#clutter is going to light the bomb pay attention!!!

[starzdeath]

Just some robots (and a chao) hanging out :3

---

Surprise double propaganda!! Vote Scrap The Hedgehog (the lil guy holding a bomb) in the @sonic-fankid-showdown and vote Yuèliàng (the tall bunny bot) in the @lmk-oc-competition!!

Chaos Project AU, Clutter The Chao, and Scrap The Hedgehog belong to me. Yuèliàng belongs to @sun4ndmo0n

My brother and I both had robo guys and we were both competing in different showdowns/competitions, so we thought it'd be cool if we collaborated on a propaganda piece and had them all meet. I drew Clutter The Chao and Chaos Project Sonic, Sun drew Scrap and Yuèliàng + the background.

Clarification: Sonic and Scrap (and Clutter) are part of the Chaos Project AU, which is pretty much an AU where Sonic's a reformed eggman bot. Scrap is Sonic's kid. Clutter is Scrap's friend and most likely Sonic's chao (haven't completely decided on that bit yet). You can learn more on the AU on the masterpost which I linked somewhere here and you will learn more about Scrap on wednesday when the polls go up!!

Scrap and Clutter aren't canon to the au, however I'll make them canon if you help scrap win <3

[laequiem]

Mal d’amour - Part 5

/5 times the High King of Elfhame missed his exiled wife + 1 time she had enough.

The package is there, on the front porch, but it clearly was not delivered by the postal service. There is no address, just a name: her name in elegant cursive letters. The same handwriting that is on the note she keeps on her nightstand.

Cardan’s.

read on ao3 • masterlist • part 1 • part 2 • part 3 • part 4 • last part

Cardan

It was already dark when I woke up from my dream and gave the package to Liliver. Due to mortals’ strange habit of living during the day, we have to wait the entire night before one of the spies can deliver the package. 

Needless to say, I do not pay much attention to the various meetings and meals I attend during the night. I doubt courtiers notice, given my usual blasé attitude. 

My participation in today’s revel consists mostly of drinking wine and asking the servants for more wine. Whenever someone approaches me for requests or conversation, I reply so shortly that they leave quickly. Nearing sunrise, the Ghost approaches and tells me the package is on its way.

I try to look like I am at least enjoying the revel in front of me. My tail is curled around my calf to prevent it from lashing wildly and betraying my nervousness. My fingers drum absentmindedly on the armrests of the throne as I stare distantly at nothing.

I only last half an hour after the Ghost’s appearance before I retreat from the throne room. 

The Bomb

The air of Portland, Maine stinks of iron and gasoline. Nothing like the mossy and flowery scent of Elfhame. Liliver lifts her scarf over her glamoured face, hoping the fabric will filter some of the iron out. It doesn't work, not really, but at least she will not be staying here for long.

High King Cardan has assigned her the task of delivering a package, as if her talents weren't better used elsewhere. She had agreed, or course—money is money. Plus, she hopes to sneak a glimpse of Jude and assess how her friend is doing. 

Ever since she left, she has been fighting the urge to peek at the contents of the package. It is about the size and weight of a dinner plate and is delicately wrapped in dark green fabric. Seeing how the King hid the thing, it must be quite valuable.

From the rooftop of the building opposite Vivienne Duarte’s apartment, Liliver can see Jude. She is sprawled on an old couch, numbly looking at some square box with moving images. She seems to be the only person in the small house right now—the perfect moment to deliver the package. The High King has made it clear that Jude has to be seen receiving it. Liliver cannot blame him for being careful. 

She makes her way across the street, climbing the stairs as quietly as she can. After placing the box on the floor, she presses the button next to the door and knocks twice. She then jumps to the roof of the adjacent building, making sure she has a good view of the door.

And then she waits.

Jude

Jude groans as she gets up from her spot on the couch for the first time since waking up this morning. Vivi left for work hours ago. Usually, she tells Jude when she is expecting a delivery. Maybe the person rang the wrong doorbell. Still, Jude makes her way to the front door. A peek through the peephole reveals that nobody is on the other side. 

It’s been 30 seconds, they better not have put one of those “sorry we missed you!” notices or else she swears—

The package is there, on the front porch, but it clearly was not delivered by the postal service. There is no address, just a name: her name in elegant cursive letters. The same handwriting that is on the note she keeps on her nightstand. 

Cardan’s.

Her chest tightens and she takes a deep breath. Is this hope or fear? It is her first time hearing from Cardan in more than six months. Part of her hopes that he will revoke her banishment and ask her to come back, but why would he? He is finally free to rule the kingdom by himself and be as cruel and unhinged as he wants to be.

The package looks out of place here, everything from the dried flowers used to decorate it to its delicate grassy smell scream Faerieland.

Jude closes the door behind her as she brings the package inside, certain that someone is out there watching her. She won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her reaction. She shoves the clutter off the coffee table and puts the package on it as she sits on the couch once again.

For a few minutes, she just stares at it, wondering if it isn’t better to just throw it out. 

Like he threw me out, she hears the intrusive thought over the roaring in her head, loud and unwelcome. 

She clenches her jaw, then undoes the strings tying the fabric together. Inside is a nicely carved wooden box topped by a folded piece of paper. She picks up the piece of paper and unfolds it. Her hands are shaking slightly, with fear or rage she does not know. 

When she reads it, however, the rage takes over.

I miss you.

Your devoted servant,

Cardan

Jude crumples the piece of paper in her hand and lets it fall to the floor. She opens the box and immediately sees red. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she screams to herself as she picks up the crown, its jewels sparkling in the artificial light of Vivienne’s apartment.

She has never seen it before. Cardan either found it deep in the vault or he had it made only to send it to her as a sick joke. In a fit of rage, she throws the crown against the wall and storms to her room. 

Her clothes are scattered everywhere, some of them lying on her air mattress for what might have been weeks. She picks out the darkest, most flexible clothes, then reaches under her mattress for Nightfell.

If it’s trouble he’s after, he’ll find her. 

Cardan

“I almost feel bad, Your Majesty,” the Roach says, “pay up.”

I knew trying to sleep was useless, so I headed for the Court of Shadow headquarters instead, where I have been playing cards with the Roach and the Ghost for hours now.

“I hope you’re not cheating,” the Ghost replies, “the punishment could be deadly.”

I lost every single game.

I am not paying enough attention to win.

The cards in my hands are blurry, their numbers and designs utterly meaningless. 

All I can think about is Jude.

Jude, opening my package and packing her things to come back here. 

Jude, opening my package and immediately throwing it out. 

Jude, immediately throwing the package out without looking inside.

This woman has occupied my every thought for years, and I still cannot predict her moves. She is a puzzle, a challenge I want to lose myself in solving. All I can hope for is that she opened it, at least. 

My last letter. My last gift. My last chance.

If this is all the time I had with her, I royally (urgh) fucked up. 

The Roach gathers the jewels from the middle of the table and brings them to his side.

I discard my hand and reach out to shuffle the deck when his attention snaps to the door, to the small form who just entered.

