#//Because in the midst of a crowd; it always feels so lonely without him by his side as always

[dutybcrne]

Though the days blurred for him in Snezhnaya, Diluc could always tell when the day his birthday would come. It felt like a curse, the horrid feelings he’d so associated with that day never once failing to take hold of him, like a beast intent to tear out his throat. On day in particular, he would have honestly preferred that instead.

Even after coming back to Mondstadt, the day is something he loathes greatly. But Adelinde and Elzer, and Tunner and the rest of the staff do make it easier on him. There is always something special implicit in the way they go about their day, but never enough to dredge up the worst of the feelings. Just enough for it to seem like an appreciation of his effort and care for them. He’s truly thankful for it.

[jinwoosungs]

{ 120 }

cherry blossom fever.

makoto yuki x fem.reader

when makoto yuki first transferred into your homeroom class as the new exchange student, something about him captivated you.

with unkempt sapphire locks of hair and a distant gaze, he looked like the type to be unbothered whenever tragedy struck, putting on a façade of indifference just to hide how he truly felt.

he was quiet; you knew that from the start, and a lot of times, your classmates would simply acknowledge him in passing before going on with their day. the only time he interacted with the class was while he answered the teacher's questions.

but perhaps the main reason why makoto has captivated you was when you first saw his smile.

before class began, junpei had said something stupid, earning a scowl from yukari as she flicked at his nose, bickering back and forth with the teen. in the midst of it all, you could see makoto holding back a smile, his sky blue eyes shining with mirth.

that's when you felt a strange, fuzzy feeling coursing through you. an unfamiliar warmth was settled against your cheek, and you were suddenly hit with the urge to somehow make him smile like that for you. that this strange boy who hid behind quiet smiles was... special.

but being the introvert that you were, it was difficult to talk to him. each time you would gather the courage to introduce yourself to him, he would be swept away by junpei, or be intercepted by kirijo for some important meeting.

on and on, this would continue for days on end until you just gave up. you figured you could simply admire him from afar, and you did your best to convince yourself that he probably didn't need your budding feelings to get in the way of his school life here at gekkoukan.

spring was still at its peak, the cherry blossoms in full bloom as your class let out for its lunch period. it was so utterly gorgeous outside that you wanted to get out of the classroom and enjoy your lunch outside. a lot of your classmates shared the same sentiment, crowding the campus as their conversations and laughter were heard echoing throughout the area.

holding your bento close to your chest, you shied away from the crowd and made your way towards your own personal sanctuary. just a few feet away was a lone cherry blossom tree that sat atop a hill. the only reason why this area remained so isolated was due to how it had a bit of a steep climb to get to the top, hence why you always enjoyed this personal sanctuary of yours.

ignoring how your legs seemed to scream with protest as you made it up the hill, you continue to clutch your bento box against your chest, not stopping until you were directly beneath the cherry blossoms-

only to have your breath taken away at the sight of someone already laying beneath it.

as the sakura petals swayed with the warm, spring wind, you watch as those gentle petals landed against makoto's chest. his headphones were seen covering his ears as he lay sleeping whilst listening to his music.

so you stood awkwardly to the side, still feeling winded, but this time it wasn't because of the steep climb. your heart was pounding because makoto yuki, the boy you may or may not have a crush on, was here.

with a shake of your head, you convince yourself to calm down, that he couldn't hear you and that you should enjoy your lunch anyways. so what if this achingly soft and beautiful boy was sleeping right next to you?

just relax and enjoy your lunch.

you sit next to him, smoothing out your skirt as you opened the contents of your box. you ate your food without tasting anything, always watching makoto from your periphery to see if he would awaken.

a few minutes pass when the boy suddenly faces you, face scrunched up as his body seems to curl up in response to the wind. without a hint of hesitation, you place your lunch to the side and shrug off your jacket before carefully placing it on top of makoto.

you watch as he curls into your jacket, relishing in its warmth for a mere second before his eyes begin to open, revealing its azure gaze to you.

by now, your heart was pounding, seeing makoto looking at you with a tilt of his head. he says nothing, going back to a sitting position. he takes off his headphones and looks down at your jacket that covered him all while saying your name, "is this... yours?"

his voice was soft, but had a raspy quality to it, making his sleepy state obvious as you gave him a swift nod while fighting back the heat that threatened to invade the skin of your cheeks. "y-yes, it's mine, uhm, ah, sorry, for disturbing you, b-but you just looked cold...!"

makoto gives you one of his tiny smiles, taking off your jacket before placing it over your shoulders. "thanks, and sorry if i interrupted your lunch. i'll go now."

"w-wait...!" you call out to him, stopping him from leaving as you held out your bento box to him.

"uhm, i'm starting to get full, so, i was hoping you could share this with me?"

makoto's expression was one full of surprise, but it quickly morphs into his gentle smile once more. "are you sure you're okay with this?"

"absolutely!" you flash him a genuine smile, feeling relieved and happy that you got this chance to talk to him. makoto ends up rejoining you, taking one of the rice balls from your bento before biting into it.

you watch as his eyes widen, devouring the food within a few bites while commenting on how good it tasted. with your heart fluttering with happiness, you offer him the rest of your food, falling into easy conversation with him.

"did you make this?"

"yes, i did but, it's nothing too fancy."

"i like it." makoto admits to you, "it tastes like home."

there was a hidden sadness seen within his eyes, with the cherry blossom petals swaying around you. its sweet scent fills your heart with the desire to comfort makoto, to somehow unlock all the mysteries he had to offer and take all the pain he seemed to keep hidden deep within his soul.

you call out to him, and he meets your gaze, the sadness quickly dissipating when he leans closer to you. his lips were a mere centimeters from yours, and you felt as though your heart was about to burst when you clenched your eyes shut. his breath was felt against your skin, his lips barely gracing the shell of your ear when you felt a gentle sensation against your hair.

you open your eyes just then, seeing makoto holding a cherry blossom petal within his thumb and pointer finger. all you could see was his achingly beautiful features smiling at you, and the way those true blue eyes continued to shine with amusement.

"sorry, this was in your hair."

not saying a word, you felt your eyes narrowing as you inched ever so closer to him, with makoto not moving away when your lips tentatively touched with his in a sweet kiss.

with the cherry blossoms as your only witness, you allowed your crush on this strangely beautiful boy to morph into something much more.

a.n. - in celebration of persona 3 reload's release, have this sweet drabble, because makoto yuki deserves some happiness in his life. 🥹

all stories are written by rei; reposts, translations, and plagiarism are not allowed.

[quaranmine]

45?

If you ever want to see my face again I want to know If you ever get lonely please let me know If you never want to see my face again I'll understand If forever gets lonely take my hand

•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•

Death feels a lot like being snatched from the middle of a crowded room and dropped into the middle of the void. You don't realize how much noise there is to life until it's ripped away. You don't realize how familiar the beat of your racing heart is until it's still.

Jimmy wakes up, as he always does, in an expanse of blackness stretching out in every direction. It's silent, like it always is. Jimmy doesn't like the silence. It unnerves him.

He's not sure if he's the only one who experiences this or not. He's always first to die. He doesn't know why he doesn't just respawn on his home server. Or why he respawns at all, after this.

And this time it wasn't enough for him to just die, because of course he had to kill Tango along with him.

It's like he's a drowning man, fated to die, and all he's done is dragged Tango down in the depths to both of their demises. Tango tried hard, but Jimmy is unsaveable.

The full force of what he's done suddenly hits Jimmy like a freight train, and he doubles over, face in his hands, and sobs. There's no tears, just like there's no heartbeat in his chest. He died to an enderman. An enderman. He's always known he was the worst person to have a soulmate--how many people reacted in horror at the thought of him perhaps being tied to them?--but this just confirms it.

He finishes crying after he's exhausted himself. There's no life left in him anymore.

He uncurls from himself. He's not really standing on anything, just floating. He should look for Tango, just to make sure he's alright. They died at the same time, so maybe he's around here somewhere too.

He might never want to see Jimmy again after this, but the least he can do is look around. Because even after killing his own soulmate, Jimmy just can't imagine staying away. It'd be for his own good if he did. But Jimmy is selfish, and he can't say that it'd be for his own good if he stayed away.

So he looks for Tango. There's nothing to see in this endless void, so he listens. Listens until he hears a disappointed mutter in the distance. He grabs hold of it like a lifeline, and reels himself in.

Tango, it seems, isn't in the midst of an endless black void. Maybe that's just Jimmy's personal limbo.

Tango is back at the ranch. He keeps watch over it still.

Jimmy settles his precense in next to him. They're both there in a not-so-there sort of way. Jimmy won't be able to reach out and touch him. He doesn't even really see him, but he can hear him, feel his presence.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

Jimmy feels that Tango is startled. "You're still here?" he asks. "It's over. Go home. Go."

"Not without you," Jimmy says. "But...only if you'll have me. I messed up. I made a mistake. I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"It's not."

"Being dead sucks."

"It does," Jimmy agrees. "Been dead a few times myself, you know." And he knows it's too soon to ask, but his heart is clenching and needs to know, so he does anyway: "Would you forgive me?"

"Sit here for a while," Tango says, instead of answering. "Sit here with me. We don't have to go anywhere yet."

Jimmy supposes that's good enough for him.

[themuseandantarctica]

* 𝒈𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒆

sentence starters based on jill mccorkle’s short story collection crash diet, from the story “gold mine”.  most of them have been changed to make them more ‘sentence starter friendly,’ namely in changing them from third-person past tense to first-person present tense.  change however necessary.

tw: marital problems, implied cheating

❝ i feel his stare often and try to read his eyes ; sometimes there is a look of pity and sometimes there is a look of anger. ❞

❝ he knows more than he should , thanks to [name]. ❞

❝ for godssakes , isn’t it bad enough without you two living in a tent ? ❞

❝ it’s a gold mine. ❞

❝ big crowd to see [name] , i reckon. ❞

❝ [name] has been gone for the longest three weeks of my life. ❞

❝ it is like he robbed my energy supply and crammed it into the suitcase with all of his underwear. ❞

❝ why should i blame her for asking all of the same questions i’m asking myself ? ❞

❝ how can you be laughing one day and crying the next ? ❞

❝ how have the years taken such a sudden turn ? ❞

❝ and in the midst of all this futile optimism , i had been completely blind to what was happening. ❞

❝ i wish that they would ask me some questions. ❞

❝ will he come back ? ❞

❝ is it your fault that he left ? ❞

❝ they will get a divorce. ❞

❝ we will never see him again. ❞

❝ he doesn’t love us anymore. ❞

❝ he wanted to sell the motel and go to school years ago but she talked him into staying. ❞

❝ i keep thinking i need some advice , an opinion , but am afraid to seek it because everyone in town will hear the news as fast as i open my mouth and there will be desperately lonely people knocking on my door. ❞

❝ what are the signs of a husband about to leave ? ❞

❝ did you see , [name] ? ❞

❝ you can’t start this , [name].  we are not running a rest home. ❞

❝ we’re not running anything right now.  we haven’t rented a room in over three weeks. ❞

❝ still , it is steady rent and i don’t see what would be so terrible about having a few senior citizens around the place. ❞

❝ what’s in florida anyway ? ❞

❝ you’re not listening.  you’re not even trying to see. ❞

❝ there’s a catch.  eight feet tall and a hundred and twenty pounds. ❞

❝ oh , well.  and i suppose you’ve got some real looker after you. ❞

❝ i was thinking about how i’d like to march out on the dance floor and grab [name] by the throat. ❞

❝ now i think he pulled me close so i couldn’t see his eyes , couldn’t see the dishonesty. ❞

❝ ‘ we’ll show them , ’ we had said too many times to count ; that’s the kind of promise i miss and need. ❞

❝ [name] !  [name] , is that you ? ❞

❝ it’s not what you think.  i have no idea how this happened. ❞

❝ my mother would have known with one glance that something had happened , and i was not up to facing her. ❞

❝ [name] had a perfect young lineless body , and she was brilliant and funny and talented in every way. ❞

❝ [name] left the very next day. ❞

❝ what is going on ?  [name] barely even spoke to me this morning.  didn’t even eat his waffles and i thought he loved them. ❞

❝ i never meant for anything to happen.  it all started with one little cup of coffee. ❞

❝ but didn’t you know that something had been wrong ?  couldn’t you tell that things weren’t working ? ❞

❝ don’t you see , [name] , that it was more ? ❞

❝ i had always thought things were getting better. ❞

❝ now i can only suspect that there are people feeling sorry for me ; there are people who see me as a loser and , thus , an easy catch. ❞

❝ maybe he’s come home.  maybe this is it. ❞

❝ can we have another ten minutes ?  just ten ? ❞

❝ have you come home ? ❞

❝ i thought you’d be up in the house. ❞

❝ [name] ?  are you okay ? ❞

❝ this is that old feeling , that lean-against-the-locker-and-whisper-secrets-about-the-rest-of-your-lives feeling , that surge of friendliness and excitement that comes with the uncertain future , the uncrossed threshold. ❞

❝ so , did you give [name] a contract ? ❞

❝ i told her no loud music , no pets , and no men after midnight. ❞

❝ kind of strict. ❞

❝ i came to get some things. ❞

❝ had you hoped that you’d find me in the house ?  to have me alone , out of [name]’s vision ? ❞

❝ guess you can’t always be too sure about what’s usually going on. ❞

❝ i need to go up to the house for a while.  go with me. ❞

❝ don’t you have a date tonight ? ❞

❝ you really should work on your style. ❞

❝ a bird in the hand doesn’t necessarily apply to people.  chances are you may find an empty nest. ❞

❝ so maybe i will.  work on my style , i mean. ❞

❝ i am thinking that it’s too easy , that i need to make things harder. ❞

❝ but hadn’t i also pulled him , hadn’t we pulled each other into a life that took shape so fast we hardly had time to think about it ? ❞

❝ i would have at least considered it , some smooth-talking white collar man to buy me something extravagant every april. ❞

❝ god , what was i thinking ? ❞

❝ there will come a day when it will seem like it never happened. ❞

[ninzied]

fire lines

based on a prompt for distracting work kisses.

for @myletternevercame. special thanks to @heidiamalia for the brainstorming session!

rated m.

Frank usually works through his lunch breaks.

He used to take them as far away from—well, everything—as he could, finding himself a lone edge on the roof or some corner of a vacant floor to eat his meal in relative quiet. But ever since Curt roped him into this management job, everything’s always coming to him whether he likes it or not.

And he doesn’t not like it, as it turns out.

It’s a small construction company, a kind of in-between place for hard-up vets to get work, either settling there or to steady their feet for something else that’s more suited to them. The work feels meaningful in that way. Karen had recently coerced a beat reporter from the Bulletin’s local business section into writing up a piece on them, and the glowing review brought in more and more jobs for his guys. Frank has found it surprisingly gratifying, minus all the paperwork.

So much goddamn paperwork.

He’d never pegged himself for an office space kind of guy. He prefers to be out there, in the midst of things with the others—so he spends most of his days doing just that, saving all that bureaucratic bullshit for his lunch breaks in his office trailer.

He’s heading there now, after a rougher-than-usual morning spent on some stubborn electrical wiring. He thinks of all the other kinds of work waiting for him in his trailer and groans, half-wishing he’d packed a beer with his sandwich today.

He shields his gaze from the midday sun, and then he turns, and he sees her.

She’s in her kitten heels, a pencil skirt and cream-colored blouse. It’s so unusual to see her at his place of work—their schedules hardly ever seem to align these days, and he spends a lot of them just fucking missing her. For a second he thinks he could almost have imagined her there, waving goodbye to one of his workers, and smiling.

Frank allows himself another moment to give her a once-over from afar, his gaze moving up her body and lingering. Her blonde hair is pale in the sunlight, flashing golden when a breeze sifts through the strands. And then he lets out a laugh, because there, perched on the top of her head, is a bright yellow hard hat.

The name PETE comes into focus as he quickens his step, sharpied onto the back of the hat in his own familiar scrawl. Karen turns to give him a fondly exasperated look as he comes up to her, sliding a hand over the small of her back in greeting.

“Shouldn’t you be the one wearing this?” she asks him.

“Looks better on you,” he says, kissing her cheek as she rolls her eyes good-naturedly at him. He takes her hand, tugging her up the steps to his trailer. “Everything okay? You never take lunch.”

“Neither do you,” she counters, and he has to concede her point. “And everything’s fine. I just thought we could eat together for a change.”

Her work bag is already tucked up against some filing cabinets—Christ, when did he become the guy who owned filing cabinets?—and there, spread over his desk, is lunch. A small charcuterie plate, two cups of coffee, and the sandwich that she knows he likes from Nelson’s, with the thick, crispy bread and extra sauces on the side.

“Shit, Karen.” He laughs, dragging her in for a proper kiss this time. “This looks incredible. Thank you.”

The meal he’d slapped together from grocery store cold cuts that morning pales in comparison. He tells her as much, opens the mini fridge behind his desk to show her, and finds a six-pack of beer stowed inside by his food.

“For later,” says Karen.

He squeezes her hand. “You’re a godsend, you know that?”

The pile of papers on his desk isn’t getting any smaller—in fact, he’s almost certain it’s grown since he last saw it this morning—but he figures it will have to wait. He’s starving, and she’s looking so irresistible to him, with her smile, and his hard hat knocked slightly askew on her head.

He kisses her again, pulling out an extra seat for her before walking over to the other side of his desk.

And then Karen picks up her work bag and pulls out her laptop.

“Is this okay?” she asks, seeing him blink in surprise at her. “I know you’re behind on your work—”

He scrubs a hand over his nape, feeling sheepish that she’s caught him out. “That obvious, huh.”

“I have a deadline anyway,” she tells him, with a rueful smile of her own. “But it would be nice to at least be in the same room as you.”

Fuck, if he wasn’t so damn in love with her already.

“C’mere,” he says gruffly, and leans over his desk, their mouths meeting somewhere in the middle. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“I’m not worried about it,” she says, nudging him gently away and powering on her laptop.

They settle into an easy rhythm, a silence that’s so comfortable he almost forgets they’re in his office and not at their dining table back home. He practically inhales his sandwich before chugging down his cup of coffee, and then he starts snacking on the charcuterie plate as he flips through a stack of ledgers and bank statements.

Karen’s typing away on her computer, brow furrowed together under his hard hat. She’s slipped off her shoes, resting her feet on the edge of his chair. They’re a little chilly, so he pulls them into his lap to warm them, massaging her calf as he works. She makes a small, satisfied sound, shifting forward in her seat. Otherwise, the only indication that she’s even aware of him being there is to reach across his desk and brush a few crumbs from his beard before returning to her keyboard.

At some point, though, she stops typing.

Frank doesn’t notice right away—she’s still staring intently at her screen, and he’s just managed to untangle some confusing orders for extra plywood. But he does notice when she presses her toes to the inner part of his thigh and starts rubbing small circles into the denim.

He glances up at her.

She’s still clicking around on her screen, a piece of fruit in her other hand. She hasn’t lost that look of intense concentration she always gets when she’s researching a piece, but then her foot ventures closer, and there’s nothing unintentional about that, either.

He scratches some updates into a ledger, and almost drops his pen when Karen sneaks her foot the rest of the way between his thighs. His blood rushes south, pooling heat straight through to his dick, and this was—fuck, if this wasn’t what she’d been planning all along.

“Karen,” he cautions her lowly. His voice sounds hoarse, even to him, thick and rough with desire that he hadn’t meant to give voice to.

She finally looks up at him then. Without breaking contact, she parts her lips around a strawberry, biting slowly down.

“Something wrong?” she asks him.

He moves his hand up her calf, cupping under her knee. His chair wheels slightly forward with the motion, bringing her foot that much closer to him. She curls her toes around his hardening dick, and he swallows.

“Thought you had work to do,” he says.

She smiles. “Just multitasking.”

And then she turns back to her goddamn computer, and starts scrolling.

Frank stares blankly down at his ledger, trying to remember where he’d left off. Plywood or some shit. Yeah, that sounds right. He retrieves his pen, poising it over the page. He blinks through the haze of desire, the clenching ache of his growing arousal as Karen kneads more firmly at his crotch. But the numbers continue to swim out of order before him, refusing to take any more enlightening form.

