to ruin the sheets for the third time in the span of six hours. 

And don’t even get him started on domestic bliss. 

Since Cutie’s work hours are a lot more flexible than Geordi’s, he’s forever grateful that they always have a pot of hot coffee ready for him on the table and a sweet kiss before he dashes out for the day. If he returns before traffic picks up in the evening, the couple would either go out for a dinner date or stay at home and binge-watch a new series while they eat in the living room. They alternate in cooking and cleaning depending on their schedule, but Cutie seems to have a habit of doing both whenever they can. The coworkers that he invited over for DnD sessions would whistle and nudge him on the shoulder when they looked around the spotless apartment, praising him for scoring the perfect partner after Cutie left them with a tray of snacks and drinks. Internally, Geordi preens. 

When the weekends roll around, and it’s just the two of them lazying together in their sweats and old t-shirts, Geordi and Cutie would spend time together by combining their new hobbies. Geordi would lose himself in another LEGO building project while Cutie reads a novel on their phone on the couch. His favourite playlists play on and on, wrapping the couple in a peaceful cocoon. 

That is until - 

Geordi blinks, back in the present, when he suddenly hears the sliding door of the balcony softly shut. He sees Cutie outside talking on the phone, their back against him. He watches them moving their free hand animatedly for a few seconds longer before focusing back on the tower that he had been building. When the sliding door shuts again, he absentmindedly asks, “Hey, Cutie? What are you in the mood for lunch? Do you want to go to that Chinese restaurant down the street or…” His words trail off the moment he notices the frustrated lines on his partner's forehead. Their eyes were exhausted all of a sudden. Before he could say anything, his partner flashed an apologetic smile. 

“Work called. Something came up. I need to step out in a bit, but I should have some time to make lunch - ”

Geordi stops them right there and then. He doesn’t want them to get more stressed out, especially when an emergency - he assumed - just happened. “No, no. Don’t sweat it. How about you go get ready while I make us lunch? I’d rather you have something in your stomach before you leave.” He replies, already up on his feet. 

Deer in a headlight on Cutie. Again. What’s going on? “I can do it. It’s your rest day after all - ”

“Nu-uh. You just get your pretty ass in the shower, alright? I’ll have your favourites ready as soon as you step out of our bedroom door again.” Geordi assures them, but in reality? He’s so confused. They never so stressed out about cooking before. Seriously, what’s going on? 

Cutie eventually nods. They kiss him on the cheek and make a beeline for the bathroom while Geordi takes out a wok and spatula. Their strange behaviour remains in his mind as he makes spicy stir-fry noodles. Now that he thinks about it, they’ve been going along with everything he likes nowadays. Cooking his favourite meals, making sure the laundry is clean and folded, helping him with the LEGOs, hanging out with his friends and letting him initiate intimacy and sex every time. They laugh when he tells jokes, as cheesy as they are. Apart from their clothes and toiletries, they haven’t brought back their Digimon plushies, or any of their physical books on the shelves. They hate horror movies, but when he absentmindedly suggests they watch Saint Maud, they agree without any hesitation. 

It’s like they’re a satellite, faithfully orbiting Geordi’s every need and want. Why… why did he never notice that before? And when was the last time they went out to Cutie’s favourite restaurant again? When was the last time they did what Cutie wanted for a change? 

Ah. Geordi remembers now. It was before they went on a break. 

Something’s wrong with Cutie. Shit! Why didn’t he notice it before!? Was he truly caught up in his own world that he utterly neglected his partner’s? 

The noodles are hot and plated, ready on the table, but Geordi feels so cold and empty. Guilt was heavy in his stomach. His grin is stiff when Cutie finally emerges wearing their standard work fit. Even in black slacks and a white collared shirt, Cutie looks like a model ready for the runway. They tuck into their meal, but Geordi doesn’t have much appetite for it. So many thoughts clash with one another in his head like angry hornets. He doesn’t even know where to start or what to ask. At times like this, Cutie would slip into his mind and act as his anchor. But ever since they got back together again - 

“What time would you be coming home?” Is what comes out from Geordi’s lips, frustrated with himself. 

Cutie stops washing their dishes to turn around. “If all goes well? In the evening. Probably before midnight, so you don’t have to wait up or put aside dinner for me. I can just grab something when I leave the office.” 

And that’s another thing that Geordi just now realised. They don’t talk about work as much as they did before. When asked, sure, Cutie would always answer him, but it was never more than a, “Oh, my cases? Some old, same old.”, “These documents are pretty boring, actually. Something for the higher-ups to keep in their record.”, “The therapist I mentioned before? Oh, you mean Cam? He’s still working on the floor above mine.” Lukewarm. Tepid. Those are the kinds of replies that Cutie would often give him before the conversation seamlessly shifts to another topic. 

Not once have they performed magic around him. In fact, ever since they got back together again, Cutie’s voice is constantly absent in his mind. 

Suddenly, Geordi feels sick. He forces himself to put on a brave face, a mask that tells his partner that everything is alright, because their eyebrows begin to furrow in hesitation. 

And now he knows why. 

“Call me when you leave?” Geordi tries not to plead. His voice didn’t crack, that good. The last thing he wants is to get the love of his life in trouble with their superiors. They never did tell him if they received that promotion or not. 

It’s a bittersweet victory when Cutie smiles again. “Sure! Have fun with your project, baby.” 

They exchange a long kiss; he wonders if they find it weird that Geordi is reluctant to pull their lips away from him. He weeps and weeps into his hands when they leave the apartment. What has he done? Oh god, Cutie… he didn’t mean to. He didn’t mean to drive them into cutting a part of themselves in order to make him happy. He didn’t mean to be so blinded when they made themselves smaller and smaller if that’s what they thought would make him happy. Would let them stay in his life. 

He didn’t mean to hurt Cutie. He didn’t mean for any of this to happen! He thought that - he had hoped they got better, not - why couldn’t they just talk - has he become Ben? 

Mrs Potato Head plays on and on while Geordi struggles to breathe. 

Finally, in comes the heartbreak. 

Geordi didn’t even wait for Cutie to come back. The moment he regained control of himself, he ran out with his phone and wallet. His eyes are rimmed-red, just like the setting sun behind him. He knows which streets are veiled against people like him; he just hopes he can ask for help from any Empowered folks who might be entering the Department. He has to fix this. He desperately needs to talk to Cutie. He needs them to know that he loves every part of them, that he loves the magical world as much as they do. 

However, when he cuts through the park, he freezes. 

Sitting on a bench a little further from the playground is his partner, crying in the arms of a stranger. Cracks begin to form in Geordi’s heart. He’s too far away to hear what they’re saying, but judging from how the stranger does the talking and Cutie sighs and sniffles, it clued him in pretty quickly that they’re talking through him via telepathy. The stranger smiles sadly and offers them a handkerchief. His body language is serene, but the expression on his beautiful face is tight and worried. Is he a coworker? Another lover? Geordi doesn’t know what to believe anymore. Stricken, he watches them pat the stranger’s hand and gathers up their things. Leaving him on the bench as Cutie makes their way out of the park. 

It’s at that moment that Geordi’s phone rings. He answers the call without a word. 

“Hey, baby. Just left the office.” Cutie’s voice is hoarse. They clear their throat. This time, they sound more like themselves again - fake and bright. “Turns out one of the interns needed a stand-in instructor for tomorrow’s fieldwork. Since I’m on the way home, do you want me to grab anything?” 

Geordi watches them wait at the same bus stop from which he just got off. “Why haven’t you talked to me through my head?” 

“…Geordi, I’m out right now. Can we maybe talk about this at home?” 

“OK. Why have you stopped ironing your work clothes with your hands?” 

“I-I like using your new iron instead. What’s going on, Geordi? Did I do something wrong? Look, tell me how I can fix it, please? I don’t… I don’t know what I did wrong…” 

Is this how it will always be when they’re together? Hurting each other whether they mean to or not? Acts of love turning into subservience? 

The weaker side of him can’t help but wonder if it was a mistake for him and Cutie to get back together again if it means new sorrows and new regrets will always sour their relationship. 

[oldfashionedmorphine]

PREVIEW:

on the same frequency

-.-. .... .- .--. - . .-. / .----

December 22, 1985

“That’s awesome… ‘cause now I’ll finally be able to radio and talk to you whenever I want—no more fighting Nancy for the phone.”

“Yeah…” then Will slips a pair of brown gloves onto his hands, and as he stares down at them trying to think of what else to say, only one thing pops into his head—how he went along with Lucas’s lie about the roll and how much it was actually bothering him. It bothered him because Mike didn’t deserve that—he didn’t deserve to be lied to. And he’d probably be mad if he found out. He always works so hard on his campaigns and lying about the roll just made Will feel like he was a cheater and a bad friend—especially when Mike was standing right in front of him, all smiles and excited at the opportunity to talk to him endlessly on a ham radio—so of course the very next thing to come out of his mouth ends up being; “It was a seven, by the way…”

“Huh?”

“The roll... I found the d20… it was a seven.”

December 22, 1995

Every year Mike dreads his inevitable return to his hometown for the holidays—if it wasn’t for his parents and sisters, he’d never set foot in Hawkins ever again. But he especially hated coming back for Christmas because this particular time of year was forever laced with horrible memories that had a way of cutting into his heart like a sword. Of course, he’d never hear the end of it if he avoided his family’s holiday gatherings. Nancy would pester him, Holly would beg, his mother would cry—his father was perhaps the only one who wouldn’t care either way, he was always the apathetic type, yet he would likely still remind him how much it would break his mother’s heart. So every year, he’d wrap duct tape around his own just to prevent hers from breaking—he’d force himself to make the trip.