Immediately, I get up and walk to meet the Bomb.

“Did you find her?” I ask

“Yes,” she says, “She picked it up. I could not confirm that she opened it, but she brought it inside.”

“How is she?” I cannot stop the questions from pouring out of me.

“She looks… different,” she frowns.

I understand she is trying to find a way to phrase it without upsetting me. I do not even know what would upset me more, her being happy in the Mortal Realm, or her being miserable. 

“I see,” I sigh, “Thank you.”

The words feel wrong coming from me—yet they seem right in the moment. I do not know if I have ever thanked someone before. But these people, Jude’s spies, have been dealing with me for the last half-year. They have seen me at my lowest. I cannot go much lower than crying after a particularly gruesome nightmare.

I did not tell them this was my last time reaching out to Jude. From the look of pity in the Bomb’s eyes, she knows. I can’t stand it. I walk past her and leave the Court of Shadows.

The hallways are almost empty as I make my way to the cellars. The guards stand straighter as I pass the various rooms, but none of them stop me or try to talk to me. 

When I get to the cellars, I grab the worst bottle I can find. I wish the royal cellars had some really low quality alcohol—a budding brewer’s first try, anything that would taste as bad as I feel—but even the worst of the collection is still good. I drink the whole bottle.

Then another.

I drink until I forget.

Forget the responsibilities, the kingdom resting on my unworthy shoulders.

I try to forget about Jude, but I black out before I can.

[nixalegos]

"Why are there so many...things...in here?" she asked with a exasperated sigh, scrunching her brows together in concern. "How can you find anything? What even is this!?" she asked, tossing a scrap of metal onto the work bench. "Why can't you just pick a favorite gadget like everyone else. How does this even help you!?"

He didn't remove the welders mask off his face as he cut the fuel line and turned to respond, somewhat annoyed at the interruption of work. "This isn't cluttered." He lied. The workstation was a total 180 from even the ritual area he kept in the basement, which was kept so clean and organized even the shelves were labeled. "It's..." He paused to consider his choice of words. "Modular. Revamping. I might need a part within a handsbreath at any moment." Wires, screws, bolts, littered about like a bomb had gone off while sheet metal was stacked in a sloppy pile. The scorch marks on the wall and checkered floor evidence something along those lines had occurred semi frequently. "And this is going to be a relay. I have dozens of them planted around Azeroth, Outland, other places. Disguised as weather vanes, or lighting rods. Things no one bothers to pay attention to. In truth, its alot easier to channel a scrying eye from a familiar point then try to have one fly for hundreds of miles or across you know. Space and time. This one." He said pulling up a bundle of clutter. "Should allow me to get an eye on Oribos even if we're back home. If it works, I'll refine the relay and have some set up on the major shards. Maybe even the Maw." He said with a nod as he set the rats nest of wires and metal bits down. "As to my...arsenal. I'd of thought you'd be more understanding. Surely there is no reason a gem has to be a particular cut, or made from a particular stone right? Aren't they all just rocks at days end?" He said sarcastically. "I can't just take a hammer to every problem. Adaptation is a strength, and magic is a crutch that may yet doom our people. Having the right tool at the right time can solve a dozen future problems." @tyleinth

[shipaholic]

Omens Universe, Chapter 7

Pivotal chapter no. 1, here we go...

This chapter has drinking. So much drinking. Also, Crowley finally has the Bentley, so this will be the first chapter (of many?) in which he totally invents speeding.

The music in this chapter is V Stands For Victory

And I Could Write a Book (Eddy Duchin, 1941).

Link to next part at the end.

(From the beginning)

(last part)

(chrono)

---

Chapter 7

Crowley’s ridiculous contraption bombed down the street at ninety miles per hour. Aziraphale was hardly aware. His eyes were fixed on Crowley’s face as he drove.

This was bad, he thought, dreamily.

Telling himself that made no dent in his emotional state. His mind was wrapped in cotton candy. Cotton candy that was moving very fast… possibly still in the whirly machine they made it in… he shouldn’t try to devise metaphors at a time like this. The point was, despite Crowley being Demonic and Evil and the rest of the standard specs for a minion of Hell, upon realising he loved him, Aziraphale could not make himself feel anything other than Good. Both definitions. This was right. This was what he was made for.

It wasn’t as if Crowley had ever been capital-E Evil, really. In fact, so long as he was being honest with himself (a dreadful prospect, but it turned out love made him brave), he had known this ever since the first time they fused. All those thousands of years ago. That was probably a big part of the reason he had hit the proverbial roof. It was a blow to one’s identity as a font of goodness, to merge minds with your opposite number and learn that he had more in common with you, morally, than most of your allies. Back then, he had refused to accept being humbled and had lashed out at Crowley instead. He’d behaved terribly. Worse than he’d even admitted before now.

But that was in the past, and the present was a carousel, a delicious dreamscape, gliding through the velvet dark with Crowley beside him -

The Bentley screeched to a halt. Aziraphale nearly slammed into the windscreen.

“Home sweet home,” Crowley said, cheerfully.

It was fortunate he didn’t have to love everything about Crowley, because this infernal machine was definitely out.

Crowley peered out of the window. “Hasn’t changed a bit,” he said, approvingly. He opened his door and hopped out. “Coming?”

Aziraphale looked out. They were already at the bookshop. He hadn’t been paying attention.

He collected himself, and his bag of books. He opened the car door with trepidation, as if the handle might explode.

It didn’t. He got from the car and followed Crowley in a daze towards the shop.

Crowley snapped his fingers. A soundproof bubble settled over the shop. Another snap dropped the blinds, and a third clicked the door latch into place.

Aziraphale hovered near the entrance. His familiar space had just become soft and dark and intimate. He wasn’t sure what thresholds would be crossed if he went all the way inside.

It had been years since Crowley had been back here. He revolved, drinking it in.

“Ahh. Place looks good. Very… impenetrable.”

Aziraphale preened. “In its heyday, this place could go six months at a time without selling a single book.”

Crowley gave him a fond smile. Aziraphale was going to spontaneously combust before the night was over.

Crowley clapped his hands together. “So! What are you in the mood for?”

Aziraphale took a breath and tried for a normal answer. “Alcohol seems just the ticket.”

“No surprise there.” Crowley miracled up some brandy glasses.

“Well, of course. I was just in mortal peril, you know.” Aziraphale followed him to the back room.

“Immortal peril. Barely counts.”

~*~

It was an old, familiar scene.

Crowley took over the whole sofa in increasingly supine, twisty positions the drunker he got. Aziraphale sat in the armchair, head and surroundings merrily spinning. He wasn’t entirely sure what they were talking about, but he knew it involved vociferously nitpicking something one of them had said half an hour ago.

“Tha’snot true. Totally unfair. I was going to come by.”

“Lies.” Aziraphale poured another brandy and missed.

“I just fell asleep. For a few years. And forgot.”

“Wimped out, more like.”

“Wimped out? Me? What the Hell did you get up to in there?”