His other hand is somehow halfway up the back of her thigh now, gripping harder than he’d realized. As if he’s drawn to her, he wheels his chair closer, sliding his palm further, and further, and—

“Oh!” says Karen, her knee knocking up against wood when he winds up bringing his chair in too close, crowding her legs beneath the desk.

“Shit. Sorry.” The moment jolts him back enough to clear his head a little, and he’s wheeling away, putting some distance between them. “You okay?”

She crosses her legs and gives him an amused kind of smile. “I’m fine, Frank.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t seem able to manage out more than one or two words at a time. He’s hard as nails, jeans tight around his erection as he gazes across the table at her. Her cheeks are flushed pink, and she’s biting into her lower lip as she turns away.

She’s not unaffected by all of this. Not by a long shot.

Shit, if that doesn’t make him want her even more.

Her gaze remains carefully fixed on her laptop screen as Frank stands up. He walks over to the trailer door, turning the lock into place with a click. She still has her back to him when he turns around, but her body is poised as if waiting for him, the air between them thick with anticipation.

He bends his mouth over the curve of her throat.

There’s an audible hitch in her chest, and she sounds breathier than usual as she tells him, “Frank. Some of us have work to do.”

“Didn’t you say something about multitasking?” he murmurs, tonguing a kiss to her jawline. The hard hat takes some navigating around, but he’s loath to remove it just yet.

“Mm. I guess you have a point.” She inclines her head toward him, lips parting into his kiss. He tastes strawberry on her tongue, and the bittersweetness of their coffee. He half-pulls her up from her chair, and she rises to meet him, their bodies pressing fully together.

Karen pulls back for a second. “You’re sure no one’s going to—?”

“Nah,” says Frank in between kissing her. “They know not to bother me when I’m doing the, uh—” his throat bobs as she puts her hands on his belt buckle, Christ he is so hard for her “—the paperwork.”

“Right,” says Karen, teasingly. She undoes his belt before starting in on his jeans. “The paperwork.”

He kisses her back up against one of the filing cabinets, groping around her waist for her zipper. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s ruined one of her skirts by being overeager, so he tugs it off of her as patiently as he can manage before making quicker work of her underthings.

Frank leaves her blouse on—the fact they’re about to do this at work is not lost on him, so this seems like a fair enough compromise. He slides his palms beneath the silk fabric to glide over her ribcage, under her bra to cup her breasts as she gets his pants down past his knees.

A full-body shudder courses through him as she takes his dick in hand, stroking him up and down. He squeezes her breast, moving his other hand down to slip in between her thighs.

“Fuck, you’re wet,” he groans into his mouth, and eases two fingers inside.

She gasps, and the hard hat knocks back against the top edge of the filing cabinet. Her hand flies automatically up to adjust it, another soft, moaning sound working its way out of her.

“Here, I got it.” Frank replaces the hat and palms the back of her head instead, feeling the cool cabinet metal against his skin. “Really liked you in that, though.”

She hums out a laugh. “I could tell,” she says, and her breathing shallows as he rubs at her clit with his other hand, a quick, teasing stroke of his thumb that has her arching back again.

“You good?” he murmurs, kissing her neck and feeling her low, throaty yes in response. He removes his hand to take hold of his dick then, sinking the tip of it just between her folds.

He has to bend at the knees a little, and she stretches onto her toes as he presses in, and out, and in again. He rocks into her inch by inch, until he’s balls-deep inside her and halfway to breathless from the sensation of it. He adjusts his hold, cupping a hand around her bare ass to help brace her leg up before thrusting up inside her again.

The position is a little awkward at first, and it takes another few moments of adjusting their bodies to find a good rhythm. But then it gets—God, more than good—striking the perfect balance of movement between them, and Frank begins pumping into her in earnest, groaning softly against her skin.

She clutches at him with a sigh, pulling his mouth up to hers for a brief, tongue-filled kiss. The air goes thin between them as their lips part, and all they can do is gasp into each other as the pleasure between them mounts and mounts to something exquisite. Something that’s indescribably good.

Her leg starts to give just a little, and she grips at whatever she can for purchase, Frank’s body pinning her there to the filing cabinet with the weight of each thrust into her. The contents of the cabinet give a slight rattle behind them, in parallel with the other, softer sounds of their lovemaking.

Frank buries his face into the slope of her shoulder, feeling that telltale ache of heat spreading up through every nerve of his body. He pounds into her harder, listening for the snags in her own breathing, adjusting his angle until she’s clenching around him, tight, and hot, and close, so close—

“Frank—mm—oh, Frank—”

He braces his hand over her nape as she comes, her body stiffening and rocking back against the cabinet. Frank sucks a shaky kiss to her pulse point, thrumming with the need for his own release. He pushes into her once, twice, three times more before everything is splintering apart, and he’s coming with a goan, spilling into her.

He doesn’t know how long they stand there holding each other, hips still pulsing together as they chase those last few tingling moments of orgasm. Everything seems to stand still with them, including time itself. Frank leans half his weight into the filing cabinet, his arm still cradled around Karen’s head as their breathing finally slows together.

She eventually eases back onto both feet, and he bumps his forehead into hers, mouthing kisses over her skin while she retrieves a tissue from his desk and wipes them both clean. They help each other back into their clothes, Frank grazing a hand up the length of her thigh as he goes, reluctant to fully release her.

After they’re dressed, he reaches for her again, pulling her into his arms. “Hey,” he says.

Karen’s biting back a smile. “Hi,” she says back, touching his face, threading her fingers through his hair.

He lowers his mouth to hers, kissing her hard and slow the way that he does when they’re at home in bed together, when it feels like they have all the time in the world.

They could, he thinks. They do.

She sighs regretfully after a moment, putting a hand over his chest. “I should probably let you get back to doing real work.”

“Thinking about taking a half-day, actually,” says Frank, trailing his knuckles up her arm.

Karen tilts her head at him, unable to contain a full smile now. “Are you,” she says.

“Yeah, why not? Grab a beer, a patch of grass by the water…” He cups the side of her face in his hand. “You can bring your laptop, and uh.” He gives her a crooked smile of his own. “It can be my turn to distract you from your work.”

She looks at him with mock seriousness. “You say that like it would be so easy.”

“All right,” says Frank, stepping away, “well, I got a shit ton of paperwork waiting on me, so I better—”

Karen takes his hand firmly in hers, drawing him back for another kiss.

The paperwork can keep on waiting.

[musicallisto]

Hello love,

Congratulations for the 800 followers! You absolutely deserve this and so much more! I'm happy to see how your blog grows and that you're still providing all of us with wonderful content. You're one of the first blogs that I've started to follow here on Tumblr and I'm so lucky to have found your blog ♡

As for your celebration event, could I please request a 🍨 vanilla milkshake with a male Peaky Blinders Character?

I'm more on the curvy side (and insecure about it) and I'm ALWAYS wearing black (which I love, no matter what others say or even more if they object). As for my personality, I'm a highly complex, paradox and complicated individium. I'm unbelievable patient, timid, awkward, kind, forgiving, open-minded, compassionate, thruthful, gentle and calm and I've been told that I have a calming effect on others, that I can easily ground anyone and anything, no matter how troubled their mind is. I prefer vintage over modern things. I think rather deep which often leads me to overthinking everything, which in turn leads me to doubting (very much) myself. You would be surprised how timid and reserved I am, I'm sure you wouln't notice me in a room full of people if it wouldn't be for my different appearance (but I like it this way). I'm always well-meaning, yet often misunderstood (maybe because it's hard for me to articulate myself). I can be incredible lazy, clumsy and forgetful. I've always felt like I don't really belong anywhere, so I've started to distance myself from others a while ago. I'm a outsider, weird, a dork, not normal, a loner and I fucking love it, because I like to be different, I would hate to fit into just one box and to be like everyone else. And I like people who are not ashamed to be their 100% true self, no matter how different that is from the mainstream. I'm the most loyal person you'll ever find, once you earn my trust, I'll always be on/by your side, no matter what. That says a lot, because I'm hard to scare away. Sometimes I feel alienated from the people and things surrounding me and I'm sure that I annoy and bore them. I'm very nervous and insecure around others, which is why I try to avoid people and why I'm not talking all that much around them (though, I'm a really good listener). I'm easily overwhelmed by large crowds and much light/noise, that's why I don't like to go outside, I prefer to cozy up at home. I would never intentionally hurt a animal and I'm not eating any meat, which is very important to me. I believe that there isn't a ounce of cruelty inside me. I'm unassuming and understanding, I only believe what I've witnessed on my own and I have endless acceptance for almost everything. Due to my Insomnia, I'm a night owl. I have strong personal values, am very opinionated and I'm really in-touch with myself and even though I'm extremly insecure, I would never reduce or change myself and views/opinions for someone and I neither have a problem to challenge authority and advocating for my beliefs. I'm a perfectionist and sometimes I really hate it. And, as you can see, I'm unable to be brief. My favourite colours are dark green, black, gold and dark purple. My greatest passion is music, even if I can't sing or play an instrument.(I prefer rock/punk/pop/80s/90s) It's the most calming and therapeutic thing when it comes to my anxiety and depression and I could never live a day without it. You will never see me in the street without headphones in my ears and even when I'm at home there's music playing almost all the time. I could talk for hours about music and what it means to me. And otherwise I love to watch films and series (I like fantasy, horror, psychological thriller, science fiction and psychological drama and almost anything from the 70s, 80s and 90s). I love rainy days and to go outside while it's pouring big, fat drops. What I love the most is to drive around without a destination, while talking and listening to music. And I love to spend time with my cat, if I could, I would have endless animals who live peacefully and loved with me. I enjoy to have deep talks and to be challenged to think. I love to take late-night-strolls, while gazing into the sky and watching the stars/moon. I have a fascination for dark and macabre things.

I really hope that's not too much? But thank you anyway ♡

Have a good day!

thank you so much for your kind words, you have no idea how much it means to me to know that I was one of the first blogs you followed ;; here’s your vanilla milkshake - and it’s also my first time writing for peaky blinders, but I hope it’s alright; and I hope finn shelby will find the portrait I paint of him accurate enough...

Birmingham was a drab and disheartening place enough without the war adding to its joylessness; but somehow the streets are even worse to bear deserted than when they’re bustling and fetid. Especially for a ten year old boy who wants nothing but to play with someone, to talk to someone, to see someone.

With his brothers off fighting somewhere in France and his aunt too busy with her businesses (adult stuff that Finn has absolutey no interest in attempting to understand), the youngest Shelby has been fighting off an affliction worse than consumption and measles, because much more insidious for a boy his age; boredom

and he’s so sad, so irrevocably sad, with no one to bruise his knees with and throw mud at, that he just aimlessly wanders the empty streets whenever aunt Polly isn’t looking, to find a semblance of stimulation

(he used to enjoy the solitude, it gave him time to imagine delirious stories in fantastical worlds and read the most enthralling of novels, but not anymore. four years of reclusion is an awfully long time for a little boy.)

and it’s during one of his escapades that he first meets you

you’re a little girl his age, dressed in a pretty dress, wearing pretty booties and holding a pretty little woven basket, but your face is stuck on the most grouchy frown he’s ever seen on a little girl, and you don’t walk, you stomp down the wet pavement like a wrathful titan

And it’s probably the first time in four years that he’s been this close to making a new friend, so he walks up to you, despite how rusty his communication skills have become

“Girls don’t frown. It’s unbecoming.”

(Yes, pretty rusty indeed; but in his defense, he’s ten, he’s bored, he’s lonely, and he’s only ever heard Ada say it, and Ada is the most level-headed of his siblings, so anything she says must be true, right?)

“Shut up.”

(Well, if it was unbecoming of you to frown, it’s even more to rebuff someone so rudely. You don’t even spare a glance and continue walking; he has to hurry to catch up to you.)

“You can’t say that. It’s a bad word.”

“How do you know that?”

“My family says it all the time, but they told me I can’t say it.”

“Well, my family is not your family. And I hate my family!”

You’ve yelled the last words at the sky, so loud that the crows on the neighboring roofs have taken off in a startled flight.

“They want to wear this stupid dress to go to the stupid market to buy stupid meat. I don’t even want to eat meat, that’s cruel! And I don’t even want to wear a frilly dress! I want to wear black!”

And in saying so you tugged at the pink and white ribbons that encircled your waist.

And Finn couldn’t help being extremely intrigued at this little girl who said bad words and refused to eat meet and wanted to wear black. It was the most exciting thing to ever happen in all the duration of the war.

“You want to wear a black dress?”

“Yes, but my mama won’t let me. She says it’s too sad because of the war. But black isn’t sad! Black is beautiful!”

“Maybe I could find you a black dress. I’m sure my sister must have one. Where do you live?”

And, loyal to his promise, the following morning he had run to your doorstep and snuck into your house - a proper Shelby talent, to be able to go unnoticed or make a ruckus depending on the occasion - with an old, crinkled mourning dress of Ada’s, that had probably belonged to his mother and had been mended several times

And it was obviously five sizes too big for you and you looked more like a ghost from one of Finn’s horror novels, your arms floating in the sleeves and the hem of the skirt pooling at your feet, but your smile was the brightest light he’d ever seen in this whole damn town.

“Do you like it?”

(He didn’t really know why he sounds so nervous. Maybe it was having a friend, a real friend, and doing something personal for them... or maybe it had to do with how fast his heart beat, watching you in that gigantic, shapeless dress)

“I love it! Thank you so much, Finn!”

From then on started one of the most wonderful friendships Finn would ever have, and what would bring a ray of light to the grim existence of a little boy in the midst of a global war

Despite the ration cards, despite the loneliness, despite the worry that tugged at his stoic aunt’s eyes for her son and nephews across the Channel... he found an unspeakable solace in your friendship

And one day, without a trace, you were gone

He knocked on your door; gone. He asked all the neighbors what had happened to the family that lived there; gone. He wrote you letters and sent them to the confines of England; gone. He got scolded by Polly for marking numbers at random on Tommy’s state-of-the-art telephone; gone.

Suddenly he was back to the bleak existence he had battled with before meeting you, and the hollow inside his chest only grew wider as the days went on, because he had no explanation as to what had happened to you, and worried every single day

Thankfully, the war ended not long after, and his brothers came back home, all alive and unscathed - well, for the most part

Fast forward more or less ten years, and much has changed in Finn Shelby’s life and in old Birmingham, but the memory of you still stugs at his heartstrings

One evening, he’s tasked by Arthur to run some errands, send a few messages, scout a few places; the most dangerous thing his older brothers will ever let him do

His task leads him to a bar in the center of town, one that pours its joyous light and music into the street outside; he’s there to meet with a client, arrange a meeting; nothing he’s hasn’t done already

But the evening takes a turn for the unexpected when he recognizes the girl sat alone at a table, enjoying the musicians’ jazz with an air of pure bliss on her face

It’s been ten years, of course, but... it’s unmistakable. That face, that silhouette, and the black ensemble from head to toe... and he’s always had a knack for remembering faces, especially those that mark him deeply

Suddenly he’s frozen on the spot, and he has forgotten why he came to the bar in the first place, what his target looks like - all he knows is you, and how beautiful you look in the dim light of the bar, and the undisclosed and unknown feelings he had for you at the time come flooding back.

Except this time, he understands, and he fears them, because he doesn’t have time for any of this, and it’s way too dangerous for you and him

But he can’t just pass you by and not say a word?

He swallows, hard.

And walks up to you.

“Y/N?”

You open your eyes, and your face flashes with recognition, and a little bit of pain as well. Even if you fled without a word, and left him hanging all these years, he’s incapable of rancor

“Finn... wow, you’ve changed so much.”

“You haven’t.”

He gestures at your face, your clothes, how you savor the music like the finest drink in the world, and you laugh and blush, sending his heart into overdrive

“Where were you all this time?”

“I’m so sorry, Finn... my brother died in the war, and... my mom sent me to live with my grandparents in Scotland. We were all destroyed by grief... I needed to get away.”

“Without explanation? Not even a word?”

“I wanted to write to you, so bad, but... I couldn’t remember your address. I couldn’t remember anything about Birmingham at all...”

He nods, slowly, in understanding.

The war opens wounds that never heal, even after all the most beautiful friendships and love stories in the world.

“But I’m really glad I found you.”

His heart is pounding in his throat. Maybe it’s a sign of destiny that he found you here, tonight, alone, and ready to welcome him back. Maybe it’s a word from fate, that you can never truly be apart.

So he takes the seat in front of you, and you smile, that shy but bright smile of yours, and he forgets all about his mission, his client, and his brothers.

They’ll have to understand.

800 follower sleepover

[ficsnroses]

Friends With Benefits Chapter 9 - Keanu Reeves x Reader

Chapter IX ~ Full Circle.

Part 1  Part 2 Part 3 Part 4  Part 5  Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

❧ Word Count : 3.7K

❧ Warnings : Angst, light nsfw/smut,  (I apologize in advance..)

❧ Series Summary :  What happens when two, lonely friends start seeing each other for sex? A tricky friends with benefits love story, when feelings get in the way.

Notes : Just a couple more chapters after this, series is scheduled to end this month! Thanks for sticking around since I started this in November. I love it with my entire heart, and I hope you do too. Please do leave feedback and comments if ya get a sec. There’s tons of parallels in here from previous chapters, kudos if you can spot em!

Chapter 8 Recap : After leaving Keanu’s house in tears at midnight, Y/N’s car breaks down, and she’s left with no one to call but Keanu. After much persuasion, Keanu convinces her to come back to his house and spend the night; where they end up having sex yet again, only making things worse. In the morning, Keanu reveals to Y/N that he plans on purchasing a new car for her, which offends her significantly, considering their relationship. Y/N ends things with Keanu for good, leaving them both distraught and heartbroken in their own ways.

It all comes down to the last person you think of at night.

That’s, where your heart is.

.

Day after day; week after week, abiding to dreary half executed routines and less than productive projects. It’s been 3 weeks since you’d weary boned, walked out of Keanu’s house,

and perhaps his life

once and for all demolishing the sole, fraying thread of your damaged relationship. As you roam your seemingly emptier apartment, the air around secludes, chilling wavelengths and brisky cold temperate in the atmosphere. On an oak coat hanger, draped in a corner of the living room entrance, a knitted black coat hangs, the same one Keanu had forced you to wear on impromptu evening adventures downtown the LA scene. Neither of you were much for the crowds, yet social affairs seemed…alright. When in the company of the other.

A lot seemed alright when in the company of one another.

Gray ash clouds outside, the LA afternoon falls dark, the dewy gold gleam of a black pine candle illuminating a halo around its part on the coffee table.

It was his favourite scent.

To the hallway wall, a small chip in the crisp white walls taunts you, his elbow bellowed in a charge too fierce when you’d pushed him to it; satin lips on yours in a feverish kiss.

    His baseball cap, long forgotten on the loveseat by the skyline window.

    Two wine glasses stowed away in the glass kitchen cabinets.

    The lighter you kept on hand for him when he’d need a smoke after sex.

    Quiet laughs shared in the moonlit dark within these very walls.

All around, there was him.

You don’t realize just how much someone is a part of you, until they’re gone.

For him, it may have just been sex. For you, you were making love. You were making love the entire time, to him. And now, as you sit alone in your outcast LA apartment, that same love mocks you. Suffocates you. Kills you, because it never really goes away. Just because he’s gone, it

hasn’t

gone

away.

He’d yet to call, and you distrust he will. Lover or not, you know him as the back of your hand. He won’t call, he cares too much. Respects you too much to force himself on you. Loud and clear, you’d made rich, undoubted clarity of the end that dreadful morning. The death of you and him.

And nothing comes back from the dead. All that leaves mark is haunting, cold memories.

Cold comfort. Burning memories of what was. He’s a man of measured words, speaks only when there was reason to. Yet, they’d left you haunted. His words that spoke far too much, far too deep, forced you to fall far too profound when you’d promised each other, it wasn’t ever the end goal.

You’d blinked once; then twice, thrice, until the first tear fell.

Warm, stinging, burning. You’d gotten used to those first couple tears lately; the ones that would come uninvited, without notice.