🎶 a song from chapter one 🎶

rating: mature

tags: alternate universe, not canon compliant, major character death, grief/mourning, ptsd, blood and injury, supernatural elements, time shenanigans, butterfly effect, thriller, angst with a happy ending

release date: 11/26/2023

tagging:

@kaiminluu @greenfiend @total-serene560 @across-thestars @boahey @magentamee @daydreams-in-the-moonlight @soyboystan @foodiewithdahoodie @booksandpaperss @likegoldintheair @mandycantdecide @hazmatazz @sparks-olivarpente @1-tehe-1 @lucasvenkman

(if you’d like to be tagged/untagged for future sneak peeks, please let me know!)

[chriscalledmesweetie]

The Murder of Sir Emory J. Amat by ChrisCalledMeSweetie

A Sherlock Holmes mystery, as recounted by Dr. John H. Watson.

Can you follow the clues to deduce whodunnit?

Chapter 8: Inspector Anderson is Confident

Inspector Anderson had just turned the corner of the house, and was coming towards us. His face looked grim and satisfied. 

“So there you are, Mr. Holmes,” he said. “Well, this isn’t going to be much of a case. I’m sorry, too. A nice enough fellow gone wrong.” 

Holmes’ face fell, and he spoke very mildly. 

“I’m afraid I shall not be able to be of much aid to you, then?” 

“Next time, perhaps,” said Anderson soothingly. “Though we don’t have murders every day in this quiet little corner of the world.” 

Holmes’ gaze took on an admiring quality that I sensed was not exactly genuine. 

“You have been impressively quick,” he observed. “How exactly did you solve the case, if I may ask?” 

“Certainly,” said Anderson. “To begin with—method. That’s what I always say—method!” 

“Ah!” cried Holmes. “Method. Observation and deduction.” 

“Oh, of course. Well, we all use them, I suppose.” 

“In a greater or lesser degree,” murmured Holmes, too low for the inspector to hear.

Unaware he was being mocked, Anderson carried on.

I’m tagging some folks who might be interested. Please let me know if you’d like me to tag or untag you.

@mydogwatson  @totallysilvergirl  @bluebellofbakerstreet @sarahthecoat  @helloliriels  @daisyfairy1 @imnova  @kittenmadnessandtea  @marta-bee  @whodwantmeasaflatmate @iwantthatbelstaffanditsoccupant  @jobooksncoffee  @peanitbear @bakingsherlycakes @missdeliadilisblog @kettykika78 @stellacartography @shelleysprometheus @iamjustreading @chinike @sgam76 @loves-to-read-fanfic @inevitably-johnlocked @johnlockismyreligion @riversong912

[megaderping]

Saw a rather mean post last night, and genuinely, I do not understand how people can play Persona 5 (particularly Royal), and come out thinking Akechi genuinely hates Joker when Morgana outright states for the audience, "You don't really hate Joker, do you?" Akechi laments how they didn't meet a few years earlier and how they could've been "great rivals, perhaps even friends." o_O Like... is this a vanilla thing? I genuinely don't get it. The interrogation room wasn't even his idea (SIU director mentions as much). It's not even about the ship- the game spells out that their bond is more complex, and it just so happens that a lot of people like to explore it as one. Even as platonic, tho, there's a shit ton of depth. Idk, any time I see discourse (especially people making fun of Shuake fans and stuff), I just question how many people actually paid attention to the dialogue. Even the "I hate you speech" reads as him being extremely emotionally constipated and conflicted. Plus, y'know...

Very hateful. Sure. :p Idk, maybe certain playthroughs of the game remove all those moments where the game spells out that they have a special bond (Maruki even states it isn't based on hatred, but that's only if you get his third awakening). Just wish people would get off their high horses, if anything. Sometimes I see people get really condescending about liking Akechi or liking Shuake, and like... just block the tags if you don't like these things instead of posting untagged ship/character bashing and making fun of fans? At least have the decency to tag it as something that Shuake fans can filter because some of those posts are really mean-spirited. :/ You think we haven't heard it all before? I may be new to the fandom, but I have heard that this BS has been going on for years.

I don't think it really matters if there are "healthier" ship options because some of us prefer the messiness, the depth, and complexity. It's not for everyone, and I respect favoring more straightforwardly sweet and wholesome dynamics or wishing your favorite pair got more spotlight. I'm a Riku and Kairi shipper in Kingdom Hearts, for crying out loud. :P I get it, but you're not gonna win anyone over to your side by telling them that [insert ship here] is better. In my case, it makes me more averse because of how deeply their relationship in the confidant, engine room, and third sem touched me and seeing people go "yeah, but you are wrong for feeling that way, THIS is better" is just... yeah. :/ (Also, people gotta learn the difference between hitmen and serial killers. Akechi is the former, which I've ranted about before, but yeah.)

So many fandom problems could be solved if people didn't take the piss out of others for shipping something they don't personally like. x_x; By all means, feel the way you feel, it's okay to not like things.

[lockandkeyhyena]

no cause when i was a kid i legit thought mlpfim was one of those “adult shows that look cute and cartoony” because i didnt watch it and all i ever saw was nsfw content

genuinely. the amount of untagged and public porn of childrens show characters was genuinely disturbing. like the characters are adults and clearly sentient, draw whatever porn of them you’d like, but consider the fact that it is a childrens show and perhaps take measures to keep the artwork somewhat private or at least where kids can’t just… constantly stumble across it

[manicpixiedreamedwins]

Hey Dead Boy Detectives Fandom—

I’m having a lovely time reading all of your meta, head canon ideas, and fics so far! The art is lovely too— holy wow you’re all so talented. I hope you all are having a nice time as well. It’s been an amazing month.

Luckily the fandom is getting bigger. This means more people are watching, and we have a better shot at S2. Big fandoms are a double edged sword, though. People will start to get on each other’s nerves. Perhaps it will be an accident from untagged stuff and algorithms, or perhaps it will be because people are inclined to say unkind things on the internet (I received some hate mail lmao— happy pride month to me I guess lol).

Listen— as tempting as it is to get in a fire fight with someone, or make a rude post, this fandom is nice because we haven’t turned into the steaming dumpster fire that some other large fandoms succumbed to. We are still creating beautiful content. The meta is great. People are generally pretty respectful to each other, minus a little bit of errant vague posting. As more people come in, I would ask you to consider if you could curate your experience by blocking or muting them pre-emptively so we can keep doing what we’re doing.

Or don’t. Who knows. Maybe every fandom is doomed once it gets large enough, but I would like to think we have something special here and it can survive a slight influx of weirdness as it grows.

[studywave]

PDF Readers: What Do You Want? What Do You Need?

Hey all! I promised a series of posts on resources that have helped me during undergrad, and I'm going to start with the basics: how to read your coursework. I'm going to tag a few people who mentioned being interested in this series, but please let me know if you'd like to be untagged!

@anyto @wocinstem @youneedtostudyives @studyblr-perhaps

Now, I'm an English major, so I can't speak on behalf of the sciences, but almost all of my course materials have been given to me in the form of PDFs. I also download almost all my research in PDF format, and when I find books for free online, they're usually PDFs. Clearly, this means I need some easy way to read and edit PDFs. Below the cut, you'll find information on how to choose a PDF reader that's right for you, as well as information on Xodo, my personal favorite reader.

What should you consider when choosing a PDF reader?

Well, first, there's cost. There are all kinds of PDF readers at all kinds of price points. Xodo, my favorite, is free. I've never used the paid version, because for my purposes, the free version is more than enough. Now, let's talk about those purposes.

As an English student, I'm mostly concerned with annotation. I want to be able to mark my documents up, highlight them, write on them, leave comments, all that good stuff. However, what I need might not be what you need. Do you need to sign a lot of documents? Do you need to build PDFs from scratch? Are you more concerned with appearance, or with functionality?

Once you've answered these questions, you'll be able to search online for reviews dealing with the specific kinds of functionality you need.

Why should you use Xodo?

Well, for starters, the free version has more than I will ever need. I can edit, I can annotate, I can sign, I can highlight. I can do pretty much anything my English major heart desires, and I can use my Apple pencil to do it (I'll make another post about ipads and Apple pencils and link it here once it's finished).

This screenshot shows a lot of my favorite parts of Xodo. I can highlight in different colors (I use green to make information on further reading stand out) and I can write (also in different colors) with my Apple pencil, all while scrolling and navigating with my hand. I don't have to constantly click back and forth between marking and scrolling like I do with some apps, and I can lay my hand on the screen without disturbing anything. This, the ability to confine the text marking to the pencil, is really important to me. I don't like to be constantly clicking around and making accidental marks.

I've also been able to read almost every PDF I've put on here without much trouble. Between the size of my ipad screen (which will be the subject of another post), the high resolution, and the ability to zoom and scroll at the same time, I can read even pretty low-quality PDFs with very little trouble.

You might also notice the little box with the "4" in it in the upper right corner. This indicates the number of tabs I have open because yes, you can have multiple tabs open in Xodo. I've had over ten tabs open at a time, some containing 300+ page documents, and I've never had lagging or glitching problems.