“I’ll never tell. Because you didn’t come by.”

Crowley tried to sit up, wrestled with the throw, and sunk back, defeated.

“I knew it wasn’t all games of Old Maid in there,” he said. “You dark horse.”

“We did some of that…” Aziraphale said, dreamily.

“You what?”

Perhaps he shouldn’t have said that. “Erm. We did - the Gavotte?”

“...Is that a euphemism?”

“No, it’s a jolly lovely time.”

An unbroken row of them, linking arms and kicking their feet. Aziraphale had been one of the better dancers by the end. It helped to be single-handed - no, minded...

He bolted upright. “Crowley! I should show you.”

“Whassat?”

Aziraphale sprung to his feet, after a couple of false starts. He took a moment to let the brandy inside him slosh back to an even level.

“The Gavotte. Watch me. Watch me, Crowley.”

He stepped over a few piles of books. He needed some room… was his shop always this cluttered? He pushed ineffectually at a small table covered in ornaments, then gave up and snapped his fingers. The furniture in the middle of the room obligingly tidied itself off to the side. V Stands For Victory parped its opening notes from the gramophone.

Crowley watched, mouth slightly agape, from halfway off the sofa. Aziraphale beckoned him with more and more insistence, until Crowley slid all the way off, crawled nearer and pulled himself up against the arm of Aziraphale’s chair.

Satisfied that Crowley could at least see, even if his eyes were unfocused, Aziraphale prepared himself. He bounced from his knees a few times and swung his elbows. He’d have to just imagine the rest of the chaps.

“A one, a two, a three, a four -”

Five energetic minutes passed.

Aziraphale thrust both arms towards Crowley in the universally recognised sign for ‘tah-dah!’ The gramophone tooted to a stop, sounding embarrassed.

Crowley’s mouth hung open.

“It’s better than your magic act, thank Satan,” he said at last.

“Oh, come now.” Aziraphale frowned.

Crowley groped for the nearest drink. “That’s cheered me up about giving the old club a miss.”

“You’re no fun. It’s better with more people.”

Perhaps a one-person Gavotte was too reliant on the imagination of the audience. Aziraphale thought for a moment. He pointed to the gramophone. It cranked reluctantly up again.

“This music is poor even by Heavenly standards,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale tripped forward before he could overthink it, and grabbed Crowley’s hand. They swayed, as though reaching for each other on a deck over choppy waters. Crowley’s face was scarlet from alcohol. He blinked at Aziraphale, his eyes a haze of gold.

“Dance with me.” Aziraphale meant to sound authoritative. It came out slightly breathless.

“Ngk,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale shuffled backwards. He felt self-conscious hanging onto Crowley’s hand, so tried to pull away unobtrusively. Drunk as they were, their fingers tangled together, and withdrawing his far-too-hot hand ended up being a bit of a nightmare. Crowley’s face was even redder by the time their hands loosened. Still he drifted towards Aziraphale as if the tether was still there.

The music was awfully trumpety, Aziraphale had to admit, as they stood face to face in the bit of floor space that was clear. He stepped up beside Crowley, and slipped his arm through his.

“Now, it’s not so hard. Even I got it in the end. You move like this -”

He took a step. Crowley stepped the other way, and collided with him.

Things did not improve. The gramophone sounded irritated by the third play through, and Aziraphale and Crowley had dissolved into arguing while Aziraphale tried to watch both their feet.

“This is stupid. Whoever invented this dance did not have demons in mind. Or humans. Maybe horses. This is a horse dance.”

“I doubt this dance was intended for horses - no, you do this with your arms. How many elbows do you have?”

“Two, or none, depending. Hmm. Would you say a snake is basically one long elbow?”

“Thinking about that is above my paygrade. Will you stop getting underfoot?”

“You’re stepping on my feet!”

“How am I supposed to avoid that? They’re everywhere.”

“This is why I never bloody turned up.”

“Honestly -”

Aziraphale held Crowley closer, hoping to wrangle him through the steps.

He really was all elbows and knees. And so warm, radiating hell’s heat through that sharp suit. No hat, no glasses, eyes like suns floating in a swamp. Strands of short red hair teased loose over his forehead. His brows had such character. They were scrunched in that bemused, slightly glum way Aziraphale had noted hundreds of times. He hadn’t quite known he was recording it. Crowley’s face, Crowley’s looks. His angelic memory was long, and its catalogue of Crowley was fathomless.

The music had changed. Someone crooned:

‘About the way you walk, and whisper, and look…’

That seemed unnecessarily on-the-nose.

Aziraphale wondered which of them had done that. He didn’t recall making a conscious attempt. Perhaps it had reacted to both of them.

He could no longer pretend what they were doing bore any resemblance to a Gavotte.

He ought to pull away. His eyes fixed on his hand, resting beside Crowley’s lapel. There was no heart beneath it; nothing so human. But something beat anyway. Something in Crowley was in rhythm with him. They pushed and pulled together. Despite a lack of innate ability, they danced.

He looked up, and searched Crowley’s face.

Crowley looked…

Stunned, a little. Fearful. Yearning.

He’d seen this look before. Stifled versions of it. So many times.

Aziraphale’s heart wrenched towards Crowley’s, and it made no difference that neither of them really had one.

~*~

The gramophone concluded that it would make two lovers of friends. The brilliant white glow that had flared into every corner of the room died away like the last light of summer.

Zadkiel twirled to a stop. He had wrapped his arms around himself. He sighed, and opened his eyes.

He was him. Again. Better and fuller and brighter than ever before.

It was like a loose connection in his brain had snapped into place, and lit up an entire circuit he didn’t know was there.

Of course they loved each other. Of course. He’d always known, without being truly allowed to know. Cognitive dissonance, that was the term. Normally, when people had it, it manifested as plain old denial. For Zadkiel, it was what happened when one of your component parts was very much aware they were in love, and the other part was utterly unaware, no matter how apparent it should have been to literally anyone.

No more. Now, their feelings were an open book. He was remade, and everything was different.

He couldn’t wait to get started.

He snapped his fingers at the gramophone. It gratefully fell silent.

Another snap, and Aziraphale’s furniture shuffled back into place. He had to hop about to avoid his shins getting bashed.

Finally, he snapped to unlock the door.

It fell ajar. The smell of night air stirred through the shop, dark as ink, and full of a thousand small noises.

Zadkiel turned in place. He drank in the long-loved sight of the bookshop. What a wonderful friend it had been. A true home, after centuries of wandering. If he could take it with him, he would.

He straightened his tie, banished the lingering alcohol from his bloodstream, and strode to the door.

His final act was to fish his sunglasses out of his jacket pocket. He left them on a table. He wouldn’t need them where he was going.

He exited the shop smartly. The door snapped shut behind him.

~*~

The street rolled away into the dark distance.

Zadkiel tilted his head up. The night sky was empty of stars and gods, and it was all waiting for him.

Both pairs of wings spread out behind him. He let them both have a good stretch. They’d need it.