Even after him, all there was,

was burn.

Out.

You needed to go out, do something, find anything to distract, to quench that burning long inside you. The studio sounded nice, nothing a half finish project to get your brain juices flowing couldn’t fix.

Work had been an outlet; designs, sculptures, drawings, late night sessions locked away in your studio had been rather therapeutic when you’d first moved out.

Therapeutic-before you began finding comfort in Keanu’s king bed, silken sheets and cotton pillows scattered around almost every night.

The lock to the apartment door clinks, keys bustling with a toss into your bag before you start toward the elevator.

This is good. This is okay. The morning is rather low-spirited and desolate, not a soul in the halls or lobby. Perhaps you preferred it that way for now.

Alone. Something so familiar, but revitalising. Or maybe truth be told, right now, for you, if it wasn’t him,

it couldn’t be anyone at all.

His rich chuckle,

His smoky laugh,

That inquisitive, immersed stare with the tip of his lips slightly agape while he listens, breathes in the world around him,

Stop.

With a half executed, drained sigh, you trudge to the brassy elevator doors, sounds of trudging cables and gaudy belts before the doors glide open, the elevator scent of a freshener far too strong, mimicking fresh linen and Californian citrus. The ride down is short, a derisory accomplishment of actually stepping foot out into the world outside your sheltered apartment corridors. With a stop to the third floor below yours, the elevator dings, heavy footsteps and the scent of spiced cologne wafted through the trivial space.

Spiced cologne; a dire contrast to the woodier, pine-ier one of Keanus.

Voice intruding, you pick up deep soundwaves and flashy baritone, a greeting of curious surprise your way. “Y/N?” They speak, snapped out your dreary daydream, thoughts somehow continually reverted back to broken eyes, deadbeat silence from that shattered morning endured three weeks ago.

Curious orbs raised, you perceive him; an old colleague residing in the same complex. He’d been the first neighbour you encountered in the midst of your move here, a heavy box of dishes and cutlery saved by his robust arms carrying them up to your front door that year ago. “Matt?”

“It’s been a while, haven’t seen you around.” He raises, hands shoved into his blue jean pockets, tall frame taking place a mere few inches apart from you.

“Just been busy.” You smile, stray strand of lock tucked behind your ear. Matt had been much help during your move, and you’d kept in touch thereafter. He’d come visit time to time for a piping cup of French coffee; discussions of work and projects mindlessly favoured together.

“Right.” He replies, amiable smile to his full lips. “I saw you’d been working on bigger films.” He starts, admirable sheen to his dark eyes. “Very commendable work.” He praises, a gentle chuckle when the following words flow. “Hey, I have to ask…” The elevator descends further down, main lobby in approach. Sounds of trudging still bellow above, yet the sound of his talk was…nice. It was nice to hear someone.

Apart from failed attempts of your girlfriends to take you out for drinks, you’d heard little rather from the voice that would seep your television; the Netflix catalogue had been getting much devotion lately.

With his brows scrunching, the baritone of his voice raises slight, wondering. “I’ve seen a guy visit you every now and then…was that Keanu freaking Reeves?” timidly chuckled, he takes in your gentle giggle, a nod to his query.

“Yeah, it was.”

“Ahhh.” He breathes, glance at the polished floor. “Boyfriend…?” His voice lingers, a dragged out tone in question, eyes focused to assess your features change.

“Business partner.” You lie.

A cold, dreadful lie that held so much history, so much regard. So much history, thrown away with those two, taciturn words.

“Right.” Matt rakes a heavy palm through his hair, moved to gesture out a peace offering in front of him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume.” He apologizes, nervous tone thick with unease, yet held to a certain confidence. Matt had charisma, poise, a pleasant presence.

Voice warm, you overtake, smiling in return. “Of course not.” Sincerely, you compliment. “You look well.” Commenting, the elevator rings open, the main lobby arrives. Matt allows you to go first, leading the way graciously.

“You do too, as always.” He praises, eyes glazing over your features in an admirable glow. Hand tucked back into his jean pocket, a timid silence stays put in the air around, your brows raising when at a loss of what to say next. Features contemplative, Matt’s voice gruffs in his throat, gently coughing a nervous pitch to the look of your welcoming gaze. “I’d actually love to catch up sometime, if you’re free.” He proposes. “Maybe a coffee sometime this week?”

Your thoughts halt in trek, gaze flickering to the pavement below in the distance for a moment. Company…someone to ease your mind off the storm brewing inside….

You think back,

Two wine glasses stowed away in the glass kitchen cabinets. A half drank bottle of Merlot sitting in solitude.

“Do you wanna come over tonight?” You blurt, uncertain of when the words had even fallen off your lonesome lips. Partly wonderstruck you’d extended an invitation so sudden, you marvel if it was too soon. You’d just met Matt again; only shared a meagre 3 minutes together thus far.

You’d only shut Keanu out so soon ago, yet you knew deep inside, he was still stuck in each part of you. But it couldn’t go on like that forever, this couldn’t go on forever. You need something new, potentially someone new.

Someone that doesn’t come with such baggage, someone who doesn’t come with so many complications.

Matt shifts, charming smile plastered to his lips with a quick glance down. His thoughts collect; gaze locked to yours in an admiration filled sincerity. “Yeah, for sure.” He speaks. “I’d really like that.” Controlled and certain, you nod, gesturing to the roads off sight. “I’ve just got a day of errands and work ahead. But I’ll see you at my place tonight?” You offer. “Is 7:00 alright?”

“Of course.” He smiles, giving you a gentle nod, and if you thought close enough, you’d swore his awed eyes sputtered to your rosy lips ever so briefly,

wondering….

3 weeks. 3 long, tiresome, drained week without her. Without her company, without her voice, without her floral scent; roses and lilies to brighten his days. It had felt as if she’d been wiped away, his motionless mind left with nothing but burning memories of their time together.

Laying in his king bed, Keanu wonders what she’s doing right now. Is she thinking of him, the way he thinks of her? Has she forgotten him, the way they were, the things they did? He prays. He pleads she hasn’t forgotten. Three weeks had passed, and time seemed to mock him at every second. A lifetime spent alone, the lonesome days and months, turned mindlessly to years. Her walking away had been perhaps the most gut wrenching, soul eating occurrence to ever break his mind. Her walking away was the sourest sting he’d ever had to swallow.

Because he knows he’ll never forget her. Not now, not today, not in another three weeks.

She was it for him, he’d known it for a while. If it was going to be anyone, if he had a chance to make it right with anyone, it was solely, unconditionally, her. He couldn’t forget.

Couldn’t forget the things they did.

She’d been a dire reflection of him, mirroring his tepid, half sheltered heart. The heart that longs, for so much more. It was only her. It could only be her.

It wasn’t toxicity.

time passed, the days turned to nights, the tick bestowing further, the time spending away, not making either of them younger, he knew. She was it. It all meant something, it was never just sex.

It could never just be sex. What he felt, she had to feel it too.

She had to. No longer was it feasible to suffer. He won’t suffer. This time, now, finally, he won’t suffer. He won’t let it be.

As he turns his side, an exasperated sigh flees his lips, hand bestowed to his feeble forehead in an aching protrude. He wonders what she’s doing right now, if she’s awake, wondering, thinking, missing him like he is her. Longing for him, as he is for her.

Suffering for him, as he is for her.

A glance toward the bedside table shows, dainty clock illuminating the time. He’d seek her in the early morning, and this time, he’d at least try to make things right. Lay his heart out on the line, hoping, pleading she’d accept it. Enough had been enough, dreary thoughts and lonesome nights, burning away, wondering of what could be would perverse no more.

He wonders what she’s doing right now.

11:38pm.

     She couldn’t forget him. He wouldn’t let her.

     Couldn’t forget the things they did.

Words not spoken,

Things not said,

     Regrets; enveloping you.

A finished bottle of Merlot, a shot or two as well. Something crisp…something that,

     burned.

You don’t remember who did it first, who wanted it first, who let it happen first.

His scent lasted longer than you’d liked on your skin, that murky dusk of spiced cologne, his polite, appealing presence. He arrived with a bottle of White, a variety you’d almost never kept on hand in the last couple of months.

Red used to be his favourite; so it was yours.

Perhaps you were vulnerable, perhaps he was too kind. Too charming, too present. But you asked for it, you did it, you wanted it. Or so you think you did.

     It always comes full circle.

You needed someone that night, needed to feel someone that night. You don’t remember who made the first move, seemed as if both of you wanted that mutuality, that connection just as much.

     Back where you’d started.

His skin grazed yours, gentle thumb soothed to your own; wine glass held in a wavering grip, frail to your boney fingers.  You didn’t stop him, didn’t pull away. He moved closer, and maybe you did too. Closer to him, nearer to him.

The gray bedroom walls heard the scene; they saw it all, unadulterated, held the secrets of what you’d done. His lips on yours, his hands on you, your fingers clawing to his back. You let him in, and he took each inch of you. Raw, exposed, desperately attempting to chase that high, that cloud nine feel that came with months gone. You could lay with this man while you thought of him, drawing sorrow deep inside his skin. Scratch his back to forget his face, bite his neck with his name on your tongue, touch his face while you think of him.

It’s an awful feeling, knowing you did nothing wrong.

But did everything wrong, all in the same.

“Y/N…” You cut Matt off by kissing his lips, gracefully on the bed underneath him, hands in his hair with his heavy palms to your hips. Moving diligently, he sulks into your neck, moaning, soft and quiet grunts between bites and nips to your neck. “Faster,” You spill, nerve endings tantalized as he thrusts, your lips stippled to his piercing jawline.

Is it easier for him? you wonder, you ponder,

you guess.

“You’re irresistible…” He whispers, lips browsed to your chest in a warm enhold, skin on skin within the softness of release. Back arching, you lean into his touch, hips bucking along with his when your mind jumbles, an awful realization, the bitter realism. He’s changing your breath with every thrust, working your body in a hot, humid intimacy so foreign, his manhood hastily working your body beneath. So foreign, so…empty.

That familiar stretch isn’t there, the sweet burn isn’t there, he isn’t there. This isn’t him. No matter how hard you try, how tight you clench your eyes hoping you’ll trick yourself into believing it, it isn’t him.

     He’s safe, he’s new, he’s different,

But he’s not him. The façade you show melts away.

He’ll never be him. No one will ever be him.

As he slips out in the midnight light, the bed sinks beside you, and you turn with the comforter held to your exposed chest. The only light in the bedroom filters from the cracked window, the illuminated alarm clock on your dainty nightstand enlightening the while,

11:38pm.

The misty LA morning brought new found hope; new found anticipation. The weather had predicted a storm brewing out soon, yet that wouldn’t be enough to stop Keanu.

Not today. Not when he needs her to know. Not when he loves her, and he knows so deep, so profound that he does.

Sunny California had grayed a dark to its golden rays lately, a frigid mist clings to the air. Heavier rains had been the norm recently, damper months in full fledge. A tug of war impends his mind, should he wait until evening? Should he call? Was this an intrusion of her space? Her choices?

Was she really, truly content leaving things the way she did?

He looks in the mirror; beard longer than it had been since he’d seen her; hair shaggier than she’d left him. He hadn’t had anyone to look good for since she’d gone away. Hadn’t had motivation to present himself to anyone since she’d left.  Some of Y/N’s things still lingered the empty walls of his home; a lacy bra left in his wardrobe, a crewneck sweater mindlessly thrown under his bed; her copy of a Hemingway novel abandoned in his office, a toothbrush for when she’d spend the night.

It had been there the entire time.

Just sex isn’t this involved.

Friends with benefits aren’t this involved.

She’d been there the entire time.

After a quick shower and groom of his rather untamed features, Keanu snatches his keys and wallet, fear filled drive to her apartment drained on his mind. Y/N had to see this through, had to trust him, understand him.

Y/N and Keanu had never really got it right, never quite found the balance. But it could be found, could be learnt, could be when they’d finally accept it.

The balance was always them. Them together, as whole. Half executed attempts at being anything less would suffice no more. What was, what is, was always more.

     It was never just sex.

     It was so much more.

The apartment complex is rather fuller than normal, piercing cold and dewy morning air enveloped around. Crowds had stayed in, and the first murky dewdrops of fresh rain speckled his worn out leather jacket on arrival.

This worn out leather jacket….

He’d placed it on her shoulders when the bitter cold threatened her skin. She’d peeled it off him when they did what lovers do.

     It was never just sex.

     It was companionship.

The wearing pockets had held her special birthstone ring, forgotten in his possession solely for him to have a reason to come to her, sooner than they’d planned.

     It was never just sex.

     It was the feeling of needing someone; having someone.

The fraying insides and ravelling threads felt the weight of her body holding him, chest pressed to his back along the scenic LA mountains, breezy winds and violet sunsets known all too well on destination less rides.

     It was never just sex.

     It was connection; intimacy.

This old, worn out leather jacket, a possession of his he’d held for so long, something that had been through it all, held so much of her. Knew so much of her.

     It was never just sex.

     It was their love. And it was so much more, so much more than just physical.

The ride up and trek to her door seemed endless, racing pace and quick strides in desperate attempt to get to her as soon as he could. Everything had finally fallen into place, he’d finally understood. And he knew so well, that she would too. Takes one to know one; they’d been lonely far too long.

Within moments, Keanu stood firm at her door, abundance of confidence, anticipation, yet a timid nervousness all in one piping cocktail of eagerness flowing through his veins. He hadn’t seen her in weeks; his favourite, the most prized possession in his life, he hadn’t seen in weeks. More than anything, he hopes she had been alright. Taken care of herself, stayed healthy and safe.

A ring at the door bell, and a loud knock.

Seconds, moments, small increments of time passing seem as if an eternity slowly moving by.

Another knock, for good measure.

Hands shaking so slightly, skin crawling, fists clenched with a stare to the floor.

She should be home, it’s only morning.

Trudging elevator belts moving in the distance, footsteps in and around the complex halls, leg bouncing, lip bitten in dreary wait, a nervous sigh when more moments pass until…

Click. The door wavers open, she stands behind, half dressed, features borderline stoic, yet with a gentle hold of sorrowed blues. She looks beautiful as always, and his heart hitches at the sight of her. The woman he loves, so dearly, so much. Hair stowed in a messy bun, fatigue seeps under her eyelids, tired features soft under the artificial hallway lights.

“Y/N…” Keanu speaks above a smooth, buttery whisper; the sound of her name slipping off so naturally, so effortlessly. “I wanted to see you…”

She swallows tight, eyes never leaving his chocolaty, sincere gaze, so love drunk as he stares. He’d engulf her in his arm right now if he could. Hold her for an eternity if time allowed. Kiss her so passionately, so lovingly that it’d take her breath away. Yet he waits; waits to do things right. Do it the right way, for the first time in their tumbling relationship. “Can I come in?” He asks, voice almost choking in his gruffed throat.

She’d hardly moved before he’d caught glimpse; a deep baritone behind her, the sound an intruding shock to his already racing heart. Calm yet collected, Keanu stands, eyes tracing behind as the voice firms in closer,

a man, jacket hung over his left shoulder blade, morning hair just woken ruffled a mess, palm placed to her back with a gentle squeeze as he bids goodbye. “I need to head out, but I’ll call you.” He smiles at her, before locking gaze with Keanu.

“Morning.” He greets Keanu, before giving Y/N’s arm a reassuring, goodbye squeeze, slipping beside Keanu and out the door, disappearing down the hall. Y/N stands in front of him, eyes locked to his still, as if pleading, begging for something…something neither of them could quite understand.

Keanu stills, fists clenched, heart stinging with piercing defeat.

She’d been with another man.

     The love he so desperately longed for, the women he knew he needed,

     had been in the arms,

     of another.

>>Chapter 10>>

➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴

s/o to ma bish @fanficsrusz​ for looking over this cluster fuck for me lol. ily

My taglists will be posted in reblogs from now on. Let me know if you want to be added or removed from either this series, or the permanent! 

[cheri-translates]

[CN] Kiro’s Qixi Event (Eng Translation)

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for an event which has not been released in English servers! 🍒

Kiro’s Qixi date: here (translated by @skyholders)

[ Chapter 1 ] 

Accompanying the drum resounding from the Drum Tower, the Qixi temple festival is about to officially commence.

[Trivia] The drum in the Drum Tower would beat at sunset to indicate the end of the day

The lanterns lining the streets light up immediately, illuminating the dazzling stalls and the faces of young people, which are full of anticipation. 

Kiro and I agreed to meet here, but I arrived much earlier than our appointed time. 

MC: Looks like I’ll have to wait for a long while.

I mutter to myself with a laugh, but I suddenly see a familiar profile from the corner of my eye - it’s him!

Pleasantly surprised, I suddenly have an idea. Bending down and hiding behind the crowd, I hide behind a stall and peek my head out in his direction. 

Kiro, who has arrived early, is wearing a hood to cover his conspicuous golden-coloured hair. He weaves through the crowd and reaches the location where we agreed to meet. 

He looks calm and composed, and not at all anxious. However, he attracts the attention of a few passing ladies - some of them even muster their courage to strike up a conversation with him. 

MC: ...

I furrow my brows, thinking that if I were to continue waiting, I’d be the one to lose out. I bunch up my skirt and walk over softly, planning to scare him.

MC: Ki...!!

When my hand is still in mid-air, Kiro suddenly turns over and meets my eyes. 

Kiro: MC, I even thought you’d continue hiding from me. 

His eyebrows are curved, full of a smiling expression. It’s as though he has noticed my “furtive” actions since early on.

MC: How did you see me?!

Kiro: You’re so eye-catching, so of course I’d notice you quickly. Even if there are thousands and ten thousands of people, I can still find the most important person at a glance.

-

[ Chapter 2 ]

The streets are bustling with activity. The lights above us seem to be clustered together, making the area exceptionally lively. 

All of a sudden, my hand is held by Kiro, who is standing next to me. I look at him in puzzlement, and meet his serious expression. 

Kiro: Don’t get lost. 

MC: Even if I get lost, won’t you be able to find me? 

Kiro contemplates this, then shakes his head. 

Kiro: But I don’t want to be separated from you at all.

Both his voice and the clamour from the streets are at my ear, but the former is exceptionally clear. 

At this moment, the sweet smell of fresh pastries wafts from the street, attracting our attention.

MC: Ribbon biscuits! Want to try?

Kiro: Ribbon biscuits? 

MC: They are little pastries made out of wheat. You should like the taste!

The pastries, which have been shaped to look like various small animals, cause one to water at the mouth. I reach for the coin pouch tied to my waist, but all I feel is empty space. 

MC: Oh no, I’ve forgotten to bring money. 

Kiro: Money... Does that refer to the currency used in the mortal world to conduct exchanges? 

Empty-handed, we stand facing each other in front of the stall. The vendor seems to have an inkling of what’s going on. 

Vendor: If you don’t have money...

Kiro: Is this enough? 

Kiro interrupts the vendor’s unhappy shout. A fiery red pearl rests in his palm, and the other party’s eyes light up.

Soon after, we walk along the streets, and Kiro carefully hands me the oil paper holding a “small bunny”.

MC: Aren’t you eating? 

Kiro: No need! Weren’t you really looking forward to it? I can give everything I have to you.

The smile in his eyes is pure and clean, untainted by any melancholy.

After a moment of thinking, I use the paper to break the pastry into half, then hand it to him. I also give him a gigantic smile. 

MC: And I’ll give you half of my everything!

-

[ Chapter 3 ]

Once we’ve finished the ribbon biscuit, Kiro and I continue walking down the street and peruse various interesting things. 

I keep thinking that the sparkling colours in his eyes are even more beautiful than the dazzling stalls and lanterns. 

A few lotus-shaped lanterns float on the small river near the street. Kiro pauses to watch, and he seems to find it interesting. 

Kiro: Are these lanterns used to make wishes?

MC: Yes. Even though the gods may not hear them, the lanterns carry the most beautiful wishes. 

Kiro: Shall we release a lantern together to give it a try?

Seeing the eagerness in his eyes, I hesitate for a moment before telling him the truth.

MC: But... we don’t have money.

Kiro: I still...