Here's a selection of other actions Xodo allows. I've never scanned anything to PDF using it, but if the rest of the app is anything to go by, it probably works just fine.

I've had the occasional problem with glitching (maybe once per every five hours of reading I do, if that) which usually just involves a section of the text going black and can be solved by closing and reopening the app. Closing and reopening is no problem, either, because Xodo saves your place.

All this to say, I've used Xodo for a little over a year now, and I have no complaints. I cannot recommend it highly enough, and I'm sure the paid version is even better. That's all for now. Happy reading!

[moon-and-firefly-syscourse]

Why the tpa "warmline/hotline" is harmful- to everyone.

if you aren't yet aware- the "tpa", or "the plural association" is trying to gain funding to start a hotline by plural people for plural people. this, in short, is a bad, BAD idea.

very very first and foremost, they are NOT TRAINED. and while im sure many of their volunteers mean well and genuinely do want to help, well meaning can only go so far. they aren't trained like crisis professionals from say, 988 (the USA national suicide hotline) or the trevor project- (a crisis line for lgbtq+ people) who are trained on what to do in dangerous situations and KNOW what to say in order to de-escalate, not continue to ramp up the issue. this is not to say that volunteers cant be helpful in certain times, even if they arent trained, but there is a great risk with untrained volunteers that they'll accidentally escalate the situation and be seriously dangerous because they simply arent trained for those kinds of situations.

second- they are plainly twisting data to serve their goal and manipulating numbers to make their cause seem way more necessary than it is. in a wonderful post by @sysmedsaresexist (do let me know if you want me to untag you), theyve pointed out that their statistic that "62.58% of survey respondents indicated that they felt that DID/OSDD was not understood by crisis or hotline providers they have been provided with" was out of 60% of responders- meaning out of 60% of those 100% of participants, 62.58% said "no, did/osdd was not understood- which brings the total tally of those participants who said did/osdd was not understood to 37%. now that sounds a lot less impressive than 62%, doesnt it? thats purposeful. it makes their idea sound a lot more "noble", and while i would LOVE to have a hotline for people with DID/OSDD, i want a hotline with TRAINED VOLUNTEERS/PROFESSIONALS. without trained volunteers, there is a high risk for harm

link to SAS's post (go read!!)

yes, it's extremely frustrating that many suicide prevention lines dont know much about DID/OSDD, but making your own, untrained hotline is NOT the solution. many hotlines, though uneducated perhaps, can be very helpful for crisis- yes, even for people with DID/OSDD. dont just take your chances with untrained volunteers who may make the situation worse.

they claim that this hotline should be used before a full blown crisis- but unfortunately without trained volunteers and a proper system of training them, they might cause much more crisis's than they'll prevent.

if you are in crisis, please please please dont use their hotline- instead, here are some helpful numbers:

988: USA national suicide hotline

678-678: TrevorText- the text version of the trevor project. my personal favorite hotline, super super helpful and especially because it's for LGBTQ+ people.

866-488-7386: TrevorLifeline- the call line for the trevor project!

list of national suicide hotlines here

thanks for reading <3

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Unraveled 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: A curious man wanders into your dress shop with a lot of questions.

Characters: Sherlock Holmes (Cavill)

Note: thanks for waiting on this one.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The carriage stops outside a brick building. A walk-up in Marleybone, just along Upper Baker Street. An address you couldn’t even dream of living near, let alone within. You peer up at the facade, the orange brick unstained by the coal and smoke of the backstreets. 

Gavin appears to open the door and sets a step down before you can emerge. He offers his hand gallantly and you let him assist you down to the road. You thank him as you peer up at the arched front door of 221b. 

“You need only knock, miss,” Gavin goes to pat the horse’s haunch as it kicks. “Ask for Mr. Holmes, he is expecting you.” 

You grip your bag tight and set your chin. You might not belong but only you are troubled by it. You climb the steps alongside the iron rail and lift the heavy knocker mounted on the thick wooden door. It’s clang rattles even you. 

You wait, both hands on the handles of the bag. Gavin appears behind you with the rolls of fabric, breathless as he struggles to keep them from touching the ground. You return your attention to the door as it opens. 

“Hello, I’m looking for Mr.--” 

“Holmes,” the very man you’re seeking stands before you, “forgive me, my housekeeper... resigned.” 

“Not to worry, sir,” you assure him. 

“Come in,” he backs up, gesturing you within with his large hand. “And how was your journey? I hope you didn’t come upon any scoundrels.” 

“Only upon her destination, sir,” Gavin japes as he steps in behind you. 

“Eh,” Holmes tilts his head at the driver, “allow me.” 

Holmes takes the rolls of fabric from Gavin. He hugs them effortlessly in on arm as he faces you again, dismissing the driver with no more than a nod. You stand rigidly by the wall, hesitant to go any further. The door closes and the click makes you flinch. 

“Allow me to show you around,” Holmes offers, looming in the tight space of the entryway. 

“I need only see your sister,” you insist. 

“Ah, yes, Enola, you will, but it only polite to get you acquainted with the space,” he rebuffs. 

“With respect, sir, I’ve come out of my way and without warning to this appointment. More work does await me at my shop,” you squeeze the leather handles until they squeak, “it is a lovely home, I’m sure, but I’ve come upon business, haven’t I?” 

“Yes, but it wouldn’t take very long,” he counters, “yet, if you’d rather keep this formal, by all means, I will take you to my sister.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

You bite down, wondering if perhaps you were more curt than you should be. The apartment is rather far from your neighbourhood and the travel time alone will impose upon your ongoing commissions. You don’t expect he considered that. He does seem the type to command rather than ask. 

He directs you to the stairs, just across from the door, and waves you onward. He follows as your skirts brush the top of your boots with each step. The wallpaper is tightly decorated with framed newspapers and portraits, cluttered together but not garishly so. 

You get to the top and he advises you to go left. You obey as he keeps pace. 

“Did you... discover what led to that woman’s fate? Or who she was?” You ask as you take measured steps. 

He isn’t demure as he walks next to you, crowded against you as his broad figure allows for little space, “sadly, yes and no. Not her name. Only that she was a factory woman. I won’t say much on the matter as it is ongoing and confidentiality is a part of my contract, I would only gird you to keep your doors locked and yourself alert.” 

You chew on his answer. It makes you nervous. You know the woman was found close to your shop and home. The news has been whispered for blocks. 

“I will be sure to hede your advice,” you say. 

You walk past a door as he stops to knock on it. You spin back, skirts swirling around you, and he glances at you as he plants his hand on the door frame. There is activity from within, scratching and creaking. He sighs and stands straight as he slides his hand down the pillar. He raps with his knuckles again. 

“Enola,” he booms through, his voice shaking you. “I told you to be ready.” 

You hear furious footsteps and the lock flicks back with similar furor. It opens and a young woman with a slumping bun greets Mr. Holmes. Strands fall loose from the clip and her blouse is half untucked as her sleeves are rolled to her elbows. She has a long oval face, flushed as she shows her teeth. 

“I told you, I’m busy--” 

“Not so busy that you would waste this good woman’s time,” Holmes insists, “she traveled all this way. We discussed this.” 

She flutters her lashes and huffs. Her eyes flit over to you and she softens her expression, “if her time is wasted, it is hardly my fault.” 

“Hm,” he hums flatly, “isn’t it? It wasn’t I who fed your dresses to the furnace.” 

She smiles, a smug look that pinches her cheeks, “I was cold.” 

“Sister,” he warns dangerously, crossing his arms, his breadth wider than ever. 

“You know what, I welcome her company. Much preferable to your own,” the woman sneers and turns her shoulder to her brother, “come on, then. Suppose I need a dress for the banquet.” 

You inch forward. A flare of resent burns in you at the position Mr. Holmes has put you in. Plainly, this appointment was not upon his sister’s behest. She holds the door for you and her brother exhales deeply. 

“All you need do is stand still, I’m certain you can handle that, sister,” he rebukes, “do let me know when you are finished and I will call the carriage.” 

“Thank you,” you utter without looking at him. He sets the rolls just inside the door and backs up to watch you. 

You enter the bedroom and find it cluttered and cramped. There are books in stacks with more littered around the bottom. A dried-up paint palette and an easel draped over with several jackets and unpaired stockings. There is a four-post bed with scrambled covers and a canopy twisted around the poles. Vials upon vials line shelves and an inkwell stands uncapped over untidy sheets of paper. 

“Very well,” the woman shuts the door, “I am Enola, the famous detective’s ne’er do well sister and you are the seamstress who will make me a peacock.” 

You stare at her and swallow tightly. You offer your name before you begin, “I’ve only come upon his request--” 

“Ah, yes, I’m certain you have. He’s still trying to make a lady of me. I see through his guise, though he doesn’t think it. He underestimates me, see. He lies but I will go along for I will more easily avoid his snare if I do.” 

You nod and narrow your eyes. The wealthy can always afford to be so eccentric. You don’t think any woman you know would view a new dress as such a curse. She is young, she cannot know. 

“If you don’t mind, I’ll only take your measurements,” you offer, “I can always fit upon the dress form.” 

“Do what you must,” she sighs, “shall I strip down?” 

You put your bag on a chair as she unbuttons her blouse, “not-- if you--” You look up at her as she reveals a corset and reaches to undo her skirt. You focus on your bag and scoop out your measuring tape. 