He had loved the Earth. He always would. Still… time for something new.

He wished the world the fondest of farewells, and took off into the night.

---

(Link to next part)

[oatsn-honey]

Storms

“You have water on your nose,” Zelda grinned teasingly, tapping the droplet on the tip of Link’s freckled nose. He scrunched his nose up in return, much to her amusement.

“Well you have some in you hair,” he mumbled, with a poor imitation of a frown, leaning forward to ruffle her sunlight tresses. She giggled gleefully, briefly tugging her fingers through the damp mess of her hair.

Looking up through the trees, the princess took notice of the dark, foreboding clouds formulating in the gray sky, a pleasant curve, however, still on her pink lips. “I think it’s going to rain!” She sang, excitedly looking at her knight.

He pursed his lips, glancing into the basket of items they had been gathering within the forest near Hateno Village. “We should probably head back.” He gently set his herbs and mushrooms into the basket as Zelda tossed her own collection in, before she launched up, rolling her pants up to avoid the mud. Link rose, and they began their short walk back to the cottage.

As the duo emerged from the dense trees, the rain began to flow faster, but Zelda enjoyed it just the same — nearly every sensation was wonderful after 100 years without feeling. She spun in wide circles, her arms flung out as she twirled, loose shirt billowing, her giggles tremendous with every drop of water that touched her tongue. Her laughs were contagious, as always, and Link couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped him and the way a smile painted his own plump lips.

He watched her, mesmerized, as she stopped for a moment, her chest heaving, but smile still a shining beacon. Quickly, the basket still safely hooked in the bend of his arm, he rushed forward, and clasped on to Zelda’s slender hand, tugging her forward. “Woah, Link!” She laughed, but began to run alongside him, fingers curling around his.

They tumbled up and down the hills of Hateno, sloshing through the mud and squinting — not because of the rain or wind, but because of their brilliant grins and excited giggles — hand in hand. Their shirts dripped water, hair clumping together and plastering to their flushed faces, and the rain grew heavier until it was pouring, pelting on their skin. But they ran, and laughed, and squealed, ignoring the cold and dreary, to instead find the wonder and joy. And for a moment, they were just children, free and wild.

But then came the time where the merriment had to pause. They rushed through the homely, but empty, village, and weaved their way through blocky houses, until traversing the wooden bridge leading to their home. He hovered behind her, just slightly, to protect her from the rain that seemed to leave welts on chilled skin. A boom of thunder rolled across the gloomy sky, shaking the very earth Zelda and Link stepped upon. The latter cringed, urging his princess inside the safety of the dim cottage.

“Phew! It sure is chilly!” Zelda laughed, ringing her dripping hair. “Let’s get some candles lit — it’s so dark!” She enthusiastically searched amongst the cluttered surfaces, eventually finding a small piece of flint and a strip of metal. She strolled around the room, lighting the flambeaux on the small wooden dining table last.

“Right, I’ll get started on making dinner.” Link pulled out the Hylian Shrooms and Hyrulian Herb that the two had gathered earlier. As he rummaged through their assorted wares, hoping to find some meat, he felt two arms tenderly snaking around his midsection. “Hey, Zel.”

She giggled softly at the affectionate nickname, placing her head on his toned shoulder. “You’re shivering, you know,” the blonde teased, smiling devilishly, before pecking him on his neck.

“Yeah? Well so are you, princess.” He returned, rubbing her arms littered with goose bumps. “And I’m trying to cook us some dinner, you know.” He tried to turn around in order to retrieve the flint needed to start the fire, but Zelda held firmly in place.

“Exactly, we should warm up first!” She countered, before scampering off to the washroom tucked underneath the stairs . “I’ll draw a bath!” She sung, the flint still in her hand. Link shook his head knowingly, before trotting up the stairs to retrieve some sleepwear for both he and Zelda from the wardrobe.

With the changes of clothing firmly in hand, the hero made his way down the steps. Thunder clapped, and Link stumbled, nearly falling, before he tensed, quickly glancing behind his shoulders, cobalt blue eyes cold and calculating. After a moment, he rolled his shoulders, trying to brush off the feeling, sighing as he continued his descent.

“Come on, slowpoke!” Zelda called, a smile in her voice, “Or I’ll get in without you!”

Rounding the corner into the washroom, Link grabbed two towels from the hooks secured onto the room’s door. Zelda was bending over the large basin (although, it still was fairly small, much tinier than the kitchen table) — Bolson called it a bathtub, claiming it was cast iron layered with porcelain — pouring in a bucket of water that had been heated over the room’s small stone furnace. “The water’s nice and warm,” the princess cooed, scooping some into her hand.

“Right,” Link hummed, setting the towels and clean clothing onto a countertop. He began to strip from his soaking layers as Zelda discarded her own.

Climbing into the tub, the princess sank into the water, sighing deeply as the warm water met her chilled skin. Tentatively, Link joined her, sitting to face her. His shivering body was delighted by the water, and he felt his muscles lose some tension.

With a small chuckle, Zelda nudged towards Link, grabbing his arms, rubbing up and down. “You’re going to get hypothermia.” She smiled cheekily, watching as her knight stuck his bottom lip out.

“Yeah, well you are too,” He pouted, eyebrows furrowed. In the distance, thunder bellowed angrily, rattling the small home. Subconsciously, Link grew rigid, muscled arms tight underneath Zelda’s gentle grasp. He closed his eyes, breathing a heavy sigh before his body relaxed.

There was a moment where Zelda frowned, but it disappeared when mirth filled her voice again and she continued her ministrations, “You forget, silly, that I do not possess the unfortunate ability to grow sick.” She paused, grinning, “Hylia insures that her vessel stays healthy.”

Link gave a half-hearted smile in return. Zelda changed the topic, moving her hands to hover over Link’s abdomen, “These bruises are looking better,” She studied the angry, dark bruises maring his ribs, noting the yellow and green edges, “They’re healing — slowly, but surely.”

Link hissed sharply when her wandering fingertips brushed the injuries, body curling in ever-so-slightly. “Sorry!” Zelda exclaimed, retreating.

He shook his head — “No, it’s alright.” He bit his lip, eyes cast away.

“Sorry,” Zelda breathed again.

“Zelda!”

Hands met her side and pushed her down, hard. The impact against the ground hurt. Her breath was knocked from her lungs, and she would’ve been left reeling had a hulking shadow not lurched over her — a White Lynel, leaping majestically and threateningly through the air and right over her body. She pressed herself flat to the ground as it passed overhead, tears of fright pricking at the corners of her eye. It’s own beedy red orbs glared at her from above, and she nearly felt paralyzed. But it continued, its charge unaltered.

A thud. A grunt. His body rolling on the ground. The Lynel circling around for another attack.

“Link!”

This was her fault — she should’ve been paying attention, shouldn’t have been so enthralled by the flowers and insects splayed across the ground. Why didn’t she hear it approaching? It’s hooves were thunderous against the ground, how could she have missed them? She restrained the Calamity single handedly for 100 years and sealed it away to its demise — why couldn’t she face a meagre Lynel?