Seeing that Kiro is about to take out another pearl, I immediately stop him.

MC: No need for that. I have an idea. Wait for me!

Qixi temple fairs cannot do without activities which “challenge one’s techniques”. I stand in front of a stall and take a deep breath to calm down. Then, I successfully weave under the moonlight.

MC: I’ve succeeded!

[Trivia] What MC did was 穿七孔针 (”chuan qi kong zhen”), which is a Chinese folk custom done on Qixi. Women have to use five threads of different colours to weave through seven needle holes under the moonlight. This is extremely difficult because of the lack of lighting, the tiny holes, and the wind. People who manage to do this successfully will be praised.

In the midst of the crowd’s cheering, I take the lantern I’ve won, and place it into Kiro’s hands. 

MC: This is the return gift for the ribbon biscuit. Now, you can make a wish!

Kiro: We can make a wish together. Even if it bears both of our wishes, it will definitely not sink.

We find a spot near the river without people, and we carefully place the lit lantern into the water together. I clasp my hands together and make a wish. When I open my eyes, I meet his gaze. 

Kiro: What did you wish for?

MC: If I say the wish out loud, it wouldn't come true. 

Kiro: That wouldn’t happen - I can help you fulfil it! 

MC: What if I have many wishes?

I blink, deliberately saying this. However, Kiro suddenly laughs. He moves his fingertips, channelling a wave of faint light. 

Countless faint yet bright flames float into the air above us, illuminating the lake, which is enveloped by weeping willows.

The flickering lights fall onto the water surface, reminiscent of lanterns, and also reminiscent of fallen stars and constellations. 

Kiro: We have many lanterns now.

Those faint, moving lights illuminate Kiro’s tender eyes, and they look like a brilliant galaxy.

Kiro: This way, it wouldn’t matter how many wishes you make.

-

[ Chapter 3 ]

As the moon makes its ascent into the sky, the Qixi temple fair draws to an end.

The crowd has already begun to disperse, and the lanterns lining the streets are waning. Kiro and I walk along the street, and it suddenly feels slightly desolate. 

MC: If only Qixi could be extended for just a little longer... 

Kiro: The night will always come to an end. 

Kiro sees my disappointment. He holds onto my hand tightly, then points towards a stone bridge not afar off on the river.

Kiro: I heard that people who walk across the bridge will experience long-lasting love. Do you believe in this legend?

I know that it’s just a normal bridge, so I shake my head. 

MC: Actually, I’ve never believed it. 

Kiro: Then just believe me. 

Kiro pulls me and we step onto the empty stone bridge. Our shadows, along with the shadow of the bridge, are cast on the water, and they look somewhat cold and lonely.

Kiro: I’ll give you a long time.

He turns his head over, looking at me with a serious expression. 

Kiro: Let me give you a surprise, MC. 

Puzzled, I nod my head. In the next moment, the view which is carried by with the rustling wind leaves me shocked. My eyes widen. 

Countless magpies appear in the sky, forming a bridge above our heads. The combination of the bridge on land and the bridge in the water culminate to form an exceptionally surreal image. 

Kiro: This is the “magpie bridge” mentioned in the legend. There’s no need to wait for Qixi. No matter when it is, and no matter where it is, as long as you think of me, we can always reunite. 

His eyes reflect the moon in the sky, the waves on the water, and me. They encase me, and are both as tender as a mirage, and as real as they can be. 

Kiro: Not just today. MC, all the promises I make to you - they will last for a lifetime. 

[grapefruitsketches]

Left Behind

For fytheuntamed’s Untamed Fall Fest Day 19: Windy

Rated T, 1,612 Words. Lan Xichen, Song Lan, pre-Lanlan (can be read romantic or platonic), grief, guilt, post-canon, early stages of healing. 

Also available on AO3

Most of the cultivation world didn’t know the details of why Zewu-jun had suddenly vanished from their midst – the Gusu Lan sect was notoriously skilled at maintaining privacy – but his absence was still notable. Rumours swirled.

Some had expected that one day, he would simply return to his duties as sect leader. Quieter, sadder, perhaps, but only noticeably so behind closed doors. Zewu-jun was too noble, too selfless to avoid his responsibilities for long.

Others shook their heads, saying they didn’t believe that. They thought Zewu-jun would stay in seclusion, never leave at all. That he might let grief, guilt, eat away at him.

Then there were those who preferred darker tales – who mused that maybe it hadn’t been a willing withdrawal. These were the conspiring whisperers who reminded their companions that this was not the first time a prominent figure from the sect had suddenly disappeared. Hanguang-jun had since re-emerged, but many others had not.

Of course, none would dare say any of these things if they knew that anyone from the Lan Sect was present. Gossip had its way of always making it to the ears of those most central to it, but the Lan sect were above such idle chatter – in public at least – and so the discussions went on unchecked, grew wilder and wilder. Soon, it was hard to find someone who did not claim to know some secret about the distinguished Zewu-jun’s fall. Each storyteller had a deeper insight than the last about the nature of his disappearance.

And Lan Xichen found himself chuckling into his tea on more than one occasion, as he listened to these stories. Stories of alternate versions of himself. He felt that maybe he shouldn’t, that maybe there was a reason the Lan rules preferred truth to lies, but there was a part of him that enjoyed these new, strange versions of himself. In the stories, everything made sense. There was always catharsis to tragedy, justice in a downfall.

It was much easier to listen to than the truth.

--

Wei Wuxian had been the only one to immediately understand, but he wasn’t the one Xichen needed approval from. Wangji had been slower. He had eventually come around, assuring his brother that he would take care of the sect in his absence, but Lan Wangji had always been understanding, given enough time. It had been Lan Qiren who had surprised him. He had not understood, probably never would, but he had long learned that when it came to his nephews, there were some things more easily left unquestioned.

And if all his nephew wanted was to travel alone? Lan Qiren counted himself as lucky.

And so Zewu-jun was finally free – or rather, Lan Xichen was free, so long as Zewu-jun remained in seclusion.

He left his elaborate hair pieces at home. Brought only light, simple robes with him. Lan whites. Not blues. He cloaked Shuoye. He would certainly not be mistaken as an ordinary man, but only those who knew his face, or who knew of the inner disciples’ forehead ribbon could guess just how far from the average person this mysterious cultivator actually was.

He was courteous, kind, helpful. Never lingered or imposed longer than was strictly necessary.

He tried to keep to towns, large enough for him to be of use, small enough to be ones that he’d never visited before. Would have no memories of. There were monsters in the villages. That was why he visited. But the paths between the monsters were where the true horrors lay. There was a disquiet to this void. An emptiness that opened itself up to a roar – a rush of wind, an echoing, dark place defined by the cacophony of absence.

It was in a town, in one of the safe havens from this cold, uncaring void, that he ran into another.

He knew of the man. Had in fact heard the wanderer’s name on his travels. He had sometimes been mistaken for him, before he approached, before he spoke. The other was not quite as capable at hiding that there was a story to his past, and so his profile was well known: the corpse lines on his neck, the stark whiteness of the second sword against his otherwise dark silhouette, the way he favoured, protected his right side – seemingly not due to injury, but to put himself between any threat and the two spirit bags that could sometimes be glimpsed if he turned just the right way.

“Song-daozhang?” Lan Xichen asked of the man, who was seated alone, like him, at another table in this crowded inn.

The man looked back, furrowing his brow as though trying to place him. His eyes trailed up to the Lan headband and his eyes narrowed as they returned Xichen’s gaze. Lan Xichen’s well-trained eye caught the smallest movement, a twitch in Song Zichen’s hand, ready to draw his sword if need be.

Lan Xichen shook his head, smiling reassuringly. He stood slowly and bowed, “You have nothing to fear from me, Daozhang. I have only heard great things from my brother.”

A moment’s pause, and Song Zichen visibly relaxed, hand lowering back to his side. He nodded, stood, and offered a bow of his own before gesturing to the seat across from him.

Lan Xichen allowed himself a gentle smile, a moment to indulge in a greater cultivation world, comforted that this man, too, kept himself at a distance. He moved his tea from his own lonely table and joined the other lone traveler.

In this time, Song Zichen had placed paper, a brush, and ink on the table, had written in careful, purposeful script, Your brother. Hanguang-jun?

Lan Xichen smiled, nodded, “Yes, he spoke of you often when he was younger, you left quite the impression,” Song Zichen tilted his head a hair before nodding, “And then, after meeting you the last time…” Xichen’s smile faltered, no way to proceed in this conversation without digging into something painful.

Your brother is a respectable man. His partner, too. Song Zichen deftly rerouted the conversation.

Lan Xichen sighed as he read the words, nodding, “They are. Though I must admit I had… difficulties with Wangji’s choice of companion at… some moments,” he didn’t know why he was telling someone this, not just someone outside the sect, but someone who by all accounts a closer acquaintance of his brother’s than himself. But he went on, “But sometimes, people can surprise you,” Xichen let out a huff of laughter and lifted his tea, “Sometimes for the good, others for the bad,” he ended, unable to keep a slight bitter tone from his voice, a pang of guilt leading him to sigh, close his eyes, reset. Remind himself that Wangji was happy, and that that was what mattered.  

Lan Xichen smiled, “But I suppose it is our companions who make us who we are,” he laughed in a feeble attempt to lighten the mood, “And so we must live with our choices.”

You feel responsible. For the actions of another.

Lan Xichen shrugged, “I am responsible for the consequences.”

There was a pause. Song Zichen frowned, studying Lan Xichen for a moment. A part of Xichen wanted to look away, feeling scrutinized by the swordsman’s keen eye. But there was no malice in the stare. Only a careful contemplation. A search for truth, or understanding.

Song Zichen wrote. Slower than before, took his time, carefully considering every word, tapping the handle of his brush to his chin on occasion. Lan Xichen waited, listened to the wind whistling fiercely outside, to the walls of the old inn creaking, until finally the other man turned the page for Xichen to read.

People have surprised you. They can surprise because they can lie. They may lie for many reasons, but you are never the lesser for believing them. For taking people at their word. If there is guilt to be found, it is to lie only with the speaker.

Xichen looked up, breath shaky, chest tightening, even as Song Zichen was already rising, bowing, waiting for Xichen to rise, to mirror him.

Lan Xichen knew the man’s story, had heard what had happened from his brother. But he didn’t know whether Song Zichen knew his. He didn’t know whether Song Zichen was speaking to him, arguing with him, or communicating through him to someone else. But he found himself replying, “But it is still no defence to bury your doubts. The isolated actions of others may be excused as mistakes or misfortunes, but patterns should not be ignored.”

The corner of Song Zichen’s mouth twitched. The prospect of a smile even if not quite there yet. He reached down, writing a few quick words before flipping the page over, clasping his hands in front of him. The two bowed once again, and Song Zichen left, heading towards the staircase up to the inn’s rooms.

Lan Xichen sat, finishing his tea. He didn’t know what had compelled him to say any of that. He sighed and reached across the table, flipping over the page.

Perhaps, then, even for the most dire of errors, there may be forgiveness.

Lan Xichen smiled. With all that had happened, he wasn’t sure he believed that. But he hoped Song Zichen did.

--

The next morning, Lan Xichen collected his things and made his departure. He didn’t turn back. Didn’t look around for the only other cultivator in this tiny town. Their meeting had been fleeting, but moving.

His heart felt lighter, stronger, from having been understood. Seen even for just a moment.

But their understanding went two ways, and for now, they both knew, so must they.

[cinaja]

Before the Wall part 31

Masterlist

----

It takes the Seraphim hours to bury the dead. There is not enough wood for a pyre, so Drakon decides to have the dead buried. A few of his soldiers look at him strangely, but to his knowledge, most humans don`t care about Fae religions or rituals. Hardly any of them believe in gods or an afterlife the way the Fae do, so it makes little difference to them if their bodies get burned or buried.

The hours blend together, as do the faces of the dead. Drakon does his best to memorize them, but it`s a futile task. But there are, of course, the soldiers he knows. Many of them, after spending years together in a camp. Body after body, each mutilated in a different way. Hundreds of corpses lying in a hole in the ground. Just this morning, they were still people – laughing, making plans for a future they would never have.

Drakon has to pause his work thrice to stumble behind a boulder and throw up. His hands are shaking, but he refuses to stop his work. He owes that much to the dead.

When the last body has been cleaned away, the last grave dug, Drakon surveys the burned remains of their camp and decides that, even though the sun has long since set, there is no way they can spent the night here. How could anyone sleep on this burned ground that is still stained with the blood of their dead friends?

So, in spite of the late hour, they pack their things and fly half an hour further west where they set up their camp by a river. Miryam, who looks dead on her feet, sets up a quick perimeter of wards then returns to Jurian, who hasn`t said or done anything since they found him kneeling between his dead soldiers. Drakon wishes he could do anything to help, but as it stands, all he can do is get his soldiers settled.

It is long past midnight when most of them have vanished into the makeshift tents they erected from whatever they could save from their ruined camp. Drakon doesn`t feel like sleeping, so he sits down in front of a lonely camp fire near the centre of the camp. The images of the dead humans keep drifting through his mind. He knows all too well what their last hours must have felt like.

Soft steps sound behind him and Miryam sits down on the ground next to him. Her dark hair is tangled and there`s ash smeared over the left side of her face. She looks completely drained.

“How is he?”, Drakon asks, putting up a sound shield around them.

Miryam shrugs. “I gave him something to help him sleep. He should be out until morning.”

Drakon nods. He knows that sedating Jurian will not stop the pain for him, just delay it. But at least he`ll get a small reprieve.

“And you?”, he asks.

“I can deal with it. It`s worse for Jurian, he knew them longer.”

Drakon has to supress a sigh. That reply is so utterly typical. “You`re allowed to be upset, you know. Just because someone else has is worse doesn`t mean you aren`t allowed to feel the way you do.”

“How do you feel, then?”, Miryam asks, “Since you also knew them.”

Could her diversion be any more obvious? “I can`t close my eyes without seeing their corpses. Whenever I`m not imagining what their last minutes must have felt like, I keep thinking that we might have been able to prevent this if we hadn`t been so stupid.“ He sighs. “I also threw up. Thrice. And I`m scared to go to bed because I know I`ll have nightmares.” He looks at Miryam. “Your turn.”

“I don`t want to talk about it.”

Drakon honestly has no idea how often he`s heard that of her. Usually, he lets her sort it out with Jurian, who is a bit better at getting her to talk. But this time, Jurian is busy and Drakon doesn`t think that letting Miryam stew over her feelings alone is a good idea.

“Talking is important”, he says and hopes that he doesn`t sound overly preachy. “If you always shove your feelings down, you`ll combust eventually.”

Miryam snorts softly. “Who cares?” She picks up a pebble and throws it into the dark. “There`s no way we`re getting out of this alive, anyways.”

Drakon blinks at her. That`s the most pessimistic he ever heard her. “That`s not true”, he says softly and reaches out and puts a hand on her arm.

“Yes, it is!” She jumps to her feet, brushing his hand away as she does. “We`re already dying – bit by bit, every day.” She makes a sound that is somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Even if we win, even if we don`t all get killed… Do you really think we`ll just ride off into the sunset and live happily ever after when this is over?” She shakes her head. “There`s no getting back from this. Not in a hundred years.”

She lost hope, Drakon realizes. Miryam may still believe in freedom for her people, and be ready to fight for it, but she lost hope for herself. He refuses to accept that.

“Come on”, he says and gets up. “I want to show you something.”

“No, I-“

“Trust me.”

Miryam doesn`t look convinced, but she follows him out of the camp. Unfortunately, his idea to get out of the camp alone runs into difficulties. Namely the three guards trailing them. Normally, their presence hardly bothers Drakon, but in the sleeping camp, their presence stands out and destroys any illusion of privacy.

Drakon stops walking and waves the guards over. All three of them bow, and the leader, a round-faced female named Yani, asks, “How can we help you, your Highness.”

“Lady Miryam and I would like some privacy”, Drakon says. He doesn`t add that he asked her to call him by his name more times than he can count already.

Yani exchanges a look with her colleagues. “Forgive me, your Highness”, she says, “But General Sinna gave us strict orders not to leave you alone.”

Drakon knows. When he first became Prince, it was easy to slip away from his guards – if there were any around – but since his time in the Black Land, Sinna drastically increased security.

“You work for me, though”, he says. “We`ll be back within two hours.”

Drakon pretends he doesn`t notice that his guards have to consider his orders first before they fall back. As soon as they are out of the wards` perimeter, Drakon holds out a hand to Miryam.

When she hesitates, he says, “You set up the wards. If anything happens, we`ll be back within seconds.”

Miryam sighs and takes the offered hand.

----

Drakon winnows them to a field just outside of a medium-sized human city. He tugs his wings tightly to his body and leads Miryam towards the gate. The guards squint suspiciously at Drakon, but relax when they see Miryam`s mostly human features.

“What are we doing here?”, Miryam asks softly when the guards have waved them through.

The village doesn`t seem like anything out of the ordinary. Miryam cannot imagine why Drakon would take her here. She`s too drained to care much, though. It`s like someone cut a tether connecting her to the world. She should be furious, or sad, or desperate, but she just feels empty. Except for the power that keeps thrumming through her, only barely controllable anymore.

“I want to show you something”, Drakon says.

Miryam lets him take her by the arm and lead her through the streets towards the town`s centre. She barely notices where they are going until the sound of music makes her perk up. They round a corner and basically stumble into a street festival. Music and laughter fill the air and in the centre of a square, people are dancing in pairs. Miryam stares at the scene, unable to quite process what she`s seeing.

“Look”, Drakon says and nudges Miryam closer. “There are still people who are alive out there. There are people who are dancing and laughing and living. This is what we`re fighting for and we haven`t lost yet.”

Miryam looks away. She can`t take this. There are cracks forming in her composure and she fears that if she loses control now, she won`t be able to regain control over her powers. Her hands open and close frantically at her side.

“And we are alive as well”, Drakon continues, “We are alive and I promise that when this is all over, you`ll also get to dance on the street, or do whatever else you want for your life.”

Miryam`s shoulders begin to shake and she quickly wipes the tears away. The music still sounds, people are still dancing. Humans living in freedom. Drakon pulls his arms around her and pulls her close to him. Miryam digs her fingers into his jacket. She is crying so hard her entire body shakes now, and she thinks if it wasn`t for Drakon holding her, she might just get swept away.

Eventually, the tears stop. Miryam carefully lets go of Drakon. She wipes her tears away and straightens. Her face feels puffed up and her throat is sore, but the pressure inside of her has become almost bearable.

“Thank you”, she whispers, “I think I needed that.”

“I think we can stay for a bit. If you want to.”

Of course she wants to. She never wants to go back. That is not possible, she knows, but at least they`ll get a small reprieve. Miryam nods and follows Drakon, who keeps his wings tucked in tightly to his body, towards the celebration. Her eyes flicker over the laughing, happy people. They seem surprisingly unbothered by the Fae in their midst.

“How did you know to come here?”, Miryam asks.

“My soldiers like to go here on their days off. They told me.”

Without needing to talk about it, they decide not to join the dancing, so they end up standing next to a small booth that sells drinks. A human man presses two cups into their hands

“Oh, thank you.” Drakon reaches for his pouch to pay for the drinks, but the man waves him off.

“First drink is free for Alliance soldiers”, he says, “Besides, you two look like you could use it.” He vanishes in the crowd, leaving Drakon looking unhappily at his still-full pouch.

Miryam, on the other hand, notices the ash staining their clothes. She sighs. They must look like they crawled straight out of a grave. She tries to brush the ash off her clothes, but only succeeds in smearing it further.

“Hopeless”, she mutters.

“At least that way, we don`t need to worry about being recognized”, Drakon says with eternal optimism.

They find a bench at the edge of the dancing floor and sit down on it. They aren`t part of the celebration, not really, just spectators. They might as well be in a different world as those people.

Drakon drains his cup quickly, then puts it on the ground next to him. Miryam only takes a sip from her cup, then winces. Horrible.

“I hate alcohol.” She takes another sip, winces again and hands the cup to Drakon. “It tastes terrible, and it makes you lose control over yourself.”

“I believe the latter is part of the charm for most people.” Drakon takes a sip from Miryam`s cup.