You approach her as her skirt heaps at her feet. She is tall, her legs on long, her figure lithe. You begin your work silently. She raises her arms as you request and puts them back down. 

“Suppose if I wasn’t here, I might’ve become a dressmaker. I always enjoyed stitching,” she muses as you scribble down each number, “it seems lonely work. Quiet work.” 

“It’s work,” you say as you take out the envelope and unfold the page to examine the dress again. You hold it up and glance past it at Enola. 

“May I see that?” She asks but doesn’t await an answer before she snatches the paper. “Oh, is this really what he chose? No, no, no, this won’t do. I want my shoulders covered.” 

You slip the envelope back in your bag, “it is only what I was given. If you prefer adjustments, it is your dress.” 

“Yes, my dress and my body,” she crumples the paper and tosses it onto the rug. 

You close up your notebook and go to the rolls of fabric, “would it be too much for me to do some piecework?” 

“If you insist,” she pouts. 

You take out your scissors and turn your back to her. She isn’t rude, per se, but you’re not in the habit of associating with this sort of clientele. You get numbers on a sheet and you sew. A living form is not quite your forte. 

-🪡

When you finish, you can sense Enola’s agitated impatience. You don’t blame her. It’s plain she didn’t want the dress or your visit. It is more so upon the shoulders of her brother. Mr. Holmes. You’re similarly irked that he would put you in this position. 

Enola is already fiddling with some instrument before you can go. You emerge and pull the door shut after you. You stand in the hallway, bag at the crook of your elbow as you hug the fabric. You move with hampered steps towards the stairs. As the top creaks beneath your weight, your name is called from further down the hallway. 

“Ah, are you set then?” Mr. Holmes asks as he stops just outside a door, “I was thinking, to make up for your efforts, you might want to stay for tea.” 

You look down at your armful and back to him, “that’s very generous, but--” 

“I believe I paid an adequate fee for the appointment,” he strides slowly towards you, “but I am open to a barter if it was not sufficient.” 

You feel the heavy sovereign tucked into your jacket. You crook your lips and raise your chin, “no sir, it will do for today and the making of the dress. The fabric... I don’t have any as rich as the style requested.” 

“Another service I may require of you. If you wouldn’t mind to select the material, I would be happy to reimburse the expense.” 

“Would there be a colour? A fabric preferred? Velvet? Satin? Chiffon?” You prompt, “I solely work in cotton and wool, as I forewarned.” 

“Perhaps we might find a fabric seller at Covent Garden? You could accompany me on my next sojourn--” 

“I don’t know if I would have the time. I could write down some fabrics which would suit the silhouette we agreed upon,” you offer. 

“Mmm,” he hums, “you are rather professional. How about tea, then? Melinda from across the road sent some mutton over.” 

“The hour should see me back to my shop,” you shift your bag. 

“You are fastidious,” he stops before you and puts a hand on the fabric, “please, allow me, you are overburdened.” 

“I’m--” 

You can’t argue as he takes the fabric from you. You let him have it if only to avoid disaster you lean back on your heel. He angles the rolls under his arm easily and grins. A curl strays down his forehead. 

“I suppose you are right, given recent events, it would be best to see you home before the evening sets,” he says, “I would gladly see you home safe, miss.” 

He is overly polite, or perhaps you aren’t used to it. It is his home, he supplied the carriage, and he has paid generously. It makes each denial feel trite. 

“If you must, but I would be just fine on my own comportment,” you accept. 

“It isn’t any fuss, I will fetch a jacket and the driver,” he extends his arm past you, “after you.” 

You spin on your heel and face the staircase. You descend with your hand on the railing. As you come to the bottom, you wander towards the entry way and take in the fineness of the decor. Is much more becoming than your slanted rooms. 

Mr. Holmes places the rolls just beside the door and takes a jacket from the rack. He pulls it on and tells you to wait before he disappears outside. You linger as you are, sliding your bag down to your hands. 

When he returns, he reaches within to retrieve the fabric first. “Gavin is bringing up the carriage,” he declares and offers his free arm, “shall we?” 

You consider him. You wouldn’t want to be unkind. You step through the door, pulling it shut as you accept his bent arm, your hand in the crook. He accompanies you down the narrow steps, each step crowded by his. 

Gavin appears in the driver’s seat and reins the horse to a halt. The beast looks miserable. Mr. Holmes escorts you to the door and releases you to open it. He helps you with a strong hand and you sit within with your bag on your lap. He shoves the fabric in ahead of him, his head bowed as he fits through the small door. 

He closes it with a snap and settles on the bench on the other side of you. You stare across at the cotton, expecting he’d have taken that seat instead. His leg is on your skirt. 

You keep your hands on your bag. He knocks on the ceiling and the carriage rumbles into motion. You rock with it along the street, silent as you wring the leather handles. 

“I hope my sister did not cause too much stress. I know she can be a lot but she’s old enough now. She should start behaving as a lady,” he spreads a large hand across his thigh. “Perhaps, once she finds a husband, that will be easier.” 

You nod, uncertain of a proper response. 

“Not to mean... I don’t mean to assume, I am known however for my observations, and I have concluded you are not married,” he continues, “I gather if it were the case, you might not have a shop to sew in.” 

“Suppose not,” you reply dully. 

“It is only to say that my opinion of my sister isn’t general. A woman such as yourself is admirable.” 

“A spinster?” You supply. 

“I didn’t--” 

“I’ve chosen not to marry, that is true. I am not bothered by that fact,” you say, “isn’t that what you deal in, detective, facts?” 

“Fair,” he shifts on the bench, “but not everyone can detach emotion from facts.” 

“And why should I be emotional about that fact? I am much more happier than any woman could be with a husband,” you stare at the opposite wall of the carriage. “And I will assume, sir, as I am no detective, that you have neither taken to the altar.” 

He curls the fingers on his left hand, “I have not.” 

“And I’m certain you enjoy your bachelor lifestyle in your grand apartment,” you return, “while my own is not so extravagant, I find solace in it. On that, I think you might understand me.” 

He takes a breath and lets it out with a thoughtful hum, “I suppose we are similar in some way.” 

[lumosatnight]

Untagged Fest 2023 favs!

Untagged Fest 2023 just ended, run by the HPFC Discord server! This was my second time participating and I had just as much fun as I did last year. It's always a new experience reading a fic when it's first published with absolutely zero tags. Here are a 10 of my favorites (listed by title)!

—

💜 hollow hearts by @girl-with-goats [Teddy/Victoire, T, 7.0k] — Fabulous world-building, wonderful imagery, packed full of colorful metaphors and heartfelt emotions.

Surviving in the post-apocalyptic, totalitarian world where emotions are banned from adults is not an easy feat. Victoire Weasley tries to navigate it and not lose herself in the process, all while falling in love with her best friend, Teddy Lupin.

💜 Just a Minerva in Time by @bluestringpudding [Hermione/Minerva, G, 6.4k] — Time travel, BAMF young Minerva, intrigue, romance! This fic has everything!

Hermione is going to need to remember how she got there, if she wants to go back.

💜 Master of None by @nanneramma [Cormac/Severus, G, 5.5k] — Hilarious and made me cry tears of joy. A masterpiece in comedy. Severus has finally met his match in himbo (and buff!) Cormac.

Severus tries new things, and meets someone unexpected.

💜 mephistopheles by @hang-the-deejay [Hermione/Harry, E, 6.4k] — Mind the tags!! Includes rape/non-con!! This is dirty, dark, and CRAZY GOOD. A dead dove fic that had me at the edge of my seat and yelling into the abyss (or in the Discord server).

when i'm at the pearly gates, this'll be on my videotape

💜 of all the gin joints by @northernroyal [Hermione/Dean, E, 2.2k] — HOT SMUT IN YOUR AREA!!! I am in love with this Dean. He is the new loml.

in all the towns in all the world, she walks into his.

💜 Oh, to be alone with you by @min1nova [Bellatrix/Luna, M, 3.3k] — The prose is stunning. Bellaluna is such an underrated ship and the author made me fall in love with them. Such a fantastical fairy tale AU.

Her grey-scale painted lips, darker than the billowing curls and sharper than her teeth, never turn down. They are lighter than the oily drip down her temples, glittering in her hair. She is always smiling. It surely is a marvel, to behold the presence of the Mad Queen. 

💜 Through the Middlegame by @sandervansunshine [Astoria & Peter, T, 6.6k] — One of my absolute favorite portrayals of Peter I have ever read. The dialogue, the characters, the angst. I want to tattoo this fic directly onto my brain. Perhaps my new fav fic of the year!

Two prisoners, both a little broken, set out in pursuit of their survival.

💜 Unspeakable Acts by @ladyvoldywrites [Rufus/Dolores, M, 4.8k]— A wild pairing with a wild premise! The banter is perfect. This fic converted me to a Dolores lover and I didn't think that was possible.

The death of a child. A stolen Time-Turner. In an effort to solve this heinous act, an unlikely duo falsify a betrothal to gain entry into an underground crime ring.

💜 who lives in the castle? by @luxuriousmalfoy [Cho & Harry, M, 2.5k] — The ambience, the vibes!! I loved the mystery and the world-building. And of course, I love my girl Cho.

A century after the abrupt disappearance of magic, they seek out the place they hope to find it again—only to find themselves wondering if it was worth the cost. Cho and Harry have one question. Who lives in the castle?