It was her fault that Link was now curled up on the ground, the daunting and potent beast’s foot mere inches from colliding with his skull.

She called his name again in desperation — “Run!” — and clambered to her feet, running to them on unsteady legs. Just moments, moments until the collision; she had to intervene, she had to.

“Stay back!” He cried, voice bellowing, but breaths laborious. She didn’t stop — why would she?

“Are you crazy?! Link!” She screamed, approaching. The Lynel didn’t grant her so much as a glance as it continued its assault.

There was a sudden hue of blue that reflected on his face. His eyes were hardened with determination as his arms slowly rose to cover his head. There was a flash.

The earth shook and the air trembled as the blast shot the Lynel back, the monster releasing a cry, before it could complete its deadly kick.

“You idiot!” Zelda roared, eyes wide with shock and wet with tears. He had detonated a bomb — right in front of himself.

There was no time for her to rush over to her knight, the Lynel recovering from the blast swiftly with a shake of its mane, as she unsheathed the sword on her waist. She could only hear the thud of his back hitting a tree trunk and his raspy cough of pain.

Zelda wanted to scream “idiot” over and over again, but knew that she did not have the seconds to waste. She rushed over to the Lynel, steps silent and lithe, quickly bounding into the air and settling herself on its back. With heaving breaths, and adrenaline pumping through her veins, muscles tense, she drove the sword into the beast, giving it not a moment to spare and counter her.

It disintegrated to a purple smoke, swirling and omniscient — after several moments, parts would appear in the monster’s stead. But Zelda paid no mind, to her victory or to her wobbling knees and trembling hands, as she surged towards Link.

She dropped to her knees by his limp body. “Link!” She called, dropping her blade and grasping his arms. She shook his body harshly, shrieking his name in fear, “Link?!”

“I swear, Link, you are such a dummy,” Zelda groaned, cleaning the bloodied dressings. She huffed, aggressively pushing the bandages back into the wooden water basin, “Biggest,” Dunk, “dummy,” dunk, “in all,” dunk, “of Hyrule.”

“‘Orry,” He slurred, the words muffled and pained; talking pulled the still fresh burns on his face. From the loft floor, she looked up at him as he sat in the bed, leaned against pillows and swaddled in a blanket. His freckled skin was still swollen and a furious crimson, raised and bumpy. Zelda wondered how he could even stand blinking with how puffy the sensitive skin was. His lip was cracked to oblivion, every movement making it bleed — she hoped it wouldn’t take too long to heal.

Ringing the dripping bandages, Zelda sighed, “Oh, darling, please don’t apologize.” Gracefully, she stood, reaching the bed in a few long strides. Smoothing the material of her dress underneath her, she gingerly sat down, careful to not jostle the bed. “You were protecting me — it’s my fault for not paying attention.”

“So,” She hummed, popping the cork off of an elixir, “I should be the one apologizing.” Zelda sloshed the metallic red liquid in the bottle, inspecting it briefly before making a satisfied noise. “Could you lay down for me?”

That really meant, “Let me help you lay down.” Cautiously, she set the vital elixir on the nightstand, before settling her hands on Link’s back and chest, easing him downwards. He hissed through clenched teeth, but made no further protest as he was lowered to a flat position. “Sorry, sorry!” Zelda whispered, sincerity and guilt dripping from her tone, “I know this really hurts. I’m sorry.”

She sat back, grabbing the glass from the table, and began to work, eyes ashamed. Zelda pushed the blankets back, revealing inflamed skin littered in burns and crimson bruises, still blooming across his chest and abdomen, dotted with pinpricks of blood. She held back a cringe; it had already been 4 days, and even after Pura and Symin reset and mended the broken ribs, generously offering a bottle of rare fairy tonic, the injuries hardly looked any less gruesome. His back was nearly in the same condition, and the burns covered his entire body. That Lynel kick was brutal.

As the princess began to delicately pour drops onto the burns marring his chest, rough bandages met her skin and a feather-soft clasp captured her wrist.

“Don’ blame yoursel’, Zel’a,” His voice was hoarse, breaths reduced to fragile wheezes. She gazed down at him, his ocean eyes half-lidded and glossy with fever, “S’not your faul’.”

“I—” Zelda faltered, gnawing at her bottom lip. She broke her sight from him, casting her attention to his wounds. Her heart ached as she continued to apply the elixir to the burns painfully blighting his body — she would use half externally, and have him drink the rest.

As she set to wrapping the injuries, Zelda had to finish her statement, for the guilt she felt, “I’ll try my best, Link.” She bit her tongue harshly stemming the urge to apologize again, “Thank… Thank you.” She did her best to ignore his wavering stare, only interrupted by sluggish blinks.

No more words were spoken as Zelda swathed the remainder of his body in bandages, and he clenched the sheets in an iron grip. Too exhausted and delirious, Link remained silent as she pulled the covers to his chin, her emerald eyes glimmering with tears as she sensitively covered his forehead with a moist rag, as if he was fractured glass that would shatter.

As if she would be the one to shatter him.

“Zel?” He was leaning forward, face (healed—scarred, but healed) mere inches from hers, fingertips (no longer tightly wound in bloodied bandages) brushing her arms hesitantly, but affectionately. Waves of concern flooded his ocean orbs, and he reached up, tenderly swiping the tears from her own eyes — when had she begun to cry? “Please don’t blame yourself, love.”

“R-Right,” She stammered, as Link slid his calloused hands back to her arms, settling on her biceps. She heaved a sigh, before shaking her head and repeating, “Right.” A moment passed and she gave a shaky smile.

As thunder ripped through the sky, the two suddenly grew aware of the slams of rain on the roof. The ground shook as lightning struck, the house rattling; the warm bath water around them rippled as the room seemed to tremble.

“Gah—!” Fingertips ground harshly into Zelda’s arms, strong callused hands gripping like she was a lifeline. “Link!” Her forehead crinkled in confusion, shoulders tightening as she tried to wriggle free of his grasp, “What in the world?”

After a moment of her struggling, when she had yet to receive an answer, she peered up at him, into vacant sapphire eyes. Her voice was gentle as she breathed, “Link?” There was a brief hesitation before she asked haltingly, “Are you with me?”

The fingers anchored to her arms released quickly as he took a shuddering gasp. Ocean eyes ignited momentarily, before focusing on her and sinking into a watery sorrow. His head fell, wet bangs hanging in front of his face.

“Link?” Zelda scooted forward carefully, her right hand coming to brush his hidden cheek, “Are-Are you alright?” Butterflies tumbling in her stomach, she falteringly raised his head to her. His eyes were cast to the side, eyebrows pressed and mouth tightly shut, teeth clenched. Small tears danced in his vision. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong?”

He gulped and heaved a deep, shaky breath, “I-I’m alright, nothing is wrong.” His voice was hushed, ashamed, “I j-just — would you let me wash your hair?”

She knew what he was doing, but also knew not to rush matters, “Of course.” Her tight smile was less than reassuring.