She snorts. “Like you need to worry about getting drunk from this.”

To be fair, Miryam as a half-Fae doesn`t get drunk very quickly either. But the mere possibility of getting drunk is enough to completely ruin alcohol for her. Losing control is horrifying, she doesn`t understand why anyone would risk it for fun.

“I still can`t believe it”, Drakon whispers.

Miryam nods without taking her eyes off the dancing people. Don`t think about it. Think about these people who never watched their friends get murdered. Next to her, Drakon starts drumming a quick rhythm on the edge of the bank. He looks upset.

“So”, Miryam says, voice shaking slightly. She desperately fumbles for a different subject. Only one thing comes to her mind. “You should probably talk to Sinna. Your soldiers can`t take her word over yours.”

Drakon makes a face at her, but at least his tapping slows. Politics may not be his favourite subject, but Miryam guesses it`s still better than the memories of their dead friends.

“Sinna is over three hundred years old and has been a soldier for most of that time. I`m not even thirty.” He shrugs. “I`d take her word over mine, too. Any smart person would.”

He generally has a point. But - “Not when they are your soldiers.  And most certainly not this publicly.”

Drakon arches an eyebrow. “So, what is it they are saying about me on the Continent that has you so worried about my public appearance? That I`m incompetent?”

“No, not that.” Miryam bites her lip. Normally, she doesn`t tell Drakon about the rumours, but right now, there seems to be no way around it. “With your essays now public, people generally believe you know what you`re talking about. But that doesn`t necessarily mean they also believe that you`re the one making decisions in Erithia. There`s quite a debate to be had on whether it`s your council, your advisors or your military who make the decisions for you, and your aren`t exactly…” She hesitates. “I`m sorry, but things like your conversation with the guards earlier don`t exactly make it seem like they are wrong.”

Drakon changes the rhythm he was drumming. “I`m not making these changes because I`m being manipulated, though”, he says. “I`m not.”

“I know that”, Miryam replies without missing a beat. When Drakon gives her a sceptic look, she adds, “Truly. You may not be very suited to international politics, but you`re brilliant at running a country. You`d notice if anyone was manipulating you about any of that.” She gives him a slight smile. “I`m more worried about your appearance. If you let people say you are being manipulates, you allow them to invalidate all the work you are doing.”

Drakon looks rather relieved at that. “So what should I do?”

“You can still listen to your advisors and generals”, Miryam says, “Believe it or not, but most rulers do. The difference is that they ask for advice quietly and then present it as their decision, while you just let other people make the choices for you.” She frowns. “Although I suggest you talk about this to whoever you pay to advise you on foreign politics, and if the answers he gives don`t match mine, have him replaced – he`s either incompetent or purposefully trying to jeopardize you.”

She supposes he could also use a bit more wariness in general when it comes to the members of his council. But she doesn`t say that. Contrary to popular belief, Drakon isn`t naïve – he`s seen far too much evil for that. He chooses to still see only the best in people, and Miryam personally sees that as a strength. She wouldn`t want him to change that.

“Seems doable”, Drakon says, then gives her a smile that only seems a little bit strained. “You certainly are good at changing the subject.” Which, of course, isn`t an attempt on his part to change the subject at all.

“I`ve got lots of practice”, she mutters, which makes Drakon huff a laugh.

They return their attention to the street festival. Now, most of the participants have taken each other by the hands and are dancing around in a huge circle.

“You ever wish we could trade places with them?”, Miryam asks softly. “Live a normal life.”

“Of course”, Drakon says. “What would you do? If it wasn`t for the war and… everything.”

“I think I`d still like to be a healer. Live in a small village. An ordinary life.” Maybe that`s what she`ll do when the war is over. If she survives. “And you?”

“I`d go back to university”, Drakon says without hesitation, “It`s wonderful there. You would like it.”

Miryam nods quietly. She allows herself to dream of the life she might have had a moment longer. But then, she thinks back to her people and straightens. “We should probably go back.”

Drakon nods and gets up. Miryam looks over her shoulder at the dancing people one last time before turning around to leave.

“I suppose you can`t have it both ways”, Drakon says softly as they walk back towards the gate. “You`re either the person dancing through the night – or you`re the one who fights so that dancing will still be possible tomorrow.”

----

When Jurian wakes up, it takes him a few blissful seconds to remember what happened. But the memories return soon enough, and when they do, he almost wishes he could take more of that sleeping tunic and fall back into oblivion. He nearly asks Miryam, who is sitting cross-legged on the ground next to him, for one – after all, what does he need to be awake for now, anyways? – but then, he remembers Amarantha and Clythia. The vow he made.

He sits up too quickly and his head starts to spin. Miryam reaches out to steady him.

“Easy”, she says, “You`re safe.”

“You think I give a shit?”, Jurian snaps. His voice is hoarse and sounds off in his own ears. He pushes her arm away and stands up – with the success that he immediately falls back over.

“Give yourself a moment”, Miryam says. Her tone is still gentle.

Jurian lets himself fall back onto the blanket he was lying on. “Sorry”, he mutters.

Miryam shrugs. “I understand.”

Jurian carefully pulls himself up into a sitting position and Miryam moves closer until they are almost touching. For a while, they sit together in silence.

“When we arrived in the camp”, Miryam finally says, breaking the silence, “when we saw it destroyed, I thought…” She rubs her hands over her face. “Maybe it is selfish to say, since so many died, but I`m still happy you`re alive.”

Jurian can almost hear the questions behind her words. But how? How come you survived while everyone else died. Where were you while your soldiers got murdered?

“I wasn`t in the camp when… it happened”, Jurian says. I was meeting with Clythia behind your back. While our friends were slaughtered, I sat and ate cake with a Hybern commander.

But his tongue won`t form the words. He closes his eyes. Tell her! He needs to tell her the truth now, he owes her that much. As of yet, he hasn`t really done anything wrong in that regard – he always meant to tell her once his meeting with Clythia was over. He needs to tell her now, and everything will be fine. But he keeps imaging the look in her eyes when she hears what he was doing.

“I…”, he begins. How can things between them ever be the same again if he tells her the truth now? “I went one a ride.” The words slip out involuntarily, without his permission. “I needed a moment alone.”

His heart races. There`s no way Miryam will believe him, she is almost impossible to lie to. Why didn`t he tell the truth? She`ll find out anyways, and him trying to lie will just make it worse. He lowers his head.

Miryam gently puts her hand on his. “It wasn`t your fault”, she says, “Even if you had been there, you couldn`t have saved them. You would have just died alongside them.”

Jurian blinks, too stunned to speak. It wasn`t even that good a lie, there`s no way she fell for that. And yet… The realization hits like a knife to the gut. Miryam doesn`t catch his lie because she doesn`t even consider the possibility that he might be telling anything but the truth. After all, he never lied to her before.

He wishes she had doubted his words. That would have made it more bearable.

“I should have been there”, he whispers, voice breaking. That, at least, is true no matter what.

Miryam just wraps her arms around him and pulls him close. Jurian lets her.

He doesn`t know how long they`ve been sitting like this when the door bursts open. “Oh.” Drakon stops in the entrance.

“What do you want?”, Jurian snaps. He doesn`t know why he`s suddenly angry.

“Sorry.” Drakon lifts his hands, like in surrender. “I should have knocked.” He throws Miryam a letter. “The council wants to see you. I`d say they are asking, but it`s more of a summon.” He turns to Jurian and adds more softly, “I`m glad you`re awake. And, well, alive.”

“Because that`s the most important thing, right?” Jurian scoffs.

“I`m sorry”, Drakon repeats. “I can imagine how you must feel.”

“Oh, can you?” Jurian pushes Miryam`s arm off and climbs to his feet. “Because your soldiers didn`t get slaughtered. They weren`t even in the camp, were they?”

“Are you blaming me for what happened?”, Drakon asks softly. He still doesn`t sound angry, which just pisses Jurian off more. Drakon and his eternal kindness – doesn`t he realize that they`re at war?

“Just stating facts. Because somehow, it`s never your people who have to pay the price, is it. And if we lose this war, it won`t be your people who end up enslaved, either. You`ll get out of this perfectly fine, right? They`ll probably even let you keep your title.”

“Jur…”, Miryam whispers.

Drakon just stares at him, lips pressed into a tight line.

Jurian laughs. “Must be fun, to fight a war knowing that the results will never really affect you. One of the advantages of being Fae, I suppose.”

“Stop it!”, Miryam all but shouts and jumps to her feet. “What are you doing?” Shaking her head, she looks between Jurian and Drakon. “Isn`t it bad enough already?” Her voice shakes like she`s about to cry. “Thousands of people are dead. We`re all that`s left, and if we start to argue amongst ourselves…”

Jurian stares down at his feet. His anger evaporates, leaving him feeling drained and terrible. Not only did he lose his soldiers, now he also picked a fight with Drakon and made Miryam upset.

“Sorry”, he mutters.

“I`m sorry, too”, Drakon says, “About what happened to your soldiers – and that we weren`t there to prevent it.”

Jurian nods, and that is that. Argument settled, but not really. Miryam looks between them, frowning.

“You need to go to your meeting”, Jurian reminds her.

“Do you want me to come?”, Drakon offers.

Jurian has to bite his tongue to keep from saying something about how he doubts that would be very helpful. Damnit, what is wrong with him? It`s like all that`s left is anger, and without anywhere for it to go, he lashes out at anyone who happens to be close. He needs something to direct his anger at, or he fears he might combust and take everyone close to him down with him.

“I received intelligence about the possible location of one of Hybern`s training camps”, he says to Drakon, without really looking at him. “If we manage to find the exact location, we might be able to pay those bastards back in kind.”

----

Miryam`s formal dresses burned together with the camp, so she still wears her ash-stained tunic and pants when she goes to meet the council. She is early for the meeting and only a few of the other councilmembers are there, but they all stare at Miryam`s appearance. She ignores the looks.

Not finding a set of change clothes was a somewhat risky choice, but Miryam decides it`s fitting. Appearing in immaculate clothes after what happened in the last hours would have seemed tasteless. Miryam is just about to take her seat when a hand closes around her arm. She stiffens – she hates being touched without permission – but makes herself turn around slowly. He magic stirs, but she shoves it back down.

“My Lord”, she greets the High Lord of the Night Court.

“May I have a word, Lady Miryam?” His voice is tense and he all but drags her out of the room without waiting for a reply.

“I would appreciate”, she hisses and rips her arm out of his grip, “a little more common courtesy.”

He holds open the door to one of the smaller meeting rooms for her and lets her in with a mock bow. Miryam glares and demonstratively rubs her wrist, where his fingers are sure to leave bruises. Still, the High Lord doesn`t apologize as he closes the door behind them and sets up wards with the wave of a hand. Miryam tries very hard not to be nervous.

“We need to talk”, the High Lord says.

“If this is about Keir –“

“I know you`re planning to shift the blame for your failure on him. I would do the same, in your position. Still, I`d suggest you take a different route.”

“No.” Miryam takes back a step so that she no longer has to look up at him quite so obviously. “Over three thousand soldiers got killed in a single night, all because your commander went against Alliance directives to torture a group of enemy soldiers and then presented the information he got as sound intelligence. The blame for this lies with him, and I`ll make sure he gets what he deserves.”

“How righteous of you. And how practical that this way, you shift the blame well away from yourself and your friends. Even though it was your fault as well, wasn`t it?”

Yes, it was. But that won`t be the public version. “If Keir hadn`t supplied incorrect information”, she says flatly, “none of this would have happened.”

“And if you make it public, his behaviour will fall back on me.” When Miryam only arches an eyebrow at him, he steps closer. “So don`t make it public.”

Miryam makes herself laugh. “Just like that? You argue against me in almost every meeting, and now, you expect me to do you a huge favour?”

“You don`t want me as your enemy”, he warns.

He`s standing so close now that her every instinct screams at her to run. Instead, she slowly steps back and reaches for the handle of the door. The High Lord`s wards crack under her touch and she pulls the door open.

“So you keep saying”, she says, “but the more I think about it, the more I feel like you are the one who doesn`t want me as your enemy.”

With that, she walks out of the room and towards the council chamber. There, Andromache has arrived by now. She drops all pretence when she sees Miryam and hugs her in front of the entire council.

“Are you okay?”, she asks, “Jurian? Drakon?”

“Yes.” None of them are anywhere near okay, but at least they are alive. “None of us were in the camp when it happened.”

“And I think we`d all like to know the reason for that”, Nakia says from her seat at the table.

“We received faulty information”, Miryam says, taking her seat. Then, she briefly outlines what happened yesterday, making sure to place as much blame of possible on Keir.

By the time she is finished, most of the councilmembers are frowning. Unfortunately, more than one of them seem to direct their ire at Miryam. Zeku softly shakes his head at her.

“Yet I have to wonder”, one of the Fae says, “how none of you noticed the trap.”

“We received the intelligence from the council”, Miryam replies, “We believed it had been verified and followed the orders we`d been given.”

Nakia surprises her by nodding. “No point arguing about it now”, she says gruffly. “The damage is done. I suggest we start dealing with the aftermath.”

In the end, of course, someone still has to get punished – but that someone ends up being Keir, who gets stripped of his army command. His High Lord glares at Miryam. Otherwise, it is decided that Jurian will be put in charge of training new recruits and making them into a new army. After that is settled, they mercifully decide to end the meeting.

Most of the other councilmembers don`t leave immediately, so Miryam also remains sitting for a while. She can`t vanish immediately after each meeting.

Zeku leans against the table next to her. “My condolences”, he says.

“Thank you.”

Zeku remains sitting on the table and watches her. Silently.

“Was there something else?”, Miryam asks when she has enough from his staring.

Zeku seems to consider, then shakes his head. “Nothing. Just… are you sure you know what you`re doing here, Miryam?”

She tenses. She thinks back to the warning he gave her months ago and tries not to make her worry too obvious. She must have made some kind of mistake – maybe she didn`t shift the blame for their away successfully enough. This is bad. Her standing with the council is all that gives her the power to influence where this war is going. She needs to find a way to fix this, and quickly. If she can manage, with her losing control over her magic more and more each day.

“I`m just trying to free my people”, she says softly. “That`s all I want. All I`m fighting for.”

Zeku watches her for a moment longer, then he nods and jumps off the table. “Be careful”, he tells her and walks off to join one of his Fae allies.

Miryam looks after him and tries to ignore the sinking feeling that she completely missed what he was trying to warn her about.

----

A/N: You probably already guessed it, but things are going downhill from here. There will also be another time jump between this chapter and the next. Oh, and Mor will play a larger role again in the next arc. I haven't forgotten about her, her pov just didn't fit into this arc.

Tags: @croissantcitysucks @sjm-things @clolikescloquetas

[moonb-eam]

oh nat, i know we've basically made you write the entire p&p au from eliott's pov with our asks but i just can't help myself, esp after seeing the last ask about the telescope scene-so here it goes: have they ever talked about lucas' past- how lonely he must've been losing his parents at a young age? bc he still refers to his aunt/uncle as mr/mrs banet,like they're family but there's a distance. also i love that eliott loves the banets in your au as opposed to the og darcy who hated the bennets.

ahahaha we have managed to cover a lot of ground with the asks but it’s okay darling!! thank you for your question 🧡🧡🧡 (this one also ran away from me a bit, so i’ve but it under the cut)

When Eliott first met the Banet family, he didn’t know what to make of them.

They were loud, that much was true. Bold and indelicate. Simultaneously warm and welcoming but also intimidating. They were clearly close, as evident from their interactions and the way the spoke to one another. Eliott could see shades of himself and Daphné in the way the Banet sisters and Lucas would be arguing one moment, petty and childish, then fiercely defending one another in the next.

Mrs. Banet frightened Eliott the most. Her strong opinions and bouts of cluelessness likened her to his aunt initially, a comparison that made him turn in the opposite direction whenever he saw her approaching. Mr. Banet was more of an an enigma, quiet and withdrawn, but with a shrewd, intelligent gaze.

But these were only glimpses into the Banet family. Impressions that Eliott gathered from balls, when he had nothing to do but observe the guests from a distance.

Then, Lucas agrees to move in with him, and Alexia tells him, You’re already family, darling, and Eliott finds himself in the middle of Beaufort’s kitchen with Mrs. Banet clinging to him and rest of the family watching on in amusement, and it hits him properly, in the midst of it all, that he is a part of this family now.

Their chaos is his chaos. Their ridiculousness and dramatics are his to bear.

The thought makes Eliott so wildly happy that he thinks he might cry all over again. He can see them together: the Banet’s, Lucas, himself, Daphné, Madeleine. One overly large, patchwork family, one that’s made as much as it is born. One that’s real and imperfect and so full of love.

So, when Eliott finds himself alone for a moment at their garden party, which Lucas keeps insisting is not a wedding even though it may as well be, and he spots Mrs. Banet walking towards the food table, he drains the rest of his wine glass, and subtly intercepts her.

“Eliott,” she says happily when she sees him, linking their arms together. “I was wondering when you were going to come to talk to me.”

Not so subtly, then.

“I don’t want to bother you,” Eliott immediately says, and it’s an old habit that makes him wince. He can practically hear Dr. Daucet’s voice in his hear.

Why do you think your instinct is always to apologize, Eliott? What are you apologizing for?

“Nonsense.” Mrs. Banet’s cheeks are pink and her eyes are glassy. She grins, and her smile is that of a woman much younger than her, teasing and girlish. “You are my son now, after all.”

The ease with which she says it stops him short. “Oh.”

She grips tightly onto his bicep. “That is to say that you’re a part of this family, my dear. You’re one of mine.” She inclines her head to where Eliott can see Emma, Manon, Alexia, and Lucas standing in a circle, their heads bent together as though they’re sharing a secret. “And that extends to your lovely sister as well.”

“Thank you,” Eliott says softly. Mrs. Banet pats him on the cheek, and both of their eyes are watery. “That means more than you know.”

“I think I know.” Mrs. Banet says, with a sad tilt to her mouth. “You know, when I first heard the news that my sister and her husband died, all I could think about was Lucas.”

Her gaze drifts to him as she speaks, to Lucas, who is wrestling his crown of flowers away from Alexia, returning it to his head and pouting when Emma says something that makes all of the girls laugh.

“All I could think about was that sweet boy, now left without a family. We never discussed it, she and I, where Lucas would go if anything happened to them, but I knew there was only one possibility. He needed a family. He needed a home.”

Eliott pictures him, his sweet and sensitive and blisteringly smart Lucas as a child, alone and adrift in the world, and his heart grows heavy. His ribs strain under the weight of it. “So you gave him that.”

When he turns to look at her, Mrs. Banet’s smile is melancholic. “I tried,” she says simply. “But I could only ever do so much. I was never a mother to him, nor was my husband ever his father. There’s no replacement for that.” Her fingers touch her mouth, gaze warm as she takes in her children. “But we all tried together, to become something like a family. There’s some of it I would do differently now, for all of them, but I think...I think we’ve done alright.” She rests her head against Eliott’s shoulder. “They’ve turned out wonderfully, haven’t they?”

Eliott pats the hand that still grips tightly to his bicep. “They have,” he agrees. Lucas' head turns, eyes searching in the crowd as though he can hear Eliott thinking about him, and when he sees Eliott with his aunt, his eyes widen, his mouth dropping open.

“Oh,” Mrs. Banet smirks. “He thinks I’m embarrassing him.” She waves at Lucas with her free hand. “Quickly, Eliott: laugh as though I’ve just said something horribly embarrassing about him.”

The thing is, Eliott realizes, Lucas hardly ever talks about his parents.

There was that moment at Montrose, when Eliott’s aunt was badgering Lucas incessantly about his background, and Lucas had mentioned that his parents were poets, and that they had little money. But aside from that, Eliott knows nothing about them.

He understands it, though. Eliott doesn’t speak about his father unless he absolutely has to. It aches to do so, like prodding at an old scar, and Eliott doesn’t want to ask Lucas to tell him anything that he wouldn’t be willing to share.

That doesn’t stop him from thinking about it, though.