💜 You're So Vane by @patriceavril [Angelina/Romilda, T, 6.8k] — The perfect romcom fic. Romilda is such a hoot, and her antics are so on brand. If this was turned into a movie, I'd be the first one at the theater.

Romilda is determined to seduce her nephew’s Quidditch instructor, even if she has to get a bit creative.

—

And my submission for the fest!

💜 Such a Sweetheart by @lumosatnight [Fleur/Bellatrix, T, 2.4k] — a horror coffeshop AU!

Her shift starts like any other.

Read more in the collection on AO3!!

[kayjaydee17]

Musings on dead dove

I'm untagging some of my Avatar fics as "Dead Dove: Do Not Eat"

I've recently seen several people misunderstanding/misusing the dead dove tag to mean, simply, "this is a dark fic, pay attention to the tags, they're not fucking around".

That's not what the dead dove tag means.

When it was originally proposed by mostlyvalid, it was intended to differentiate between fics that addresses their problematic elements (perhaps through subversion of tags, narrative commentary, unpacking of those tags) and fics that perhaps didn't want to do that, that just wanted to roll around in their dark tags.

As they say at the end of their post:

“you see the tropes and concepts tagged here? they are going to appear in this fic. exactly as said. there will not necessarily be any subversion, authorial commentary condemning problematic aspects, or meditation on potential harm. this fic contains dead dove. if you proceed, you should expect to encounter it.”

I go into more detail about how I interpret the dead dove tag in one of my own posts, but basically, it's particularly useful in cases where the same tags may apply to very different fics. Is the fic commentating on, idk, brainwashing and abuse, and exploring the problematic elements? Or does it want to roll around in those tags and have fun with them (often, by not always, in the form of smut)? The dead dove tag would indicate the latter.

(Please note that neither fic is more ‘valid’ or ‘worthwhile’ than the other. They serve different purposes and provide different experiences to their audiences.)

I've been trying to work out why I used it for my fics despite knowing it wasn't quite right. I think part of it was due to the erotic nature of what I was writing -- there's almost an expectation that if you're writing dark erotic fic, it's automatically dead dove. But that's not true. Writing something through an erotic lens is not the same as writing erotica, which is not the same as writing something indulgent of your badhotdirtywrong kinks.

I also think part of it was an attempt to protect myself. My fics are darker than what the majority of the fandom writes. If someone came into the comments yelling at me for writing taboo topics (loving the rise of purity culture in fandom, btw, just loving it), I wanted to be able to point to my tags and say, "You read these warnings, you opened my bag labelled with dead dove, you don't get to be mad that you found a dead dove here."

But my tags already serve as warnings (or possibly as enticements). I don't need to misuse a tag made for the dark fic community by the dark fic community just to protect myself from people who think I shouldn't be writing these things at all.

While there are moments in my Avatar fic that are those self-indulgent moments that both scare and thrill me (fear and eroticism share a door in this house), that's not what my posted fics are currently about. All the pieces I've posted are about psychological horror, abuse, vulnerability, recovery, what it means to live with monsters around you and in your head, what it means to be safe, what we do to keep ourselves safe.

(I do think I'll be writing something more in the dead dove realm of things soon -- playing around with those ideas was what made me realise that my current posted pieces actually aren't dead dove fics. It's especially apparent in my sex pollen series, which really isn't about the fun sexy feelings of sex pollen and is way more about the consent issues and trauma of being sex pollened)

I think dead dove, as it was originally created, is such a great, important tag. I don't like seeing it diluted by people who think it just means "this is dark", and I hate that I fell into that, too -- the idea that just because my fic was dark and erotic automatically meant it was a dead dove fic.

So, to other dead dove and dark fic writers -- what makes you decide to tag a piece as dead dove? What makes a piece feel like it steps over into dead dove territory for you?

(there are no right or wrong answers! art is art, without any easy lines of division that we can draw. I'm just curious and would love to talk about this with people)

[goforth-ladymidnight]

A Second Chance, Ch. 11

@praetorqueenreyna @thrumbolt @taymartiart @zivotzaruzi @achaotichuman @northern-polaris (Please let me know if you'd like to be tagged or untagged.)

Pairing: Tamlin x Lucien

Wordcount: 6.3k

Summary: Lucien now knows that Tamlin works for a private investigator, but Tamlin doesn't know he knows. What secrets will be revealed next? And whose?

Read on AO3, or read on below the cut:

Beron Vanserra cut a vain, yet imposing, figure as he stood at the head of the boardroom with his slick, pinstriped, three-piece suit and neatly trimmed brown beard. Most of his sons shared his dark brown eyes and broad build, but none of them had inherited his brown hair or sour disposition. They were all redheads like their mother, but Lucien’s auburn hair was the most like hers.

Lucien would have liked to see his mother then, and have her put her arms around him and assure him that everything was going to be all right, but she wasn’t invited to this little ‘meeting’. Lowly interns lined the walls as the rest of the legal department took their seats around the table, Lucien included. He would have preferred to skulk near the exit for a clean getaway, but if the rest of his brothers had to show up, then so did he. So he sat next to Eris and pretended to listen when Beron started talking.

Even if he cared to pay attention, a company-wide audit was less important than that phone call in Eris’s office. ‘We put the Private in Private Eye,’ Tamlin had said cheerily, not realizing that Lucien was listening in. It explained so much, and yet so little as to why his boyfriend had kept quiet about what he did for a living.

Why did it have to be such a secret, anyway?

Lucien’s older brother Alex, sitting on his other side, startled him by tapping him on the arm. “Hey,” he whispered, “I’m going to need to borrow your couch for a couple days. The wife wants to do some redecorating, so…”

Lucien scowled at him and shrugged him off. “So, get a hotel like a normal person,” he muttered.

Alex’s dark brown eyes—their father’s eyes—narrowed. “Why? You have a perfectly good couch you’re not using.”

“So?” Lucien rolled his shoulders. “Actually, you know what? It’s taken.”

“Oh, yeah? By who?”

“None of your business.”

Beron loudly cleared his throat. “If you’re quite finished, Lucien, perhaps you’d like to offer up some theories.”

Lucien tried not to shrink in his chair as everyone turned towards him. “Theories?” His voice came out squeakier than he intended. He hated how his father could have that effect on him, making him feel like a prepubescent boy who would never be smart enough, strong enough, or straight enough to please him.

“Yes, theories,” Beron repeated. “Or perhaps you know where these leaks originated.”

“Maybe you should ask Alex, since he’s the one looking for a plumber.”

“Thanks a lot,” Alex muttered while the interns tittered. They all fell silent though when Beron leveled his stony gaze at them. Then he smiled at Lucien, but it was not a fond, fatherly smile. “I’m not asking Alex. I’m asking you.”

Lucien crossed his arms and shrugged. “I can get you a phonebook if you’re looking for a listing, but that’s about it. Sorry.”

Beron smiled to himself, then announced to the rest of the room, “You can see how passionate my son is in the pursuit of truth… and justice. Four years studying journalism well spent, wouldn’t you say?”

Lucien’s face flushed and he clenched his teeth as he felt everyone else’s pitying stares before his father moved on to ‘more important matters’.

Alex leaned in again, but only to offer a contrite, “Sorry, Lu,” under his breath.

“Forget it,” Lucien muttered, but he couldn’t even take his own advice.

He was still brooding when Eris pulled him into his office afterwards.

“Don’t let Dad get to you,” Eris said, giving the dog a pat as he passed by. “He may not look it, but he’s scared stiff of this audit, and he’s taking it out on you.”

“Well, he should be scared,” Lucien grumbled, taking a seat next to the dog. “Maybe he’ll finally get what’s coming to him.”

Eris turned and gave Lucien a strange look. “Do you know something I don’t know?”

“No. I’m just tired of Dad picking on me. Maybe now he’ll know what it feels like.”

Eris sighed and walked to his desk. “You may not believe this, but Dad was trying to toughen you up.”

Lucien let out a dismissive snort and reached out to stroke the dog’s neck. “Newsflash. It didn’t work.”

“Yeah, well.” Eris sat down and straightened up the papers on his desk. “He’s never forgiven Mom for the way you turned out, that’s all.”

Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong with the way I turned out?”

Eris spread his hands wide in surrender. “Nothing. It’s just that Mom always wanted a girl, and you’re the baby of the family, so…”

Lucien rolled his eyes. It didn’t take a journalist to connect the dots. “Unlike Dad, Mom never forced me to do anything I didn’t want to do. I actually like ballet.”

Eris shrugged. “So do I, but I didn’t want to run away to the Land of Sweets to marry the Nutcracker Prince when I grew up.”

Lucien’s whole face grew hot. “That never leaves this room,” he said sternly, pointing at his brother. Eris laughed, and the dog’s tail wagged.

“Speaking of marriage, though,” Eris began, thoughtfully tapping his pen on his notepad. “What do you want to do about your boyfriend?”

Lucien rubbed behind the dog’s silky ears and sulked. “I want to pretend that this morning never happened,” he grumbled, and the dog whined as if it understood.

“Are you talking about Dad, or…?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know,” Lucien groaned. “I’m just a little distracted, you know? Ever since I found out my boyfriend lied to me about what he does for a living, so forgive me for not giving a rat’s ass about Dad and his stupid audit right now.”

Eris gave him a grim smile. “Too bad your boyfriend’s not a plumber, or he could tell us about these leaks,” he quipped.

Lucien huffed a laugh, then froze as he locked eyes with Eris.