As she made to turn around, she could feel two hands hovering over her, inching nearer, before they sharply flinched away. It was as if she were hot iron, flaming and burning — not to be made contact with. Or, perhaps more accurately, he were acting as the hot iron and she were ice, ready to crack and melt under the heat.

“It’s okay. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.” Her voice came out more tense than she intended. Glancing down at the cherry dots on her arms, Zelda momentarily wondered if they would bruise, before ultimately deciding that it didn’t matter.

Gently, oh so gently, he lifted her hair, combing his fingers through it so carefully that she could hardly notice. It was thoroughly soaked with the water, and then a shampoo smelling of honey and hyrulian herb was brought through her silken strands. Link’s touch was feather light as he worked the soap into her hair, removing knots far more compassionately than she could ever herself. Not even a spec of water slipped down her forehead, not a sud, as he rinsed her sunlight locks, only dimmed by the water. As pleasant as it was, it was all too odd. His touches were barely there, but she could tell, could feel just how strained his body was, how uneasy.

He was tediously washing out her hair when everything froze. His hands, his breathing. Her own motion halted. All words caught in her throat, and she swallowed painfully against them. It wasn’t until she felt him shyly place his forehead against her sloping shoulder that her voice’s cage was unlocked. He choked out an, “I’m sorry.”

She felt hot tears slide down her skin, and another “Zelda, I’m so—so sorry.” escaped from his quivering lips.

She refrained from abruptly turning, and bit back the burning question of “What’s wrong?” Instead, she settled for, “Love, what are you sorry for? There is nothing to apologize for.”

The words were constricted as he hardly managed to stifle the suffocating sobs, “I hurt you.”

That was it, she was turning around. Zelda pulled him to her, cradling his head against her neck, “I’m fine, Link. You didn’t mean anything—I’m not mad and there is no reason for you to be upset with yourself.” She emphasized every word with a tone of comfort, the reminder firm but sincere.

For several long minutes, the water growing cool with their prolonged soak, Zelda held him close, swaying just slightly. “It’s okay, it’s okay — I’m okay,” She reminded constantly, her voice just as divine as Hylia.

The princess was fiddling with his hair, rubbing his scalp in soothing motions when she whispered, “How about I quickly wash your hair and then we lay down?” She felt him nod into her shoulder, before he backed away, his eyes puffy and red.

She brushed the stray tears from his face, leaning in for a tender kiss, “Cheer up, darling.”

In a moment, Link’s back was to Zelda as she brushed her fingers through his sugar and honey hair. Quickly shampooing the thick locks, she commented, “It’s getting so long.” When pulling a group of several strands flat, they reached past his shoulder blades — at least while wet. She got a noncommittal grunt in response.

Zelda pursed her lips and huffed out her nose. As she methodically rubbed the soap into the roots of his hair, she spoke quietly, “Link, what’s wrong?” Her breath hit his back, “Please.” She rinsed his hair with the water that had since grown frigid, continuing in that hushed voice, “You’ve been so tense since we’ve gotten home — like something is lurking over our shoulders. I-I can tell that you’re hurting…” Her easy pace took on a frantic edge, “If it’s your ribs, or the burns, let me know and I can make some—“

“That’s not it.”

She stopped, “Huh?”

“Um… that’s… that’s not it.” She knew that had she not been holding his hair, he would’ve been rubbing his neck sheepishly. He was most likely worrying his full bottom lip, too.

“Oh…” Her voice lurched as she broke off. She jogged her mind for elaboration, but turned up empty handed. Instead, she found herself fiddling nervously with his hair, under the pretense of rinsing it further.

Answering the question she couldn’t form herself, Link began hesitantly, tone quavering and insecure, “I, um... I don’t like storms very much… you know?” The thought tacked onto the end spoke at length, “Please, don’t judge me.”

She was given hardly a second to gather her bearings (his statement puzzled her, if just slightly — how could someone who’s lived nearly half of the past year in awful weather be… scared of rain?) before small words filled the momentary silence, “It’s not like I’m… frightened of them, though.” She would never tell him how defense he sounded, “It’s just that, well, it’s just that…”

She made a reassuring interruption, rubbing his shoulders endearingly, “Link, it’s alright. You can tell me.”

“Um,” He swallowed harshly and bit the inside of his cheek, “When it’s storming, everything, every noise, is covered up by the sound. It’s the perfect chance to strike — for you, and the enemies. If you’re not constantly on guard, tense with every strike of lightning and boom of thunder, there’s no doubt that you’ll be attacked from behind.”

That was a lie, Zelda knew. (Well, maybe not entirely.) She didn’t quite want to believe that it was too eloquent, or too long-winded, but it was not the root of the problem. He was not upset over some moblin skirmish in the rain. Sure, it could explain the flash of fear in his eyes, and his apprehensive body language. But everything else? No. “Link,” she pleaded, pressing herself against him, “Tell me the truth.”

He shrunk in on himself, “It was like this that day. The day I failed. I failed the king, the country, the people, my family.” The tears began again as his voice cracked, “I failed you.”

“Link, please, don’t say that,” Mist gathered in her eyes, clouding her vision, “It’s not true.” She pressed a delicate kiss to his skin, softly wrapping her arms around his aching midriff. “It’s just as much my failure as yours.”

“It is! I should’ve been stronger, should’ve trained harder, should’ve been more prepared,” Words fell from his lips faster than she could stop them, “I needed to do my job — protect you and the kingdom. And I failed at both miserably.” His words sputterted to an end, defeated.

Sniffling, and locking her own tears away (this was a never-healing wound for both of them), she spoke thoughtfully, “Link, as much as we do anyway, we can’t blame ourselves for what happened — we did all that we could.” She nestled her face into his neck, “We’re here now, and even though it’s been a tragic, arduous fight, we’ve won. We’re here.”

Zelda felt his body stiffen, and chest shakily rise with a shuddering breath. “I know,” He resigned mutedly, hands rising to grasp at her own. “Let’s— Can we go to bed?”

She planted her lips on his chilled cheek (the water grew bitter still, stinging at her skin), “Of course, love.”

Zelda’s hair (particularly dry, excluding the tips) was quickly woven into a flowing braid, tied off with a silk ribbon, the regal color of the Champions. She gently towel-tried his own honey blonde hair, and it was left to cascade over his shoulders (while tangle-free and wonderfully clean, it remained an unruly mop). They clambered out of the washroom, leaving it a disaster for them to worry about in the morning, the princess clad in a long cotton nightgown and her knight adorned in a simple shirt and set of pants, both a forest green.

They ascended the wobbling steps to the loft, hand in hand, feet shuffling across the icy floorboards. The earth seemed to be collapsing upon them as they climbed into the small (but perfectly sized) bed. Link twirled the string of his tunic’s neckline as Zelda pulled the thick covers over them. She huddled against him, his arm coming around her waist tenderly, and his supple lips met her forehead.