He finds himself in the library one afternoon, carefully combing through the Demaury collection of poetry, searching for any volume with the name Lallemant on the spine. His search yields nothing, aside from distracting Eliott from what was supposed to be an afternoon of finally responding to letters that he’s been meaning to respond to for weeks, and it does nothing to satiate his curiosity.

Still, he makes the decision to wait. He will only ask about Lucas’ family if Lucas gives him an opening to do so. Eliott is patient, a quality nurtured in him by his mother, and with Lucas, he’s even more so. There’s no end to how long he’s willing to wait for him. For anything.

But as it happens, Eliott doesn’t even need to ask.

There’s one night in October when it storms: pounding rain and echoing claps of thunder. Forks of lightning that crack the sky.

They spend the evening in the drawing room, Lucas, Eliott and Daphné, gathered around the fireplace with pots of tea and plates of food. They play cards and Daphné wins every hand. Eliott tells ghost stories until Lucas tells him to stop because he’s bored, even though Eliott has a suspicion it’s because he’s scared.

Eventually, Daphné falls asleep, curled up under a wool blanket on the settee, her open book tumbling from her hands down to the floor.

Eliott folds the corner of a page down to save her place, then wraps another blanket around his shoulders, sitting on the floor with his back braced against the the corner of the settee.

Lucas eyes him from his armchair. “Is there room in there for me?”

In response, Eliott holds the blanket open to him.

Lucas sits between Eliott’s legs, leaning back against his chest and letting out a contended sigh when Eliott folds his arms around him, the blanket covering them both.

A cold nose presses into Eliott’s neck and he gasps.

Lucas giggles into his skin.

“You’re annoying,” Eliott grumbles, but he’s smiling, and Lucas must be able to tell without even looking at him because his hand comes out the blanket, flailing around Eliott’s face until it finds his cheek, then poking him.

“You love me,” Lucas says, sounding nothing short of smug, and Eliott bites at the tip of his finger.

But he can’t help saying it, after a moment, ducking his head to kiss Lucas’ cheek, to whisper in his ear just as another fork of lightning casts long shadows across the drawing room floor, “I love you.”

Lucas turns his head to meet him in a kiss, and Eliott can feel it everywhere when he shivers.

“I love you too,” Lucas murmurs when they part. He tucks his face back into Eliott’s neck, and Eliott shifts his hold on him, lifting one arm so he can stroke his fingers through Lucas’ hair.

Lucas lets out a happy noise, and Eliott smiles, pressing his lips to his forehead.

It’s so peaceful there, in the places where their bodies overlap, underneath their warm blanket, that it feels as though they’ve created a world entirely separate from the one they inhabit. The storm may rage and roar, but there, in the Demaury drawing room, exists only warmth and comfort.

Eliott thinks he could fall asleep like this, with Lucas in his arms and Daphné’s soft snores above them, warmed by the crackling fire.

It would be hell for his back, but it would be worth it.

“This is what it is,” Lucas says softly, and his voice almost too quiet to be heard over the rain against the windows, “to speak of longing between souls. We must have fallen from the same star, my dear, for I loved you before I ever knew you.”

Eliott slowly smooths his hand over Lucas’ hair. “That’s beautiful.” His thumb strokes down the shell of Lucas’ ear. “Where is it from?”

“My mother wrote it.”

Eliott lets out a long breath, resting his chin on the top of Lucas’ head. His eyes are fixed on the tall windows across from them, the world beyond them dark and cavernous, lit only by the occasional stark flash of lightning.

“There used to be manuscripts everywhere in the house,” Lucas says eventually. “From both of them. They would read them aloud constantly, and pore over a single line for hours. It’s why I never liked poetry, because it reminded me too much of them. That one in particular...I heard my mother say it so many times, I could never forget it. But I,” Lucas hands fist in Eliott’s shirt, “I don’t think I really understood it until now.”

Eliott's free hand finds Lucas’ under the blanket. He lifts them together, kissing the inside of Lucas’ wrist, nuzzling into his palm.

He closes his eyes, trying to imprint the words onto his heart.

This is what it is, to speak of longing between souls.

“They would have loved you,” Lucas continues, and there’s a subtle fondness to his voice that makes Eliott smile against the delicate bones of his hand. “I’m sure you could have spent hours talking to them about poetry, or about art.” He lets out a soft laugh. “I would have had to fight to get any of your attention.”

Eliott shakes his head. “Never,” he says softly.

Lucas tugs on Eliott’s hand, lowering them back beneath the folds of the blanket to rest on his stomach.

“We didn’t have a lot of money, but I didn’t realize that, at the time. They never acted like it. I don’t remember them ever fighting, or ever speaking about money around me. They were just...happy, I think. They were always happy.”

Lucas falls silent, and Eliott realizes that he’s crying, small tremors rippling through his back that Eliott can feel in his sternum. Immediately, Eliott wants to comfort him. He wants to wipe his tears and tell him everything will be alright, but in this moment, with Lucas picking at the edges of the oldest scar he has, Eliott doesn’t think its his place.

Eliott knows grief, yes, but he doesn’t know grief like this. So he stays silent, pressing his lips to the crown of Lucas’ head.

I’m so sorry, Lucas. A clap of thunder echoes in the distance. The rain continues to beat against the windows. It’s unfair, and that’s all we can say about it. It’s so fucking unfair.

Eliott doesn’t know how long they stay that way for, but it doesn’t matter. He counts time by how many passes his hand has made down Lucas’ spine, by how many shudders he can feel under his palm, by how many times Lucas’ fists unclench from his shirt, only to grip back onto it.

Eventually, Lucas shifts against him, turning his head away from Eliott’s neck, and his voice is a little more solid to say, “I was lucky, you know. There are so many others like me who lost their parents and had to be taken to an orphanage, or to homes with cruel people. The Banet’s, they...they’ve done so much for me. They’ve given me a family, and a home, but it doesn’t mean that I don’t-” He exhales softly. “There’s something missing in me, and it won’t ever be replaced.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Eliott tells him gently.

“I know,” Lucas says, and it sounds a little sad, but it also sounds like something he’s thought about before. Something he carries with him.

When the silence between them stretches out into minutes, Eliott tentatively says, “Thank you for sharing that with me.”

Lucas leans away from Eliott’s chest, sitting up and turning on the spot so he can face him. The blanket drops from his shoulders, pooling around his waist.

His eyes are bloodshot and puffy, his face is red, but he’s smiling softly as he cups Eliott’s cheeks in his hands, pressing their foreheads together and letting a sigh unfurl between them.

“It’s so easy for me to tell you things,” Lucas says. “Well, not easy necessarily, but it - it feels right.” He kisses Eliott, short and sweet, and it feels like thank you. It feels like you’re the safest place I know. 

“It’s the same for me,” Eliott whispers. “I hope you know that.”

Lucas’ smile widens. “I do.”

They fire has died to embers, and with it, the warmth in the room begins to be taken over by the damp cold from the storm, so they make the decision to leave, having to try to wake Daphné a few times before bidding her goodnight, then making their way back to their own room, holding hands while Lucas wears the blanket like a cape.

It’s only when Eliott is sitting on the end of their bed, watching Lucas blow out the final candle on the mantlepiece, that he says, hesitantly, “I wish I could read her work.”

It’s too dark for Eliott to interpret the glance Lucas sends him, and he’s worried he’s overstepped, until Lucas steps towards him and says lightly, “You probably could. My father was only published in journals, but she had a book printed, years ago. I’ve never been able to find a copy, but I’m sure you could, with your,” he pokes Eliott in the forehead, “connections.”

“Would you mind?” Eliott asks, grasping Lucas’ finger and tugging on his hand, placing his palm flat over Eliott’s heart. “If I read it? If you would rather I didn’t, I’d understand.”

“No.” Lucas says softly. “I wouldn’t mind.” His thumb strokes across Eliott’s skin. “But thank you for asking.”

“Of course.”

“Her name was Hélène,” Lucas says. “Hélène Lallemant. But the book was published under the pen name Cezanne Olivier.”

The name gives Eliott pause. It tugs at something in his mind, a thin forest green spine and faded gold lettering, but he can’t be sure, not entirely, so he just nods, and says, “I’ll look for it.”

“Alright.” Lucas drops his hand from Eliott’s chest, kneeing up onto the bed next to him, then crawling under the covers, burrowing himself into the pillows.

“Come on.” His voice is muffled. “I’m cold and exhausted, and I’d like you to hold me, please.”

Without hesitation, Eliott goes.

His suspicion is confirmed the next day, when he ventures back into the library and finds that same thin volume. The lettering is faded, but not too faded so as not to be discerned, and Eliott sets it down carefully on the desk in the library, making a plan to return to it after he finishes his meeting with Maurice to survey any damages to the grounds from the storm.

But, when he returns, soaked from the light rain that continues to fall, covered in mud from walking the tree line, the book isn’t where he left it.

He checks the bookcases, on the chance that Madeleine may have re-shelved it, but cannot find it there. He checks the other tables, the drawing room, the study, and grows increasingly worried that he may have lost it somewhere, until he walks past the open door to the bedroom, and he sees Lucas in there, curled up on the window seat with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and an open book in his hand, one with a deep green cover and faint gold lettering.

Eliott watches him for a moment, the way his eyes slowly travel over each line, the way his fingers caress each page before turning it, before he smiles, then quietly turns back down the hallway.

[laserdog10]

Loneliness

”It’s not so bad not being in a league that suits me.”

It was a personal mantra that she told herself every day, even if it did kind of hurt. Citrus was born as both a Rose and an Arc, two powerful family bloodlines that were well renowned on Remnant by now, thanks to the defeat of Salem. However, Citrus’ elder siblings Garnet and Blossom, have been shown to be marginally stronger and almost gifted...or actually gifted. Garnet had inherited a portion of Ruby’s Spring Maiden magic on top of Jaune’s hefty Aura with the addition of a strong Semblance, while Blossom was a Silver Eyed Warrior, the greatest of all destined to slay Grimm and be the heroes of humanity. While Citrus was...just normal.

Yep, no insane powers, no off-the-wall weapon that has multiple transformations, no fancy Semblance (other than the ability to talk to animals), she was a normal girl who wanted to be a Huntress, like everyone her generation. However she felt an odd lonesome feeling inside her, when her brother and sister went off to Signal for the first time, Citrus was alone at home with her aunt Yang, grandpa Qrow, uncle Tai, and aunt Raven. If that wasn’t enough her Semblance let her speak to the family dog Zwei and the five wolves Ruby adopted, Drei, Vier, Funf, Sechs, and Null. And yet...she still had this emptiness in her heart. Well unlucky for her it was about to intensify that feeling tenfold as she was about to head to Signal tomorrow, the day after her siblings and cousin graduate. Right now it was well into the evening, the sun setting on the horizon, rays of light beaming down on the Rose-Arc & Xiao Long-Branwen residence, Citrus leaning against the railing, teetering her weighted collapsible scythe, Soulful Reave, back and forth, her emerald green eyes staring off into space, tangerine curled hair catching the wind.

Jaune: Someone’s a little broody.

Citrus: Hmm?! Oh, hi dad!

Jaune: Is Qrow’s mysterious edginess rubbing off on you or am I just reading too much into this?

Citrus: Pffft, nooo dad, I’m fine, thank you. Just...thinking, deep contemplation about the future.....

Jaune: Excited you’re going to Signal tomorrow?

Citrus: Heheheee, not really...?

Jaune: Why not?

Citrus: *stops teetering her scythe* Dad, do you think I’m...special?

Jaune: The “daddy loves his special girl” kind of special or...

Citrus: The special that’s meant for amazing things, I don’t feel like I am.

Jaune: Woah woah woah, what brought this on?!

Citrus: Nothing, I’m...*sigh* Dad, compared to Garnet and Blossom, I’m so bland! I have nothing truly remarkable about m-* her shoulders are held as she faces her father*

Jaune: Citrus, tell me what’s going on, is everything okay?

Citrus: I don’t think so...have you ever had the feeling of overwhelming loneliness and that you’re far behind people close to you?

Jaune: More than you could fathom, sweetheart. But that was a long time ago, and with a little bit of time, and the love from those people around me, it eventually went away. Why, is it the fact that your brother and sister are way ahead of you getting to you?

Citrus: *tears form in her eyes* Y-yeah, a lot...

Jaune: Oh, sweety. *he brings his small daughter into a huge hug* Believe me when I say that feeling is completely normal, your mother and I had this lonely, by-our-selves spell when we first went to Beacon.

Citrus: I just feel so out of place. I hear about all these kids who were raised by amazing Huntsmen, their amazing transforming weapons, and their powerful Semblances, then there’s me. Swinging around a simple scythe and talking to animals, no Maiden or S.E.W. powers...

Jaune: Citrus, look at me. *his gaze is met by the distraught, teary-eyed face of his daughter* All these feelings, all these issues you’re feeling right now are completely normal for a thirteen year old to experience! Think it like, you’re still going through your “character arc,” which always starts just as you turn thirteen. You’ll get to that important “climax” of your story some day.

Citrus: *sniff* R-really...?

Jaune: I know so. Now let’s go inside, dinner’s almost ready!

Citrus: I’ll head in a second, gotta go put Soulful Reave back in in the shed.

Such an action to her weapon would make her brother, proverbially, lose his mind, but she took good care of her scythe, occasionally but primarily leaving it in the room she shared with her siblings, like they do with their weapons. Tomorrow would be the first step into this “character arc” of hers, and she would tackle it however she could!

-The next day-

Strolling down the halls of Signal wasn’t so bad, she was old enough to be by herself while her parents weren’t too far off. Ruby had gone with the many other parents of new students to a little meeting, confirming their classes and whatnot, meanwhile Citrus wandered around Signal, her orange cloak flowing as she strolled along, seeing big metal lockers to hold plenty of supplies, classrooms, a library, and the cafeteria. What she didn’t expect to come across was a large crowd of kids clamoring around a board with a myriad of papers on it. Among this crowd the youngest Rose-Arc saw the red-patched blonde hair of her sister.

Citrus: Blossom? *she called over the talkative graduates*

Blossom: Hey baby sis! You here on your intro tour? *the blonde side-stepped through the moderate sea of teens, a few of which turned heads to the younger teen*

Citrus: Yep, mom just went with the other parents to that meeting! What are you doing over here with everyone?

Blossom: Seeing who got their academic success title.

Citrus: You’re what?

“An awesome title for how well you did in your classes!” chimed a female student.

Citrus: Oh, cool!

Blossom: Wanna guess what I got?

Citrus: I...don’t know what they are.

Blossom: Oh, well come look.

Taking a closer look at the board, Citrus saw this hefty list of names that made her head spin. So many names, numbers, scores, classes.

Citrus: This makes my brain hurt...

Blossom: Same here, and could you help me find my name, I’ve been helping everyone here find their’s for a while n-

Citrus: You got Salutatorian, Garnet got Valedictorian, and Lea’s below both of you!

Blossom: I’M WHAT?!

The students: THEY’RE WHAT!?

“I’m what now???” came a familiar voice behind the girls and the crowd. They turned to find Garnet himself, in the midst of eating a roll of cookie dough from the cafeteria. Without thinking the students swarmed him, barging questions left and right; “How are you so smart,” or “Please teach me your ways,” and “You’re amazing Garnet!”

Garnet: Woah, slow down guys, I’m not that great honest! I just studied and practiced like anyone else would.

“But you got Valedictorian, dude!!!” exclaimed a male student with very punk-rock hair.

“That’s an achievement in and off itself!” cheered a preppy looking girl.

“You’re a freaking prodigy, bro!!!!” cried a sporty, muscular lad.

Garnet: Alright, listen up everyone, I’m gonna give you some life advice you all need to hear. Trying to be like me is impossible, and I wouldn’t go as far as to say I’m a prodigy. Yes I have powers of a Maiden inherited from my mother, yes I have a massive amount of Aura and strong Semblance to boot, yes I also have multiple weapons and am highly skilled in using all of them. However that doesn’t place me above the rest of you, nor should it make you all downplay yourselves! You all have your strengths and weaknesses, but you shouldn’t strive to become like me, because I’m not perfect. Imitation is the cheapest form of flattery that mediocrity can pay in greatness. Don’t strive to be me, strive be a better you, because their can only be one of us in the world! And if you do find someone like you later in life...*claps hands* Then I got nothing. *awkwardly smiles*

His audience applauded, but mostly laughed at the perplexing finish to his speech. His sisters had their own reactions, Blossom shaking her head and smiling in a way that conveyed a “The fact I’m related to you is astonishing” feel, Citrus on the other hand was captivated. “Strive to be a better you,” this phrase alone struck many chords in her, to the point that the lonely feeling of hers dissipated somewhat...

“Ohhh yawn-a-fuckin’-rama! That was the cheesiest shit I’ve ever heard, One Armed Arc!”

The students instinctively winced at the sound of the boastful and snarky voice. Collectively looking to the source, a tall girl with long burnt-orange hair and indigo eyes, clad in gray armor with a gold trim, a jet black waist cloth on the tool belt around her. Strapped to her back in a sheath was a morning star mace, the signature and feared weapon wielded by Signal Academy’s tyrant.

Blossom: Carly Winchester...

Citrus: ...

Garnet: And why are you here?

Carly: No reason, except I just heard a one-armed loser spouting some bullshit and being humble. Face it, you could be running this school! And yet you choose to be weak, lumping yourselves with these peons who could get their asses reamed by you.

Blossom: Garnet isn’t weak!

Carly: Aww look, little Ms. Self-loathing wants to act all big and tough! Why don’t you can it and go cry on the roof like you always do.

Citrus: *grits teeth and clenches her fists*

Garnet: What I do doesn’t make me weak Carly, I-

Carly: OH FUCKING SPARE ME! Hearing your high and mighty “holier-than-thou” bullshit makes me sick, you have the powers of a damn GOD and look where you are!

Citrus: ...hat’s it to y... *mumbles*

Carly: Hmm what’s that Shorty, got some shit to say? If you don’t then butt the fuck out, the adults are tal-

Citrus: WHAT’S IT TO YOU!? All you ever do is hurt and scare people, that’s not power, that’s being a jerk!

Carly: You-!

Citrus, standing in front of Carly now: My big brother is more of a Hunter and leader than you could ever hope to be! All you are is a bully, a coward, and an absolute BITCH!!!

Everyone present gasped, Garnet and Blossom were shocked into silence. Calling Carly a bitch was something else entirely, but hearing it from Citrus, someone who had never sworn in her life?! Surely they must’ve been dreaming, right??? Obviously they weren’t, for Carly had looked around incredulous, thinking she had heard the orangenette right.

Carly: The fuck did you just say to me you little shit...?!

Citrus: You heard me, you’re nothing but a BI-!

Carly: SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!!!

The warrior girl screamed in tandem with swinging her mace directly down onto the smaller girl. The motion happened at such a speed, all that was seen was a shiny, gray blur kicking up dust and debris when it landed.

Garnet/Blossom: CITRUS!!!

The youngest Rose-Arc braced for the impact beforehand...but it never came. Instead when she opened her eyes, she was in a dust cloud, embraced by her cousin, Lea Xiao Long-Schnee, her giant gauntlets blocking the crushing blow.

Lea: Might I ask why the hell you are attacking my cousin, Carly? *she said in a low tone, pushing the warrior girl back a good few feet*

Carly: Mind telling me why your brat isn’t on her child leash?!

Lea: *eyes turning lilac, blue fire adorning her hair* I think Citrus is going to be the least of your worries right now...

Citrus stepped back, knowing full well what was coming next. Garnet walked past her but not before looking at his baby sister.

Garnet: Might wanna go get mom and the principal, this courtyards about to become a war zone. *he winked*

Carly targeted him first, her mace colliding with the boy’s head and sending him staggering. He regained his footing, readying his own gauntlets as Lea pounced on Carly, throwing her into one of the support columns in the courtyard, Garnet running up and landing jab after jab upon Carly. Blossom held Citrus’ hand as they ran off to find their mother before the situation got worse, as they ran they heard the unmistakable sound of the Maiden powers flaring from their brother and cousin.

Blossom: We’ll leave it to them to kick Carly’s butt.

Citrus: ...

Blossom: You okay?

Citrus: Yeah yeah, just thinking.