“Wait a second…”

“You don’t think…”

“I mean, if he’s…”

“He couldn’t… He wouldn’t…”

Eris leaned forward. “When did you say you met him again?”

“About nine years ago. He was my roommate in college, so—”

“No.” Eris waved dismissively. “After that.”

Lucien swallowed down the lump of dread in his throat. “On Saturday.”

Eris’s eyebrows rose. “Don’t you think the timing is rather suspicious?”

Lucien hadn’t until that moment, but when he really stopped to think about it, his blood ran cold.

Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence that Tamlin had shown up that day in the bookstore. After all, he worked for a private investigator. Was he just gathering intel for his boss, for a client? Was he simply using Lucien for information?

He tried to think back, but he couldn’t recall if Tamlin had asked him anything about his job. Not that he would have noticed anyway. He was too happy to see him again to notice anything suspicious. If anything, Lucien had been the pushy one, asking him about his past when it was none of his business. He didn’t think Tamlin was lying about that, though. It made too much sense, and it had nothing to do with his father’s business.

And then afterward, Tamlin had shyly kissed him. They’d slept together, bought a Christmas tree together, and decorated it together. They’d had breakfast together. They’d made love… And then Lucien had given him his spare key.

Lucien covered his face with his hands and swore under his breath.

“What?” Eris’s tone was cautious.

Lucien dropped his hands to his lap and gave his brother a wincing smile. “So, uh… I kind of gave him the extra key to my apartment…”

“You what?” Eris reached for the phonebook and started flipping through it.

“Hey, what—What are you doing?”

“Looking for a locksmith.”

“Well, don’t!” Lucien snapped, which earned him a frown. He scowled in return. “I’m not going to lock my boyfriend out of my apartment over some stupid hunch.”

“What if it’s not stupid? What if he’s there right now, looking for more information to feed to the press?”

“He wouldn’t do that.”

“How would you know?”

“I don’t know, but I know, all right?” When Eris looked skeptical, Lucien continued, “What about your new girlfriend, or Mor, huh?”

“Like a ballerina or a bartender would know anything about classified documents, Mr. ‘I’m Dating a Private Investigator’.”

Lucien felt sick. “I don’t even keep ‘classified documents’ at my place, anyway,” he said, trying to defend himself, then crossed his arms and muttered, “I’m not stupid.”

“Says the guy who gave his ‘boyfriend’ his spare key after fucking him twice.”

Lucien shot to his feet, which made the hound at his side yip in surprise. “I don’t have to take this,” he growled, then snatched his coat from the standing coat rack.

“Where are you going?” Eris asked as he shoved his arms inside his coat.

“I’m going home,” Lucien tossed back.

“And what if he’s there?” Eris asked. The question made Lucien pause. “What are you even going to say to him?”

Lucien swallowed hard. “I don’t know,” he said hoarsely, then turned the handle and left.

He wanted to be mad at Eris, but he couldn’t. His brother was right. He had been stupid… He just didn’t know what to do about it.

It was almost three o’clock by the time he made it back to his apartment. All that driving hadn’t given him any clarity, but at least he had some more time to think before Tamlin showed up. If nothing else, a drink would give him the courage to ask the hard questions. As he dropped his keys onto the entry table and shrugged off his coat, he realized that the fireplace was lit, and the Christmas tree was on.

He frowned. Had he been so distracted that morning that he had forgotten to turn them off? Thinking back on his amorous goodbye with Tamlin that morning, it was entirely possible. He tiredly shook his head and tried not to think about it.

As he opened the closet to hang up his coat, he saw a familiar green bomber jacket hanging there, with a soft white scarf draped around the neck.

Before he could react, Tamlin’s voice called out from another room, “Lu? Is that you?”

Lucien swallowed hard against the sudden lump in his throat. “Yeah,” he tried to say, but it came out as a hoarse whisper. He cleared his throat and managed, “Yeah, it’s me,” as Tamlin stepped out of the kitchen and into view.

His long golden hair was tied back at the nape of his neck, and his sleeves were rolled up, revealing the strong swell of his forearms. His curious, wide-eyed expression melted into a tender smile that broke Lucien’s heart. “Hey,” he said fondly, drying his hands with a plaid dish cloth.

Lucien managed a tight smile. “Hey,” he whispered.

“What are you doing home so early? I thought you didn’t get off ‘til five.”

Home. Tamlin said: Home. Lucien’s eyes grew wet, and he sniffed back those unwanted tears and turned away to finish hanging up his coat. “Oh, you know. I wasn’t feeling very well.”

Tamlin stepped closer. “Are you okay? Do you have a fever, or…?”

As he remembered their flirtatious exchange that morning, Lucien wasn’t lying when he replied, “It’s my stomach.”

“Would some chicken soup help?”

Lucien had nearly forgotten about his offer to get takeout. Ordering out, staying in… He shook his head and slowly closed the closet door. “I’m not really hungry,” he said quietly.

“Oh,” Tamlin murmured. He sounded disappointed, which only made Lucien feel worse. “Can I get you anything?” he offered gently.

Lucien pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to think. “It’s fine. I’m fine,” he lied. “It’s nothing a bottle of wine won’t cure,” he added, pasting on a smile. “You want some?”

As he started toward the kitchen, Tamlin blocked his path.

Lucien looked him over in surprise. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Tamlin said cagily, crossing his arms. “I just… I don’t think alcohol is the solution right now. That’s all.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll drink responsibly,” Lucien said wryly, trying to pass him on the other side, but Tamlin blocked him again. “Hey.”

Tamlin looked guilty, but he stayed where he was. “Maybe you should lie down,” he offered quickly. “You know, sleep it off. You don’t want to make it worse with a hangover.” He gestured at Lucien. “Whatever it is.”

Lucien’s eyes narrowed as Eris’s warning came back to haunt him. What if he’s there right now, looking for more information to feed to the press? “Maybe,” he said slowly. “But what about you? I thought you didn’t get off until six. Did you call off sick, too, or…?”

Please say yes. Please say yes. Please say yes—

But Tamlin gave him a guilty wince and shook his head. “Not exactly.”

“So, exactly what, then?” Lucien asked, trying to step past him once more. And once more, Tamlin cut him off.

Lucien stifled a growl of frustration. Had Tamlin been rummaging through the cupboards when he came home and still needed time to hide the evidence? “What, are you hiding a body in there, or something?” he joked, trying to ease the tension.

At least, he hoped he was joking. His boyfriend worked for a private investigator, after all. Maybe he didn’t know Tamlin as well as he thought he did…

Even so, he was somewhat relieved when Tamlin relaxed at his attempt at humor and let out a huff of laughter. “No,” he said, rolling his eyes a little.

Lucien took the opportunity to push past him. “Then let me get a drink for godsakes,” he chided playfully. “Can’t a guy get a drink in his own…”

He trailed off when he saw the state of the kitchen. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the cupboard doors were wide open, but the only thing in them were dishes. Miniature jars of somewhat dusty spices had been pulled from their place in the pantry to sit next to the stove, alongside a shining copper stewpot that he had gotten as a housewarming gift a couple years ago but never used. Half-chopped vegetables, cans of broth, and a rotisserie chicken still steaming in its package rested on the countertop. And right next to the sink, resting in a clean wine glass filled with water, was a freshly cut red rose.

“Sorry for the mess,” Tamlin said ruefully, walking up behind him. “I didn’t know where you kept everything, and I, uh, I couldn’t find a vase.” He cleared his throat, awkwardly, then let out a little laugh. “I wanted to surprise you.”

Lucien turned to him in amazement. “You wanted to surprise me?”

“Well, yeah,” Tamlin said, sounding surprised himself. “You’re my boyfriend.” He let out a shy laugh and dropped his gaze to the dish cloth he was still holding. Dropping it on the counter, he gestured to the kitchen. “I can’t afford to buy you fancy pajamas or anything, but I can cook. A little,” he added with a shrug. “You know, pancakes and stuff. And, uh, chicken soup.”

Lucien’s chest felt like it was in a vise. “You did all this for me?”

Tamlin gave him a soft, yet reproachful smile. “It’s just dinner,” he said. “You’ve done so much for me… I have to try to catch up somehow.”

“I never bought you flowers, though,” Lucien pointed out.

“But you bought me a tree,” Tamlin countered. “A rose is hardly adequate.”

Lucien’s vision turned wet and blurry. “It’s plenty,” he said, feeling guilty.

Even if he didn’t already know that Tamlin could ill afford such luxuries, he certainly didn’t deserve any gifts. Not when he had assumed the worst when he didn’t even know the whole story yet. Not that he had the heart to ask.

“I wanted to,” Tamlin said, and he sounded so sincere it nearly broke Lucien’s heart all over again. “I would have gotten you a dozen roses, but, uh, they’re kind of expensive,” he admitted bashfully. “Jurian thought a bouquet of red and white carnations would be just as romantic, but I guess Vassa will have to be the judge on that one.”

Lucien managed a weak smile. “She’ll love them,” he whispered tearily, and his breath hitched before his emotions gave way entirely.

Tamlin looked truly concerned now. “Hey… What’s the matter?”

Lucien shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, then stepped forward and wrapped his arms around his boyfriend and buried his face in his neck. “I just don’t deserve you. That’s all.”