The peace was shattered with another crash of terrifying thunder. Zelda wanted to cry when he receded, closing himself off from her. She advanced, breath hitched, but paused when his shoulders began to tremble, small whimpers concealed by the pillow underneath him. “Link…”

“Link, would you turn to me?” Her voice was meek as she asked, fearful of his reaction. “Maybe he thought I was asleep already…” As thunder rolled through the grim sky once again, he jolted to face her. Within a second of witnessing his teary face, she blurted, “Come here.” Even if he didn’t want it (which he clearly did), Zelda pulled him to her, cradling his head against her chest. The frozen metal of his earrings chilled her skin as he clutched at her pink sleepwear, curling up against her. She placed her head on top of his, rubbing soothing circles in his back. “I’m here.”

Their home rattled around them, the sky weeping upon the humble Hateno village. Each smack of rain on the window rang, and objects on the wall teetered. Puddles took over the rocky paths in the town, and the pond outside their cottage overflowed. The crops were uprooted and the land flooded.

But Zelda didn’t care. She held the one she loved, whispering in his ear (“You’re here. You are not to blame. You are safe. I am safe. You’ve done so much. I love you. So much.”) as she embraced him. That’s all that mattered in that moment.

And, secure and warm in his princess’s arms, Link finally felt his eyelids drift closed.

Zelda awoke to soft breathing and birds chirping. Her pleasant smile was as delicate as the rising sun as it’s rays shone through the dew covered window. Her emerald eyes peered down at Link’s soft face, blissfully relaxed in his well-earned slumber. His freckles and the flush of his cheeks and ears were all the more captivating in the soft glow of the morning light.

Her heart swelled when he shifted, still pressed against her, clinging to her clothing. “This,” she thought, “is wonderful.” She wouldn’t have trade that moment for anything — not even an earlier defeat of the Calamity. Zelda was content, happy, to lay all day, admiring her sweet, caring knight. Forever, if that’s what it took, she would wait until those ocean eyes peered up at her to say, “I love you.”

“I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll hold you until you’re no longer frightened. Until the rain no longer reminds you of our failures, but instead of how far we’ve come.”

“The storm of the last night has crowned this morning with golden peace.”

End quote by poet, Rabindranath Tagore. 

Wowie! This was supposed to be a drabble, and look at it now -- 13 pages long and just short of 4.5K words! This particular one-shot has been in the works for over 2 months, so I’ve become very emotionally attached. I hope you enjoyed this very fluffy and extremely angsty zelink story. These babs just deserve to be happy, I swear. Also! First time writing anything close to action!

Please let me know what y’all think of this -- reviews are very appreciated;;;

All though this has definetley been a very enjoyable project (seriously, one of my favorites!), I’m super excited for the next Zelink one-shot -- it’s completely planned out. It’s also a pre-calamity fic! Well, catch ya later, lovelies! 

Thank you for all of the support! <3

[myaekingheart]

A New Year

           A young Kakashi Hatake slid down beside his next-door neighbor as she squirmed and squealed with anticipation. It was the first time she would ever see midnight, or at least voluntarily. He surveyed her wild ginger hair, the freckles across the bridge of her scrunched-up nose, that gleam in her mossy green eyes. Kakashi never cared much for New Years—it was just another day to him—but seeing it through her eyes made him care. She grinned up at him and swung her legs back and forth, and her excitement swelled in his little boy heart a sort of happiness that you can only truly feel when you’re still a kid. And then the clock struck midnight and like a bottle of champagne, she burst, falling backward onto the floor shrieking “Happy New Year!”

               At age eleven, he sat beside Obito and Rin in the ramen shop as heavy foot traffic flowed behind them. He could feel something like anticipation rising in Rin’s throat, a question she was unsure if she could ask. Obito fumed with tension. Kakashi was sandwiched between the two, the heightening unspoken conflict only making him that much more unnerved. The steam from his noodles dampened his brow and his hands felt unsteady. He quietly excused himself and ducked out for some fresh air. The cold nipped at what little of his face was exposed, and he found his legs carrying him further down the street than his mind intended. He watched the crowds of people laughing and drinking and holding hands, enthralled by their happiness. And then he bumped into her. He should’ve been paying closer attention. The box of late-night shipments tumbled to the ground, spilling books everywhere. She gripped his forearm to steady herself. A large gong from nowhere in particular rang loud and clear, signaling the new year. It took Rei a moment to comprehend what had happened but once she did, her face burned bright red. Despite his mask, she could still feel his lips pressed against hers perhaps a little too unwillingly. And yet he had not moved away. Was he, too, paralyzed? Or was it something else? Rei recoiled and averted her eyes, apologizing softly before ducking into the shop and wishing him a halfhearted “Happy New Year.”

               He didn’t know how it happened, and he cursed fate for having even put him in this situation in the first place. He was twenty-one. Everyone else was likely off drowning in alcohol and while he wasn’t one for the social scene, he almost wished he was with them instead. He could feel Rei’s presence pulsating beside him, wondered what expression painted her face beneath that kitsune mask. New Year’s Eve meant anything could happen. It was a night of possibility and magic. The threshold of a new beginning. It was also a night of danger and the hokage always insisted on tightening security. One false move and a firework could turn into a bomb, a celebration into a terrorist attack. The anticipation was killing him. He almost hoped something bad would happen just so he could avoid something good. He was too terrified of the good. But then midnight came and the world below rejoiced. He reached out and his fingers grazed hers, itching to interlock. “Aisuru…” he whispered. There was so much power in a name, so much history in a single word. Her heart leapt into her throat. She did not look at him. “Happy New Year.”

           Sekkachi was about ready to drink herself to death. The bar was packed with shinobi tired and tense, Kakashi included. His students were wearing him thin and the night away was such a relief. He rested his hand on Rei’s lower back as she took another swig of sake, her face glowing with intoxication. How he had stayed away from her so long, how he had kept his distance, he had no clue. Standing here beside her now, he couldn’t imagine living one more second without her. He gripped her hand then, whispering, “Come here for a second.” She looked at him curiously, following him back to a secluded corner of the bar. He brushed the hair out of her face, fingers grazing that scar across her nose. And then midnight came and the world around them erupted. Kakashi tugged his mask down and pressed his lips hard against hers, his hand lightly gripping her shirt at her lower back. Everything else melted away—the world no longer existed except for him and her. When he pulled away, she looked back at him in a drunken haze, cheeks bright red. God, he loved her so much. The promise of their futures flashed before his eyes as he pressed his forehead to hers and whispered, “Happy New Year.”

           When they asked her why she wasn’t drinking, she refused to give an answer. She didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. It was nothing. She could feel their stares, however, as she ordered another soda. It made her sick. Kakashi could sense her growing anxiety, massaging the base of her neck in an effort to ease the tension. The fact she had made the effort to come out at all in the first place, had dragged herself through that thick haze of exhaustion and nausea, was admirable but he knew deep down she just wanted to go home. The only thing keeping her here, of course, was reputation. But really, who cared? They were beyond the expectations of bachelors and the youth now. A new era was just around the corner. They slipped out shortly before midnight, walking slow back to their apartment with hands interlocked. Her profuse apologies broke his heart. “You have nothing to be sorry for” Kakashi reminded her. They stopped just outside the complex as the clock struck midnight. A soft smile touched his lips as he leaned down and kissed her softly, and in that kiss was the shared knowledge that everything was going to change. This was the last year things would be calm ever again. He pressed a hand to the small bump beneath her shirt and whispered “Happy New Year.”