Blossom: You narrowly avoiding getting brained by an amazon brute???

Citrus: Well...besides that, but what Garnet said earlier.

Blossom: Oh that.

Citrus: It stuck with me, and...and I think it should solve all my problems.

Blossom: ...if you say so!

Seems her father was right, today was when her character arc would begin, and now she would walk through it with her head held high!

[delldarling]

choices | harper & peregrine pt.iii

looking for pt.i or pt.ii?

female faerie x body/gender neutral reader x male faerie 2.1k sfw | found family, hugging - not strictly written as asexual or aromantic, but definitely holds heavy hints of it

You follow Peregrine on slightly unsteady feet, half wondering if your first step on the melted stair of the candle tree is going to be soft. When you test it, half pulling Peregrine to a stop, you find it surprisingly solid. A small breath escapes you, a smile curling your mouth as you move with more surety, with purpose.

“Is this place… Not to your liking? Strange?” Peregrine asks, teeth worrying at his lower lip. He looks concerned about your answer, turning his head to look over the area surrounding his home as if with new eyes. 

“A bit? Strange, I mean,” You offer, not wanting to hurt his feelings. “Amazing, too though. I- I don’t know when you were last in the human realm, but we generally do not have houses made of candle trees.” You glance back, gaze darting through the surrounding woods, and then turn to him once more, taking another step up the porch stairs. No need to make them tarry any longer on his steps. 

Peregrine still seems to be mulling over your words as he leads you inside though, thumb stroking idly over the heel of your hand, calluses catching on your skin. The inside of his house is clean, if cluttered. Shelves are bowed heavily with items you’ve never seen before, gleaming glass and trinkets that seem to move out of the corner of your eye, and the main room reminds you a bit of a nest as he leads you into it. There’s heavily mismatched furniture - made of strange materials like still growing grass or blossoms - in a semicircle, crowded with blankets and throw pillows in various shades of warm and cool colors. There’s a large candle stump in the middle, bigger around than the three of you mushed together, wick spiraling up into the air. It reminds you vividly of a firepit, and you’re half tempted to ask Peregrine to light it, just to see, though the room is plenty warm enough. 

Harper follows you in, closing the door securely behind her, and then moves around you to deposit her fiddle carefully on one of the arm chairs. The grass on it shifts, as if a wind has blown, and then grows longer, as if it's trying to help cradle the fiddle to gain Harper's favor.

“What questions do you have for us?” Harper asks, sitting primly on the edge of her seat, arranging her gauzy looking dress just so around her thighs. 

Peregrine totes you over to the selection of seats, releasing your hand only reluctantly so you can choose and follow suit. You decide on a seat in the middle, bridging the gap they seem determined to make between them. It’s overflowing with blooms that hold their shape, even as you sit on them. Hesitant, you brush your fingers over the blossoms, pleased to find that your touch doesn’t seem to bruise them, that just like the grassy armchair, they seem to shift to make you more comfortable. Your lips want to tremble with humor - memory flora. You clear your throat to make yourself concentrate. 

“Peregrine played the song that made me wander?” You ask, even though they’ve all but cemented that particular answer already.  

“I did,” he murmurs, finally sitting in a seat adjacent to yours. He arranges his robe just as carefully as Harper, and the sight makes you want to laugh. You keep it down, though you don’t make any effort to hide your smile. They share such similarities, even though they try desperately to act differently. “The song is meant to bring changelings to Faerie. To Call you home, if you’re willing.”

“The only trouble is, you didn’t reach Peregrine after you heard the song,” Harper says sharply, cat’s eyes narrowed and focused entirely upon Peregrine’s pouting mouth. He leans away in his chair, as if he can escape the ire in her gaze. 

“I was… Too slow?” You ask, confused about why exactly it was that you missed finding him. Both of them make sudden disgusted noises.

“No. Peregrine should have taken better care, should have waited even if it took days, before coming back home,” Harper starts, though her thin shoulders slump when Peregrine whimpers mournfully under his breath.

“I’ve been trying to correct this for years,” he says, reaching for the pan flute still belted to his waist. He strokes over the reeds with care, eyebrows drawn together as his gaze follows the path of his fingers. “Every night I play-”

“And look where that’s gotten you?” Harper shoots back. “Calling continually from behind the veil of Faerie, leaving anyone who might answer unable to reach you. A wanderer, Peregrine!! Did you not hear? The potential injury to their physical body alone-”

“I’m alright,” you offer, though tension is rising in the room, and you’re not entirely sure that either of them hear you. “I’ve never actually run into trouble when I wander about, honestly, and it’s always been a little strange-”

“If you stay within Faerie, if you choose to- to come visit, you should stay with Harper,” Peregrine interrupts, turning to you. His cheeks have gone dark and ruddy with embarrassment. “If you want to stay, or even visit at all. I won’t blame you if you don’t. After all, I’ve failed you once already, leaving you there, who is to say that I wou-”

“My Call wouldn’t have been answered if they hadn’t heard yours, long ago!” Harper interjects, half rising off of her seat. The grass clings to her skirts, like it’s trying to get her to sit back down. To calm before she says something she cannot take back. “The geas was a Call to Faerie. Just because it was I that was answered doesn’t mean that you’re beholden to me-”

“It’s a reasonable decision though, isn’t it?” Peregrine throws out, lower lip jutted out. “You didn’t leave anyone aching in the human realm, lonely and desperate for-”

You glance at either of their faces, but it almost feels like they don’t realize you’re here any longer. Harper is arguing for Peregrine to reflect on his mistake and move past it, but Peregrine seems determined to wallow under the blame. They volley words back and forth, neither of them noticing when you slump in your seat. Having them argue over you isn’t really swaying you towards a decision, not when you can see both their points, not when you’re surrounded by.. By magic on all sides and you still have that hollow ache of longing trapped inside your chest. 

“Shouldn’t it be my choice?” You ask, raising your voice. They stop their arguing, turning to stare at you with wide eyes and open mouths. The room has gotten too hot, and with a start, you realize that the candle stump in the middle is now blazing cheerfully, casting the room with shadows. “You said-”

“We did,” they reply, in tandem again. Both of them turn their heads, looking at opposite sides of the room. “You always have a choice,” they both add.

Harper’s tongue flicks out to wet her lips. “Shall we lay out our strengths, to help you make a better informed decision?”

“Or perhaps you’d like a moment of silence,” Peregrine murmurs, hands sliding to his knees like he’s about to get to his feet. “After our, our bickering, surely you-”

“Silence,” you agree. “But I’ll go outside, just give me a moment,” you tell them and then get to your feet, heading for the front door. It’s hard not to glance back at them, especially when Peregrine makes a strangled noise. You’re half expecting the landscape to have changed when you open it, but you’re still standing in the midst of the candle forest, warm light cast in pools on the ground, pixies flitting from tree to tree. You close the door behind you, taking up Peregrine’s stance at his porch railing, and smile wryly. 

The spot is a good one for thinking, and watching the pixies fly is beautiful enough to capture your attention without making you forget why it was you came out here. It’s almost like… They’re offering themselves as some kind of host family, opening their doors, their world to you this way. You can’t deny that it’s irritating, knowing you’ve been wandering the streets searching for that tune without any actual hope of finding it. But strangely, you can’t summon up anger. Maybe it’s this place. Maybe it’s their ridiculous antics, and how they mirror each other and obviously care for one another, even though they’re opposites. 

Your eyes trace over the whirling wax branches of one of the candle trees, coming to rest on the burning wick at the end. Idly, you wonder who lights them.

...Either of them would tell you, if you asked. Harper would probably be succinct, but melodious, giving you the answer like a puzzle piece to mull over, to fit in with the rest. Peregrine is no doubt the type to tell you the reason with extravagance, making even the most simple things sound magical and exciting. 

Music begins to play from inside the cottage. Fiddle and pan flute together. Just like the night you’d first heard Peregrine’s song, the music is heady, makes your shoulders grow lax and your eyelids flutter closed. You can see it all again, how you’d frozen on your dim doorstep, how you’d been lamenting something- something unimportant, now, and then the music had reached your ears. The wind had picked up and a buoyant warmth had filled your chest near to bursting and after a moment - or several, you still weren’t sure - it had felt like it’d begun to move away. You’d started searching that very night, had been convinced at first that one of the neighbors must have been playing something, but everyone you asked had just stared at you with blank faces. 

The song nearly drives you to tears before the constant ache you’ve carried fades. You have to blink the tears away, to wipe quickly at the corners of your eyes and let your nerves calm. You don’t want to go back inside and have Peregrine throw himself at your feet, thinking you’re upset. For as nerve wracking and strange as this has been… The choice is actually easy.

As soon as the door opens, the music stops, both of them staring at you with guilt in their eyes, written clearly in the corners of their mouths, in the way they clutch their instruments. You wonder what finally made them decide to try the song in tandem. 

“The geas,” you say quietly, closing the door behind you. “The compulsion to search, it’s gone.”

“Of course!” Harper says, expression gone tight when Peregrine wilts in his seat. “The completion of the song helped that. You won’t have to worry about it again.”

“I don’t think that’s the reason,” you say, feeling a little more sure of yourself. “I think I simply found what I’ve been missing. You say the geas was meant to call me Home?”

Peregrine and Harper blink in surprise, and then nod, one after the other. 

“When I’m here, when I visit, or when I decide if I’d like to stay - I’d like to spend time with both of you. I wouldn’t have searched without Peregrine, but I wouldn’t have found Faerie at all without Harper.” You can’t well make a decision to stay after knowing them for a scant hour or two, can’t pick or choose between them when they both seem to be good hearted, when they both seem to want you to feel at peace.

Peregrine bursts out of his seat, and you think he might be about to hug you, but Harper catches at his arm, stopping him and arching a brow. 

“Besides,” you tease, trying to ignore the heat crawling up the back of your neck, “I think it’d be more fun with both of you around. Your opinions alone-”

Peregrine doesn’t shake Harper off, he picks her up, ignoring her yowl of embarrassment and crosses the room, crushing you both into a hug. “Wonderful! Lovely! Oh, surely you still have questions for us? If I don’t know, Harper can tell you, but before that - you must tell us about yourself. Do you like sugared violets?”

“Peregrine,” Harper snaps, but her tone, the way she sniffs, like she’s embarrassed and yet fighting a smile - this time you let yourself laugh, relaxing into their hold on you.

You’ve felt a… rightness since you arrived. A settling in your chest, in your bones. You don’t know that you can quite call this place Home yet, but it could be. They could make it that way. You desperately hope that they will.

[lilulo-12fanfiction]

Flicker, Fade- Sneak Peek

Hey kids! I’m in the midst of working on a Steve Rogers x Reader request. I wanted to put out a sneak peek. I’m trying to decide if I’m going to put it all into one story or do multi-parts...because you know...I need to be working on ANOTHER series. But you know how it goes!

This is a combo of two requests.  @justkending​ requested a Steve Rogers x Reader with prompts: “I warned you about him, yet again you didn’t listen.” and “It’s 6am- you’re not having vodka.  @asgardiangurll​ requested a Steve Rogers x Reader with with  prompts:”I’m never going to stop protecting you.”“You are seriously like a man child”

As always likes, comments and reblogs are SO APPRECIATED. Requests are open (Avengers, Supernatural, TVD/The Originals. I do dabble in some Green Arrow and The Flash (DC TV Only please). Prompt list can be found here.

Please let me know if you would like to be added to this tag list or one of my others.

Avengers Tag List: @shreddedparchment @fanfictionjunkie1112@this-is-mycrisis​ @geeksareunique​

Avengers Masterlist

Fate is a funny thing. Your mother always used to tell you that everything happened for a reason. The idea that going through difficult times to prepare you for what was to come or to lead you to something better kept you going, even in your darkest of times. 

You grew up in New England with your mother, father and baby sister Ella. She had been the best surprise of your lives. You were 13 when your mother got pregnant. Everything happens for a reason and you were thrilled to have a sibling.

You were sassy and sarcastic just like your mother. You got your intelligence from your father and while things typically came easy to you; Your parents had made sure you were sufficiently challenged and worked incredibly hard. You had been granted the honor of Valedictorian your senior year in High School. As a graduation gift and an 18th birthday present, You, your parents and your sister took a trip to tour Europe. You had never been happier.l, you were one of those kids that would rather hang out with your parents than a bunch of friends. Spending time with Ella was the highlight of your day, every day. The day of your 18th birthday had been one of your happiest. You spent an incredible day at Brighton Beach building sand castles with Ella and enjoying the amusement park rides in the seaside resort town. Her laugh as you whipped around the tilt-a-whirl would be embedded in your soul for the rest of your days. Your dad had ridden with you on all of the roller coasters and rides deemed too scary by Ella. Your mom wasn’t much of a ride person, but damn did she love her carnival games. Once you were back in London, your life would be changed forever. One moment your father was driving the three of you down the street laughing about how strange it was to drive on the opposite side of the street and the next you were being T-Boned by another vehicle.

Your parents and sister had been killed on impact. You had barely survived. Someone had pulled you from the wreckage. You were rushed to the hospital and woke up 2 days later. Before you even opened your eyes you knew something was different. You were completely healed. No lasting injuries, no deficits except the gaping hole in your heart. The doctor there tried to calm your anxieties, telling you everything was fine and you were just lucky. Somehow you knew the doctor was lying to you about how you had been treated. That night you had gone into the bathroom to examine yourself and were shocked by what you saw. Your natural hair color had been transformed into a  liquid black that cascaded down your body. The most startling change was your eyes. Your once very normal eye color had been transformed into a shade of violet. 

You had been frantically studying your altered appearance when the little girl sharing your hospital room bad woken up crying after a nightmare. You had sat down on her bed to comfort her. That was when you knew someone in that hospital had done something to you. By simply placing your hand over her arm, the bruises she had from falling out of a tree healed. You had heard about enhanced humans, you had seen them on your TV. Someone had turned you into one. The doctors that healed you had no idea what they had created, they couldn’t have. They never would have let you leave. The fear of becoming a lab rat caused you to keep it to yourself and when they finally discharged you, you got back to the US as fast as you could. 

You had tried to dye your hair back to its normal state, but nothing would change the jet black that framed you. You took to wearing blue contacts to make your eyes appear a more normal color. You found out the doctor that treated, turned you into what you had become was looking for you. Once your family was returned home and buried you disappeared from everything you had known and loved about your home. You effectively erased Y/N Y/L/N from existence by faking your own death. People were led to believe you took your own life. After loosing everything you loved it wasn’t hard for people to believe. You had to leave everything about who you were behind.

Three years later, with a new identity, you were living in New York City working as a freelance journalist. You had changed your name to Camille Ballard and were trying to live a semblance of a normal life pretending you didn’t have any special abilities when a man opened fire on a huge crowd. You had grabbed a nearby child, held them close to you to protect them. Without evening trying, you formed a purple force field around the two of you, saving both of your lives. As soon as you realized what happened, you rushed home and packed as much of your belongings as fast as you could and planned on making a break for it. If that doctor saw footage of what you just did, he might figure out you were alive and come looking again. 

Luckily for you, Iron Man had been there to help with the situation and saw what you had done. Before you had the chance to catch a bus, he found you and was set on recruiting you for The Avengers.

“Mr. Stark...you’re mistaken. That wasn’t me. I’m nobody. I’m like a ghost.” You were desperate to convince him you weren’t who he thought you was. But he knew.

“Then why are you trying to bolt with almost everything you own? C’mon kid...you don’t have to live a life on the run. I can help you. You don’t HAVE to be a ghost.” He wouldn’t relent and he wouldn’t let you leave. 

Even though everything in your brain told you to run, your lonely heart was begging you to trust him, to let him in. He had saved the world more than once and here he was offering to save you. Your heart won and you broke down and told him your story. Tony Stark, with all of his bravado held you as you sobbed for your lost family, your identity and assuaged your fears of not knowing what had been done to you. 

“Cam...I can call you Cam right?” His kind smile put you at ease. He made quite a few promises to you. He offered you a home and a family of sorts. He promised that he would find out what had been done to you. He promised to give you a purpose. Just like you knew that doctor was lying to you the day your parents died, you knew you could trust Tony Stark. Your mother’s voice telling you everything happened for a reason echoed in your brain. You had been given a gift, it was your responsibility to use it to do something good in this world. It was the best way to honor your parents and sister.

Tony eased you into life at The Avengers compound. He insisted you see a trauma counselor to really deal with the loss of your family. You had protested at first, you didn’t want to open up those wounds. He brought you to meet Pepper. She was the one that convinced you to get the emotional help you needed. She told you about Tony’s PTSD and how it had affected both of them. She promised that she and Tony would be there for you as you dealt with all of the pain you had buried for years. You finally agreed.

Once you were settled, Tony and Bruce began running tests to see if they could figure out what had happened to you. Best they could tell, someone had injected you with a serum, they just couldn’t figure out exactly what it was. Clearly it had been experimental because neither of them had seen anything like your blood work before.  Bruce had been fascinated by your blood test results. Tony had been able to get his hands on old blood work from a well child visit when you were a kid to compare it to your blood today.

“Whatever they gave you changed your DNA entirely.” Bruce had been entirely fascinated until he saw the look on your face. “I’m sorry Camille. I know you feel like a science project.” Bruce knew all too well what it was like to be changed to your core. You realized that day you had made the right decision by coming to the compound. For the first time in years, you didn’t feel alone.

6 months after you had gotten there Tony had taken to calling you The Protector. You could heal yourself and others. Your fight or flight response produced the protective force field that would encompass you and anyone close to you. After a few months of work you could create them on demand. Your enhancements also made you as close to a human lie detector as someone could get. It took intense concentration to be able to tell if someone was trying to deceive you. Your new abilities made it so you couldn’t be hurt by anything physically or emotionally by anyone’s lies.

Once you had handle on what you could do, you needed to be able to fight, protective force fields weren’t enough. Offense was just as important as defense. Tony had paired you up with Bucky Barnes for your training. He and Bucky had gotten past their differences and Tony was in a mission to help put the Sergeant back together again. Tony was good at fixing people. You were Bucky’s first real assignment. Tony had a feeling that you would help James Barnes as much as he would help you.

Tony had been right. You kept a wall around yourself built with bricks of sarcasm, sass and witty comebacks.  Bucky recognized this immediately and sought to dismantle your carefully constructed barrier to block anyone from getting too close to you. One night he had pushed you past your limits and you had broken down. Once the floodgates opened you couldn’t shut them. Bucky was the only other person you confided your full story in. Like Tony, you knew your secrets were safe with him.

Bucky had experienced his fair share of loss. He had been experimented on without his permission. He understood, he could empathize. He used your training to help you work through your anger and grief. You excelled under his instruction. You were a hell of a hand to hand fighter and other than Bucky you had the best shot in the compound. Your aim and speed with a firearm was impeccable. Slowly, Bucky became your best friend.

After almost two years of hard work and training you had been officially made an Avenger and had been working mission after mission for almost 8 months straight. It felt great to be able to help so many people, including your teammates. But you needed a little break to recharge. You requested some time off and decided to let loose a little bit. You had spent the evening out with some of the SHEILD agents. You had become friends with a couple of the girls that were in the cadet training program.

“Cami, I warned you about him, yet again you didn’t listen. You never listen when it comes to guys.” Bucky was giving you the once over. 6AM and you had stumbled back into the compound. You had stayed with one of the girls to sober up a little bit and were hoping to sneak back in unnoticed but Bucky was up early to train with Steve.

“I know...I know. But he was so cute, I was hoping he’d try to be a gentleman.” You pulled a bottle of Tony’s expensive Vodka out of the cabinet Bucky raises his eyebrows. “Just trying to ease into the hangover.” He grinned and shook his head. As you poured a shot, the bane of your existence stormed into the kitchen. Steve Rogers looked your tight jeans, heels and fitted black T-Shirt and scoffed in judgment.

“There you are Camille, I’ve been trying to find you since last night. Are you just getting home?” You gave him a deadpanned look. “Is there a reason why Agent Harrington is out of field work for two weeks with a broken nose and two black eyes and a concussion?” He had his hand on his hip and he was glowering at you.