Tamlin chuckled as he returned Lucien’s tight embrace. “Well, that’s not true,” he said, half-patting, half-rubbing Lucien’s back. It felt more like a hug from a former roommate than from a boyfriend, but it felt nice just the same. Tamlin continued, “I think you’re amazing, and—” He pulled away to repeat the secret phrase Lucien had so carefully taught him. “I love you,” he said in Scythian.

Lucien stared at him with tears still running down his cheeks, and his nose threatening to flow like a spigot. Had Tamlin really meant to say ‘You’re amazing’ twice, or…? Then Lucien understood. “Ah,” was all he could manage to say in reply.

Tamlin gave him a shy, but knowing smile, then reached into his jeans pocket. He pulled out a small Scythian language guide, and Lucien cringed in embarrassment. So much for that little secret. “It was one of the first things I looked up,” Tamlin admitted, riffling through the pages. “I almost said it to a client today, to show off my new language skills…”

A client. That partial admission reminded Lucien about why he had gotten so upset in the first place, but Tamlin didn’t need to know he knew about that. Not yet. Perhaps ever. “I’m glad you didn’t,” he said with a small laugh, and wiped at his wet cheeks.

“Me, too,” Tamlin agreed, then set aside the language guide to pick up the dishcloth again. “Here,” he said, and began dabbing at Lucien’s drying tears.

Lucien swatted him away with a snorting laugh that made them both smile. “You couldn’t have gotten a fresh one?” he joked, and swiped away the rest of his tears before Tamlin could.

Tamlin’s only response was to crumple the damp towel in his hands, and he suddenly looked so distraught that Lucien worried that he had said something wrong. Or perhaps he just hadn’t said the right thing. Like saying ‘I love you, too’ when he should have. Before his mouth could form the words, though, Tamlin wet his lips and cleared his throat.

“I-I’m still new at this,” Tamlin stammered softly.

“Well, now that we’ve both cried in each other’s arms, I think the worst is over with,” Lucien tried to joke.

Tamlin’s throat bobbed as he set the towel aside once more. “It’s not that… I meant this,” he said, then bent his head and kissed him.

Lucien’s surprise fell away as he closed his eyes and leaned into the kiss. It didn’t last nearly long enough for his liking, but it was warm, and tender, and sincere. And best of all, Tamlin had been the one to initiate it. That alone was enough to lift him out of his bad mood. Although he would have liked to linger, he couldn’t help but smile when his boyfriend pulled away.

Tamlin, for his part, was blushing like mad, the color nearly resembling the rose in the wine glass. As he nervously toyed with his rolled shirt cuffs, he said, “Like I said, I’m new at this. I just—I just wanted you to be okay.”

“If I say I’m not okay, will you kiss me like that again?”

Tamlin chuckled, and gave him a shy grin. “Whatever it takes to make you all better,” he teased.

Lucien returned his grin. “Then I guess we’d better get started,” he said, then pulled him into another, much longer, kiss.

* * *

The vegetables were simmering merrily in a golden broth on the stove as Tamlin chopped the herbed rotisserie chicken into smaller, bite-sized chunks. It had been a while since he cooked—Jurian preferred to get takeout most of the time, since their kitchen was so pathetically small—but the weight of the knife in his hand and the slow steady rhythm of chopping against the cutting board brought it all back.

“You know, you’d look really hot in an apron,” Lucien observed, leaning against the counter beside him, watching him cook.

Tamlin stifled a snort as he used the knife to neatly slide the chopped chicken into the pot. “Somebody’s tipsy,” he remarked, nodding to the glass of white wine in Lucien’s hand.

Lucien feigned indignance. “I��m not tipsy,” he declared, soberly setting his wine glass next to Tamlin’s. “I’m telling the truth. You would look hot in an apron.” He slid his fingers around Tamlin’s waistband, as if tracing the lines of those imaginary apron strings. That casual caress made his lower belly tighten, but Lucien didn’t seem to notice as he looked him over. “With your hair pulled back like that, and your sleeves pushed up… Damn. I can’t believe I never bought one.”

“I guess you don’t do much cooking,” Tamlin said breathlessly, trying to keep his mind off of Lucien’s hand resting on his lower back. Even so, half of the spices in the pantry hadn’t been opened, let alone used.

“Not hardly,” Lucien snorted, and removed his hand. “My mom bakes because she enjoys it, but she doesn’t cook. None of us do. We never had to.”

Tamlin nodded thoughtfully. His parents hadn’t been poor, by any means, but eating out was the exception, not the other way around. He had grown up with his mom’s cooking, and even helped her out from time to time. He was just grateful that he still remembered how after all these years. He’d needed that skill when the rent went up or he and Jurian were between clients. He was pretty good at pancakes, but it was always a treat when they could make it to Annie’s for latkes.

“Kitchens are for making drinks, as far as I’m concerned,” Lucien went on, reaching for his glass. “Like coffee. Cider. Wine,” he said, saluting Tamlin with his own before taking a sip.

Tamlin smiled. “Cooking’s not hard, once you know how,” he said. “I could teach you, if you like.”

Lucien licked his lips thoughtfully. “There’s an idea,” he said, smiling slowly. “I could get His and His matching aprons. Or, if I’m as terrible as I think I am, I can get one for you that says Kiss the Cook.”

Tamlin’s lips twitched as he remembered what they had done in the kitchen earlier. “Well, you already did that,” he said, blushing. “Kissed me, I mean.”

Lucien looked rather pleased with himself as he grinned back. “I could always use another reminder,” he teased, then kissed Tamlin’s shoulder, steering clear of the hot stove.

Tamlin’s breath caught. He wondered if he’d ever get used to such casual, tender expressions of affection. He was tempted to steal another kiss—a proper one—but his hands were currently covered in chicken fat. “Would you, uh, take over for a second?” he asked, clearing his throat. “I’m kind of a mess right now.”

“Yeah, sure,” Lucien said, setting down his drink while Tamlin took the knife and cutting board to the sink. As he washed up, Lucien asked him, “What do you want me to do?”

“Just stir it so nothing sticks on the bottom.”

“Oh-kay. Sounds easy enough.”

“You can add some seasoning while you’re at it, if you like,” Tamlin remarked, drying his hands, but Lucien seemed reluctant, given his two-fingered grip on the end of the spoon.

“I don’t want to ruin it,” Lucien said cautiously, stirring gingerly.

“You won’t,” Tamlin assured him, but he didn’t look convinced. “Here,” he suggested, reaching for the spoon. “Let me show you.”

Rather than taking the spoon away, though, he stood behind Lucien and adjusted his grip so that he could guide Lucien’s hand in stronger, more powerful strokes so that nothing scorched on the bottom.

“See? You grip the pot handle like this… that way it doesn’t move around, and then stir around the edges and the sides… like this.”

Lucien blew out his cheeks. “God, that’s hot,” he said under his breath.

“Too hot?” Tamlin asked cautiously, releasing his hold on Lucien’s hand to turn down the flame.

But Lucien only laughed. “No,” he groaned, then repeated the stronger stirring motion that Tamlin had just demonstrated. “That was hot. This was hot. You’re hot,” he added, gesturing at everything with his free hand. Although he was smiling, his face was as red as Tamlin’s felt.

“Um… Should I open a window?” Tamlin asked meekly.

Lucien laughed again, but not meanly. “You know what I mean. Come here,” he said, abandoning his stirring to take Tamlin’s face in both hands. He kissed him firmly on the mouth, then more gently as he let his lips travel over Tamlin’s top lip, then his bottom one. Lucien was slightly shorter than him, so the angle was just right… Tamlin let his hands come to rest around Lucien’s waist, and pulled him closer to kiss him back.

When they parted to catch their breaths, it was with some reluctance.

Lucien licked his lips as he slid his hands down Tamlin’s neck with a sigh, and patted his chest. “I think you’re hot, and handsome, and thoughtful,” Lucien murmured. “And I’m not just saying that because you’re my boyfriend.”

Tamlin swallowed hard. He was profoundly aware of his own heartbeat. “I kind of thought you were just kidding around when you said things like that,” he rasped.

Lucien looked surprised, and almost offended. “I don’t kid about things like that,” he declared, and Tamlin had to believe he meant it, so he nodded.

“You’re right,” he said quietly. “Forget I said anything.”

He didn’t want to remember how complimentary Amarantha had been right before she assaulted him that night, and he didn’t want to make that Lucien’s problem. Again. Instead, Tamlin distracted them both by fitting the lid on the simmering pot. “Well, the soup should be done in about ten minutes,” he said with false brightness, and rubbed his palms together. “I hope you’re hungry.”

Lucien grimaced. “Yeah… About that…”

“Oh… You’re not?”

“No, I am,” Lucien insisted, then rubbed his forehead and winced.

“Headache?”

“No. It’s just…” Lucien held up a finger. “Can I ask you something?”

Tamlin tried not to sound so guarded when he said, “Sure.”

Lucien took a deep breath. “Do you know what an external audit is?”

Tamlin blinked, surprised. “Yeah… It’s every company’s worst nightmare. Just ask Jurian. He’ll talk your head off about it if you let him.”

“What about you?”

Tamlin leaned against the counter and shrugged. “It’s not really my thing. I’m just his assistant, and occasional co-pilot.”

Lucien gave him a grim smile. “Well, uh, the Autumn Corporation is about to experience a big one. You know why?”

Tamlin shrugged again. “I mean, I could guess…”

Lucien didn’t ask him to guess, but simply quirked his mouth to one side, as if he had to consider his answer carefully. “So… it seems that someone leaked some of the company’s private memos to the press,” he said at last, “and now we’re about to be investigated for fraud.”