“Well Agent Handsy was given fair warning” Bucky leaned against the counter. Watching you and Steve verbally spar was his favorite show. You said you hated Steve and his self righteous attitude. Steve said you got under his skin and didn’t appreciate your mouth and sarcasm. It was really a poor way to veil your mutual attraction. He saw how your eyes would linger on Steve while training. He watched Steve’s eyes soften on you anytime he thought no one was looking.

“What do you mean?” Steve’s voice dropped lower. First he was ready to rip you a new one, but he didn’t like the idea of anyone putting unwelcome hands on you. He rolled his jaw wanting to give the agent a few injuries himself.

“He thought that buying me two drinks gave him permission to put his hands on my ass. I told him otherwise. He did it again and I told him if he didn’t keep his hands to himself I was going to break his face. He thought that was an invitation to try and dip his hand down the back of my pants. I saw that as an invitation to bash his face into the bar. Maybe he’ll listen to the next girl and keep his hands to himself. Maybe if he apologizes, and means it, I’ll heal his pretty boy face.” It was out of character for you to lay hands on someone like that, but you couldn’t help but think of him doing this to some other poor girl who couldn’t stop him. He needed to be taught a lesson.

“That’s my girl!” Bucky laughed. The douchebag had it coming  in his opinion. He was proud of you for sticking up for yourself.

Steve pinched the bridge of his nose. He couldn’t reprimand your for defending yourself . “I’ll have a talk with him.” You raised both of your eyebrows at Bucky in surprise. It didn’t matter what you did or the reasoning, Steve was usually pissed at you. He took the shot from in front of you and dumped it down the sink. Your jaw dropped and you glared at him.

“Hey!” You protested. It was Steve’s turn to roll his eyes.

“It’s 6am- you’re not having vodka.” You threw your hands up.

“What are you my dad? I’m on vacation.” You tried to reason, tone laced with sass, arms crossed in front of you. It was sometimes hard for Steve to believe you weren’t somehow related to Tony Stark.

“About that. I have a mission in South America and you need to come with me.” As much as your attitude pissed Steve off, you were a good teammate and excellent at what you did. You deserved some time to yourself, but he needed your skill set.

“What? No! C’mon! you promised me 7 full days off Freeze Pop.” Steve rolled his jaw at the nickname silently cursing Tony. His frustration with you was building up again. Why couldn’t you just do as you were asked, just once, without arguing.

“You speak Spanish fluently and I need a female agent with me.”

“So does Natasha. Last I checked she was also a female. Take her. I’m not really interested in pretending to be your significant other.” You knew the mission that he was referring to. The target was in vacation with his wife at some resort. The plan has been for a pair to pose as a couple on their honey moon to gain access to the resort and get closer and obtain as much intel as possible.

“It’s a recon mission. We only have one working appearance enhancer so I won’t be recognized. Nat is too recognizable. Plus you also have an uncanny ability to sense when someone is lying.”

“Natasha is an ex super spy. She would figure it out!” You knew you were fighting a loosing battle. Steve didn’t know why you really had asked for the time off, and you weren’t about to share your deepest secrets with him.

“Look, Nat is with Clint and his family for the weekend. I’m not asking her to come back.” Steve was fighting the urge to yell at you. He just wanted you to be compliant, just this one time. The idea of being close to you and alone with you had him unnerved.

“Of course. We wouldn’t want to ruin HER time off. This is bullshit!” Your voice dripped with sarcasm. You knew you were acting like a brat. You wouldn’t ask Natasha to come back. You were hoping to get him to push the mission back. Bucky’s head bounced back and forth between the two of you. He watched as Steve’s jaw clenched one more time and the little vein in his forehead pop. You were one of the few that brought this side of him out. He had infinite patience for anyone but you.

“ENOUGH!l He finally snapped. “Agent Romanoff has more than paid her dues! She’s been at it for years! I’m not going to drag her back from time with what she considers her family so you can go on a bender.” You took a few steps back and recoiled. Steve immediately regretted it. “Camille...”

“No it’s fine Captain. I get it. My need for a break is less important because what? I’ve been fighting with you for less time? I haven’t paid enough dues for you yet? Got it. Let me go get some sleep so I’ll be refreshed enough to serve you. Send me the itinerary so I’m ready when wheels go up. I’m a B-Team Avenger. No one knows who I am so for once in your eyes it makes me an asset.” You turned quicker not wanting him to see how upset you were. He wouldn’t understand why you were so upset. You thought it better he see you as a selfish brat than a broken woman.

“Cam...” Bucky’s voice trailed and you avoided his grasp. 

“It’s fine Buck.” You quickly retreated. You’d be damned if you let Steve have the satisfaction of making you cry. If he knew the real reason you were brought to tears he wouldn’t revel in it. To Steve Rogers you were young, bratty and had a problem with authority. You’d like to keep it that way. It protected you. 

Bucky gave Steve a dirty look and threw his hands up. “I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.” Steve deflated. “She’s just so infuriating. It’s not like she can’t have her time off after we get back.” Your reaction didn’t sit right with Steve. You gave him a hard time, all the time, that was true. But you never argued about a mission. 

“You know...if you dealt with your feelings, you might be able to keep it together with her." Bucky shook his head and started retreating from the kitchen. Steve cared about you, anyone that knew you could see you were funny, smart, caring and willing to put yourself on the line for anyone else. But you were afraid of letting too many people get close to you. Bucky knew you were afraid to really care about someone and lose them like you did your family. He knew you felt something for Steve Rogers too. So you kept him at arms length with attitude that drove Steve up the wall. 

"Feelings? I have no feelings." Steve's face clouded with confusion. Bucky dramatically rolled his eyes. Apparently everyone was spending too much time with Tony. He turned and headed to follow you. “I thought we were training?” Steve called after Bucky.

"I'm going to check on Cami and make sure she's alright.” Bucky pauses for a moment. “There’s a reason why she gets under your skin. Ponder that.” Steve groaned as he watched Bucky retreating down the hallway.

[deastonishing]

to go with the flow; N

‘Duh’

And I was spacing out, again. This was the second time after I entered the train. Looking for the empty seat to have an adequate place bounced my thoughts passed the window, which is unworkable at this hour. Even the clock said it was late to go home to have dinner with warm chocolate, yet the train is still full, and it’s always full with people running catching their breath after long day getting yelled by their boss, or maybe running here and there for errand, or maybe back from their dates, or maybe in hurry to get to one of their friend’s apartment whose got dumped from theirs toxic relationship this morning, after one single call to give them not-so-solitude amenity.

‘I miss him’

Not again, the weekend is near the thanksgiving is just around the term, i can meet him there, i can call him all night after all the paper on my desk vanish away. 

‘Oh God, the paper’

Why are all the good things in my head instantly ruined by one horrible word. 

‘I’m tired’

One stop and I’ll get to ride my bike straight to home. This week was the most detestable week I had after these three month. Well, I am still amazed how this ‘Nala’ girl still has the energy to stand among the crowd every morning and night with the same line and same information voice and same song on the playlist. 

‘Why are You letting me taste the awful phase of adulthood, God? Can I just back in times-’

I don't like it, okay? I don't like how everything is changing. The older I get, the more I realize that, there are all these things that link me to the past and each time, things have shifted, and I have to deal with that shift. And I know I'm supposed to be able to deal with that, but I'm not sure I can deal with that. 

‘AH’

Here again, I almost jumped into the rabbit hole of a stranger's board back when it’s only two meters away to get myself on my bike but again and will always a lot of again’s to embarrassed my proprium publicly, and here I have to buck up, put on a kind face, and get on with it.

“Sorry”

“This is what’s happening if you overworked your eyes”

The familiar voice uttered, the voice that i have missed this whole week.

“NINO? BUT HOW? YOU SUPPOSED TO-”

Forget it, I am happy you’re here with me, NOW.

“You’re not calling, and I’m too lazy to text you first. But i guess you had a tough day or it was just your eyes sweating?”

There is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as your laughter and flimsy humour 

“I miss you stupid, why you’re not calling? And why you just freezing yourself left my first-rate arms hanging-”

‘You silly, I miss you like crazy’

I sniffed as I bent my head to your chest, let the warmth radiate from your body easing every part of my cell intactly.

‘I’m sorry for coming late’

Your words faintly became a melody to my ears in the midst of cold November, as you tighten the grip.

You’re like a Mary Poppins to me, always knowing when the right time and how to sew the word with my blues or to whatever I was going through at the time. I could always find peace in you and whatever form of benevolence coming out through your lips.

“We can get your bike by tomorrow, I’ll come here. You just rest, okay. And now put your seatbelt because I don't want to bother myself arguing with some police after two red lamps”

“Yes, your convenient come first and my safety follows, sir”

It’s nice to hear you laugh rather than playing the same sad songs like a never ending scary Merry go round on horror tales. Allied to what you said to me before, you can listen to every sad song, and cry every single tear from your eyes, but even those might not be enough. Because at some point you get tired of the same songs and you run out of tears.You can’t get over it. They ease the pain but they don’t take it away. Sometimes the only way is only through it.

Yes it does ease the pain and yes but it don’t take it away, at least I endured it 

“Any things you want to share with me?”

You broke the silence together with the rain tickling the windows of your car.

“Nothing, I’m just-”

There’s a space left hanging in the air, three seconds of me awkwardly choosing the right form.

“How about you?”

Better to pass the ball on you, or the cherry night will be ruined by me and what's inside my brain, even me the owner of the ridiculous drift still trying to figure it out.

“I’m not asking to get another question, Nala”

Your finger strokes my hair in an unsweet way.

“I just- feel tired and lonely, okay before you squawk me to my ears because- why I’m not calling you at the first chance. I don’t know, I want, but I- I just didn’t know why. I miss you, so much. But these days, everything was a mess to me, and I miss you. I- am sorry”

I break myself after I hold it after a very long week, I break it down right at your face, at someone’s I know in my heart that I can live without him and I know in my heart that I don't want to.

“You know what, there’s an alone that calls out for rescue, but this appeared to be an alone that wanted to be left alone. That’s okay, I do have the same of feeling sometime, that’s okay, hey now look at me-”

You slowed down the speed, held my hands and put it to your cheeks, and led it to stroke your hair. 

“This,sometimes I just want this. Without asking, without being asked. Just like this, now let me do the same to you”

You kissed my hands and wiped the tears under my eyes gently. Nino, you once said that it was a great destiny to get to meet me, and I replied to you that sometimes we can make our destiny and sometimes the destiny creating themself, if tonight was your plan, can i get  the first ‘sometime’ forever?

“Nal, we can’t always make the right decision, sometimes we can just stop searching for the answer and be fine with doing it all wrong. However when the morning arrives, there are times that we’re still in doubt, right?”

I honestly try to process what is inside my head and what you recently said to me so I just nod to give a sign of full attention and let you continue your sentence.

“I know you have a lot of big, loud contemplations in your head, on how things should be, but if your mind is quiet, sometimes the best answer to a problem is- makes itself heard”

I rounded my eyes as signs drowned at confusement at his word.

“Okay, this is me saying to sometimes we just need to go with the flow”

I chuckled, I know he’s being serious and I know exactly what he’s trying to say is about to comfort me as well as to call out the strongest version of me. The realistic man with the warmest heart, he looks so simple when facing matters but, but he’s mind is generously wide, how could it happen in one body?

“Do not cringed Nala”

“I am not? I sit collectively paying one hundred thousand attention to your golden wise”

We snickered then burst out at laughter, you are weird, we are weird. This always like this, long sober conversation will end with one stiff joke. And follows with-

“I love you”

From me.

To have you is enough, to listen to your mind is content.

For now, let me rest my mind and soul with you.

[turtlepated]

Pate I'm drunk I want PateDew HCs pleeeeease

@pastelnacht

Oh are you now? Lol, well I will do my best to provide! 

Let's see... PateDew is pretty open-ended so hows about I hit you with the half-formed vaguely self-insert WIP that’s been sitting in my Google Docs for weeks now: 

----

You’d been stressed out at work lately, stressed enough that two days simply wasn’t enough time to fully decompress. So when a couple of your coworkers invited you out for drinks after work, you decided to tag along. Why not? 

The Roadhouse bar was a bit more… rustic than you’d expected for a bunch of office workers like yourselves, but it seemed like the perfect place to lose yourself and unwind for an evening. It was loud, both from the rowdy patrons and the jukebox in the corner, smelled strongly of cigarette smoke and cheap booze and greasy food. Not somewhere you’d ordinarily venture on your own, but it was a nice enough distraction. 

After a couple beers you had a pleasant buzz going. Somebody at the jukebox set Don’t Stop Believin’ to playing and a cheer went up. Grinning widely you swayed back and forth in time to the piano overture and belted along to the first verse about the “lonely girl livin’ in a lonely world”, emboldened by the alcohol and the giggling of your colleagues. 

You spun around, startled, when another voice chimed in just as loudly behind you, picking it up with the “city boy, born and raised in south Detroit”, meeting a pair of brown eyes barely discernible under a mop of messy brown curls. 

And that was how you first met Dewey Finn, both of you belting along to the Journey favorite while other patrons booed and shushed you, pelting you with peanut shells while you both just laughed. 

It didn’t take long to learn pretty much all there was to know about Dewey Finn: he was easy going, funny and energetic and sweet, practically lived at the Roadhouse, and he loved rock music more than anything else. Even when sitting down he was always tapping his foot or thumping his hand against his knee, keeping rhythm with the song playing in his head. 

The two of you were fast friends and the Roadhouse became a regular watering hole for you. Dewey was fun and fascinating, so passionate about whatever topic happened to be under discussion that you couldn’t help getting excited right along with him. 

You bonded quickest over your overlapping tastes in music. While Dewey considered himself more of a purist (classic rock being the pinnacle of human achievement as far as he was concerned), few things seemed to thrill him more than sharing his music with you. The two of you sat across from one another in “your” booth at the Roadhouse, tipsy and giggly, having swapped phones to compare playlists. As expected, Dewey’s phone was full to bursting with AC/DC, Aerosmith, Black Sabbath, Van Halen, Guns n Roses, Rolling Stones. 

“Oh my God,” he laughed, turning your phone around to show you the screen. “Are you serious?” You flushed, embarrassed, covering your face with one hand. 

“Okay, look,” you began. “I didn’t get to have a Britney phase when I was a kid because I didn’t have any money to buy albums! And by the time I did Britney was considered cringey and I was too young to know that there’s no such thing as cringe! So I have to have my Britney phase now!” 

Your rebuttal only made Dewey laugh harder, his cheeks rosy and his eyes glittering both from the mirth and the drinks. He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Ah, I’m only messin’ with you! Though I’m impressed that you had like a whole defense just ready to go!” He turned his head, glancing around conspiratorially before leaning towards you over the tabletop, crooking a finger at you invitingly. Giggling, you folded your arms and leaned in on your elbows. 

“Not like Britney needs a defense,” he admitted, grinning, rapping the flat of his palm on the table between you to keep the beat as he started singing. “My loneliness is killin’ me!”

Without missing a step you chimed right in, “And I, I must confess, I still believe!” By the time you got to “Hit me, baby, one more time!” you were both almost incoherent from a fit of laughter, ignoring the vocal annoyance of the other regulars seated around you. 

Looking back, you considered that to be the moment you fell in love with Dewey Finn. 

If you were honest with yourself, that moment was probably when the two of you first sang along with Steve Perry, but you couldn’t help feeling a little silly and even cliched. The whole “love at first sight” schtick. 

In an ideal world, you could simply pluck up your courage and come right out and tell him how you felt. In an ideal world, he would tell you he felt the same way. The two of you might even exchange a tender kiss, if the romance in movies was anything to go on. 

But the world was not ideal. 

He did eventually tell you about the bizarre circumstances that led to his current job, which he so clearly loved and talked about constantly. Hearing the whole surreal tale, from start to finish, was a rollercoaster of subterfuge and deceit, plus a dash of identity theft and sprinkled with heartfelt personal growth. You joked with him that he ought to sell the story to a producer, get a movie deal. Jack Black would make a very believable Dewey Finn, you said, and he snorted into his drink. 

So many unexpected things had come about for him as a result of his improbable plan; not just a job but a career, one that he was passionate about, that excited him every day! Reveling in the talent of his students, their eagerness to learn and explore, seeing them progress and get better and better… It was a feeling that he’d only ever experienced before when playing a show, but now he got to feel it almost every day! In his wildest dreams, he’d never have even thought of where he was now in order to have wished for it. If the kids, his amazing, talented, face-shredding students had come as a shock, then their uptight, pencil-skirted, no-nonsense, secret rocker principal had thrown him for the biggest loop. 

It wasn’t until after the two of you had been friends for awhile (and after Dewey had thrown back a couple shots of tequila on top of his two and a half pints of beer) that he told you about Rosalie Mullins beyond “she’s my boss. Sort of.” 

Even Dewey was willing to concede that he took her out for drinks initially as a ploy to get her to agree to let him take his “class” to the band competition. The kiss that followed their conversation at the Roadhouse had been impulsive on his part, he hadn’t even thought about it at the time, there had been more pressing matters on his mind. In the aftermath of his unmasking; between the threats of arrest and homelessness, his adolescent band rallying his spirits and delivering a powerhouse performance; so many highs and lows in such a short expanse of time, it wasn’t until Rosalie Mullins grabbed his face afterwards and kissed him that it even dawned on him that there might be something to it. 

They’d gone out after things returned to normal, but after a few months of on-again-off-again they decided they were better as friends, as colleagues. Or rather, Dewey admitted a tad bitterly after finishing a third pint and another shot of tequila, Rose had decided they weren’t a good fit romantically and didn’t want to jeopardize their working relationship. 

“I really liked her, though,” he said with a sigh, slumping in the bench seat across from you and toying with the empty shot glass. “Smart, classy, beautiful.” You sat with your arms folded on the tabletop, trying not to let it show that each word struck you like a knife in the heart, wanting to be supportive in the midst of his disappointment because that’s what friends did for one another. Regardless of what you were feeling, it was clear he was still carrying a torch for the principal and when he showed you pictures he had kept on his phone you could see why. 

She truly was very pretty, very put -together, as stark a contrast as she could be in her perfectly tailored blazers and skirts to you in your jeans and T-shirts. You couldn’t help but feel ridiculous and petty, jealous of a woman you didn’t know, had never even spoken to just because the man you loved was still hung up on her. 

It didn’t matter anyway, because whatever your feelings may be, Dewey obviously didn’t feel the same about you, not when his heart was still set on Miss Mullins. 

You put it out of your mind, willfully ignoring it because at least you could still be his friend. No matter how heartsick it made you when his laugh or his smile made your heart swell and you wanted so much to kiss him but you couldn’t. You just couldn’t do that, it would ruin everything. 

As the weeks passed it got… maybe not easier to bear, but you grew used to the gnawing ache inside and you learned to ignore it. You barely even noticed it anymore. Things began to change when Dewey left you a very boisterous and excited voicemail, telling you to meet him at the Roadhouse after work because he had “huge, unbelievable, amazing news!” You had no idea what he could be talking about but whatever it was he met you at the door, practically bouncing like a puppy. 

In between corralling him into a booth and placing your drink orders with the waitress, you finally got him to calm down enough to tell you what he had to say. 

“Every year the country club crowd throws this big charity fundraiser for the city, and since a lot of em are Horace Green parents or alums, this year the school is hosting the charity and School of Rock is lined up to play the whole event! Isn’t that awesome?!” 

You beamed at him, his elation contagious. In the year since their formation and debut, Horace Green’s official student band (led by their music coach, Dewey Finn) had garnered a fair bit of publicity with their electrifying performance at the battle of the bands competition. Despite losing the contest, they had been the unequivocal crowd favorite and the school had enjoyed some very positive press in the midst of their growing popularity. 

But a gig like this would elevate the band to a whole new level, Dewey animatedly explained. You couldn’t help getting swept up in his mounting excitement, almost giddy to see him so wholeheartedly invested in the project. Naturally, you offered to be of whatever help you could to help him pull off such an important show. The band deserved it, and so did he. And if it meant you’d be seeing a whole lot more of Mr. Finn in the coming weeks, well… that would just be a bonus.