Tamlin stared at him, stunned. “Shit,” he breathed. “No wonder you felt sick.”

“Yeah.” Lucien snorted and reached for his drink. “No kidding,” he muttered, then tipped his head back for a swallow.

Tamlin slowly rubbed at his arms as he watched Lucien glumly swirl what was left of his wine. “You’re not involved in any of that stuff, are you?” he asked, feeling uneasy.

“No,” Lucien retorted, sounding indignant. “Of course not. I may not like my job, but I never thought I was cheating anyone.”

Tamlin nodded meekly. He certainly didn’t think Lucien was capable of hurting anyone, but the Autumn Corporation wasn’t exactly known for its strong family values. “Are you going to be okay?” he asked gently.

“I will be,” Lucien said, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s just… You know what? It’s not even about the audit. I let my dad get to me today.” He sighed and shook the hair from his eyes. “He called me out for not knowing who was responsible for his mess, in front of everyone. Just because I never became the world-famous journalist I said I’d be…” He sighed again, then muttered, “Asshole.”

“That’s exactly what he is,” Tamlin declared, which earned him a small smile in return.

“Thanks, Tam,” Lucien murmured, but there was no cheer in his voice.

Seized with a sudden idea, Tamlin reached for his own wine glass. “Here’s to having shitty fathers with even shittier opinions,” he declared, toasting him.

He was delighted to see an amused smirk overtake Lucien’s features. “And here’s to their youngest sons, for putting up with them,” Lucien added, raising his own glass.

“But hopefully not for much longer, in your case,” Tamlin offered in a playfully conspiratorial way.

Lucien chuckled. “I’ll drink to that,” he said, and clinked his glass against Tamlin’s. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Tamlin agreed, and they both drank.

“You know,” Lucien mused when they had both emptied their glasses, “I’m kind of glad I never became a journalist.”

“Really?” Tamlin asked, wiping a stray drop of wine from the corner of his mouth. “Why?”

Lucien shrugged and set his glass aside. “If I had, and you still left school… Well…” He smiled to himself before meeting Tamlin’s gaze. “We might never have found each other again, that’s all.”

“Don’t say that,” Tamlin said, trying to keep his voice light, but deep down he was afraid Lucien might be right, and he couldn’t bear the thought. “You would have made an amazing journalist.”

“Yeah, well…” Lucien trailed off as his gaze grew distant. “It’s not like I can’t take pictures anymore. I mean, I still have my camera, just like you still have your violin, right?”

“Soup’s done,” Tamlin said quickly, and turned away to turn off the stove, but not before seeing a worried frown crease Lucien’s brow.

“You still have your violin, right?”

“Yeah, sure,” Tamlin lied, giving the soup a vigorous stir. “I know exactly where it is.” At least that part was true.

“Tam…” Lucien touched his arm and made him look at him. “You didn’t give it away, did you?”

Tamlin’s jaw tightened. He still didn’t like to think about it, but he couldn’t lie to Lucien’s face. Not about this. “I really needed the money,” he said quietly.

“Oh, no,” Lucien groaned. “Tam, what did you do?”

He sighed. “I pawned it.”

“Do you remember where?”

Lucien’s question surprised him. “Of course I remember where,” Tamlin said defensively. “It’s at Stryga’s Pawnshop Boutique, right next to The Weaver’s Cottage, in the middle of downtown.”

“What time do they close?” Lucien asked, looking at his watch.

“Six o’clock, but—”

Lucien smacked Tamlin’s arm before brushing past him. “Come on. Grab your coat.”

“But I—what about dinner?” Tamlin asked feebly.

Lucien paused at the edge of the kitchen. “You want your violin back, don’t you?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“But what?”

Tamlin struggled for an answer. He knew the soup would keep warm, and he did have the pawnshop’s claim ticket safely tucked away inside his wallet… “You’ve already given me so much, I… I can’t ask you to—”

“Consider it an early Christmas present,” Lucien insisted, and took a coaxing step towards the coat closet. “Come on.”

Tamlin sighed. “You’ve already given me way too many—” he tried to argue, but Lucien cut him off.

“Then Happy Hanukkah,” Lucien said wryly. “Eight days of presents and all that. Now, come on. We’ve got to make it through rush hour traffic if we’re going to get there in time.”

Tamlin knew it was pointless to argue, and he really did want his violin back, so he let out a resigned sigh and let himself be persuaded to grab his coat and follow Lucien out the front door.

An hour and a half later, they were sitting in the thick of rush hour traffic in Lucien’s small convertible, but it was with Tamlin’s worn violin case resting on his lap.

Tamlin smiled softly as he ran his fingers over the small, familiar silver clasps. “You never have to give me another gift for as long as I live,” he murmured.

Beside him, Lucien huffed a laugh. “Fat chance of that,” he said wryly. “You probably need fresh rosin, and new strings, am I right?”

“How’d you know?”

Lucien slid his sunglasses down his nose to give Tamlin a knowing look. “We were roommates for two years, remember? I can still smell the rosin in my dreams.”

“Right,” Tamlin murmured, secretly pleased that Lucien had remembered. “I’ll pay you back.”

“No, you won’t,” Lucien quipped, removing his sunglasses to watch the twilit road, not that they were going anywhere fast. “I still owe you seven more gifts for Hanukkah.”

It was Tamlin’s turn to snort. “We’re not Jewish, Lu.”

“So?”

Tamlin didn’t have an answer to that, so instead he flicked open the clasps and lifted the lid. In the dim glow of passing streetlights, the polished mahogany gleamed and greeted him like an old friend. Tamlin’s fingers slid down the strings, and he could almost hear the whisper of a song waiting to be played, at long last.

“How does it look?” Lucien asked beside him.

Tamlin tried to keep control of his emotions, but it was difficult. “It’s perfect,” he whispered.

When he gently lifted the neck of the violin to examine it, he noticed the curled corner of an old photograph—well, photographs—that were tucked underneath the instrument. Holding them up to the light, he let out an amazed laugh. “I forgot I had these.”

“What are they?”

Tamlin held out the first photograph so that Lucien could see it better. It featured a young blonde woman dressed in an elegant evening gown, playing the cello. “It’s my mom.”

Once they were safely idling at a stoplight, Lucien took it from him. “Wow. She’s really pretty,” he remarked.

“Yeah,” Tamlin murmured, gazing down at the second photo in his hands. “She was.”

This photo was of his mother hugging him after one of his concerts. He had been in high school then, wearing the mandatory ill-fitting suit and tie for his performance. His mom wore a pretty floral sundress and matching scarf to hide the hair she had lost from her cancer treatments. She had always been delicate, but by this time she had become frail. Even so, nothing and nobody could wipe the proud smile off her face.

It was the last photo they took together before she died.

“Hey, Tam?” Lucien’s voice startled him from his reverie.

“Yeah?” he asked hoarsely, then cleared his throat. “What is it?”

As the light turned green, Lucien handed the first photo back to ease into the flow of traffic. His voice was tentative, bordering on nonchalant, when he asked, “You don’t have to tell me, but…”

“What?”

“What was your mom’s favorite song? The one you played at her funeral, that your dad didn’t like.”

“Oh, um…” Tamlin dismissed the image of his dad’s scowl amidst the memory of the other funeral-goers’ teary smiles while he played beside his mother’s casket. “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” he recalled. “She loved Judy Garland.”

Lucien caught his eye and smiled warmly at him. “She sounds amazing. I wish I could have met her.”

Tamlin dropped his gaze to the photos in his hands. He ran his thumb over the curled corners, and remembered that he used to rub them for good luck before every performance. It always helped. It helped now. He nodded slowly and returned the photos to their safe place beneath his violin, then closed the lid. “Yeah, me too.”

They drove in silence for a few blocks before Lucien cleared his throat and spoke again.

“Do you… do you think she would have liked me?” he asked shyly.

Tamlin couldn’t help his grin, and he chuckled. “I know she would have,” he said honestly. “My dad and brothers, on the other hand…”

Lucien waved dismissively. “Eh, what do they know,” he said scornfully. “I already know they have no taste. I mean, who doesn’t love a classic like Over the Rainbow, you know?”

Tamlin had to agree, and observed Lucien thoughtfully as they drove. He knew Lucien only meant that the song was a classic, but he was a class-act all his own. He was charming, and funny, and—even though Tamlin had never let himself think it before tonight—he was pretty hot, too.

The traffic had eased up by this point, and there were few cars on the road leading back to Lucien’s apartment. Soon they’d be back home, with the best gift Tamlin could have ever wished for.

“I love you,” Tamlin said softly in Scythian, and smiled shyly when Lucien met his eye. “You know, the Scythian way.”

Lucien’s answering smile seemed to shine in the twilight. “Yeah… Me, too,” he said. “The Scythian way,” he added, teasing him gently.

Tamlin blushed, realizing that it was Scythian no matter how he said it, and he was glad it was getting dark. Not trusting himself to say more, he wordlessly held out his hand and hoped Lucien would understand.

If Lucien was surprised, he didn’t say so. He didn’t say anything, or ask why, but took Tamlin’s outstretched hand and gave it a fond squeeze before bringing it to his lips. Tamlin didn’t need gloves, not with Lucien around. They held hands for the rest of the drive home, where a good dinner was ready and waiting for them.