           The chaos outside made Kakashi anxious. He considered abandoning the paperwork piled high on his desk, giving himself the night off, but he knew a hokage never truly rested. There was so much to organize in the aftermath of the war. But something far more important waited for him at home. He signed off one more document before deciding to officially depart for the night and as he walked home, he suddenly grew terrified that he wouldn’t make it in time. Swarms of people were already crowding around in preparation for the turn of the new year. He burst into their home with five minutes to spare, the living room cluttered with brightly colored toys and pillows and blankets. And then he saw them and his heart swelled. This. This is what was most important. He set his equipment down slowly, then tiptoed to the couch where his wife was fast asleep. Her hair was matted and tangled, there was spit up on her shirt, and yet he couldn’t help but think she had never looked more beautiful. A hand rested atop their infant daughter’s back as she slept peacefully atop Rei’s chest. She probably struggled for hours to quiet her. When that gong struck midnight, Nariko would probably snap awake wailing and screaming, erasing all of that hard work. He pursed his lips trying to think of a way around it all, stroking her fine, pale hair affectionately. Before he could come up with a plan, however, midnight came but neither Rei nor their daughter woke. Relief washed over him as he kissed his daughter’s head, and then his wife’s. Rei’s brows furrowed at the touch, her eyes creaking open. It took her a moment to register that it was Kakashi before her, really him and not just a figment of her imagination. And then a soft smile touched her lips as she watched him kick his shoes off and climb carefully onto the couch to curl up beside them, wrapping his arms around the two most important people in his life. As they settled in, he nuzzled her cheek and murmured, “Happy New Year.”

           As the years wore on, New Year’s Eve transformed into a time of reflection and gratitude. Kakashi thought back to when he and Rei were just kids, how indifferent he had been except for her. The excitement in her eyes, that untouched innocence, was enough to make him reconsider. And now, lounging in his living room watching his own children race and leap and holler, he was filled with a similar sense of wonder and light. Nariko flung her stuffed animals high into the air with infectious laughter as their son, growing sleepy, settled into his mother’s lap. As predicted, he was barely making it to midnight whereas she would probably last until dawn if they let her. They were filled with so much promise, these precious little kids. Kakashi still couldn’t believe he was lucky enough to call them his own, to have a family of his own in the first place. His fingers interlocked with his wife’s as she rested her head on his shoulder, and then the clock struck midnight and another year officially began. Rei gazed up at her husband with glassy eyes, as if their world was to good to be true, and they heard Nariko gag playfully as they kissed. “That’s gross!” she shouted, though her mind was elsewhere in minutes. Fireworks blared outside their window, capturing children’s wonder with their bright colors and loud pops. Kakashi and Rei followed close behind to enjoy the show. No matter what trials and tribulations they faced every other day of the year, at this moment nothing else mattered and the world was perfect. Rokurou plugged his ears as Nariko cupped her hands around her mouth then and screamed to the world below “Happy New Year!”

[lonelypond]

Moonlight Becomes You: Apocalypse Midnight Dance Party, Ch. 1

NozoEli, Love Live, 2.5K, 1/?

Summary: Ayase Eli has a slightly less thoroughly organized LA life than just a few weeks ago, a part time job, college bff, Yazawa Nico, for a housemate, a once a month case of serious bed head, and a new dance project to distract her from a certain fortuneteller Eli has recently befriended. Nico, meanwhile, is text flirting with Nishikino Maki, aka DJ Diamond Princess, who can't seem to keep herself in LA. And a few new players enter the scene. The sequel to Moonlight Becomes You.

Change Will Come

Nozomi Tojo had been spending more time here, at her favorite bookstore, a smaller shop than hers even, off an alley she wasn’t sure how she’d found the first time. It was a cosy aesthetic, a little cluttered but still giving off a sense of sparseness, of spaces you could expand in to as you considered what the day had brought to you. And no Russian spices drifted in. The prickly kind Hanamaru Kunikida and her partner, Yohane, had set up a nook for Nozomi in the very back, there was even a very ancient Japanese screen Yohane swore she knew the noblewoman who’d originally sat behind it for days when Nozomi wanted no prying eyes. Today, Nozomi was at a more central table, frowning over her cards, she could feel herself biting the inside of her lip whenever she put down the mug of tea. The central card in this three card spread had stayed her hand, flipped her stomach. Death. Nozomi was too experienced for the rookie mistake of letting the Death card make her fear for her mortality, but she was too too aware that it was a glaring neon sign, especially in the central, present spot that change, capital C Change, major LIFE CHANGE™ was on the Cosmic menu. Add in the reversed quality and there was the screaming sense that Nozomi was avoiding something. With The Chariot bold to the left of it, one might venture a guess that Nozomi was avoiding someone charismatic, determined. The Four of Cups nudged Nozomi to reach out for an opportunity. Nozomi groaned and lowered her head to the table.

“Nozomi-chan?” Hanamaru’s soft voice drifted through the incense and Nozomi felt the swoosh of a fallen angel swooping in to eavesdrop on her reading.

“She’s avoiding something, Zuramaru. The Death card is flipping her off and the Four of Cups is calling her out for low self esteem.” A deep voice echoed around Nozomi, who refused to raise her head. “Has she met someone recently?” A huge intake, and then the deep voice screeched into a higher register, “Is that why you’ve practically moved in? Who is she?” Another voice switch, “The Fallen Angel Yohane will cast her net into the abyss and pull forth a lantern to shine and show her fellow wanderer of Destiny the path forward.”

Nozomi heard Hanamaru tickle her lover, who squeaked, and flumped down onto the pillow next to Nozomi while Hanamaru sat less dramatically on Nozomi’s other side.

“Nozomi-chan…” Hanamaru wheedled. One of the reasons Nozomi felt so comfortable here is that Hanamaru had also grown up in Japan, Nozomi just wasn’t sure which era, and refused to give up her vocal tics, even when she spoke mostly fluent English.

“Her name is Eli.” Nozomi felt Yoshiko sit up next to her with a hiss of breath, but Nozomi managed to grab the Fallen Angel’s hand before she touched Nozomi’s cards, Nozomi raised her head, smiling at both her friends. Hanamaru was in a floral skirt and soft fuzzy tan sweater that complemented her eyes, fair hair framing her face. Yoshiko was in a leather jacket, sugar skull splashed across a black tank top, and torn jeans, midnight hair in a bun. “Use your own, devil.”

Yoshiko grumbled, looking to Hanamaru for support, but the fair haired maiden just shrugged. Yoshiko hung her head for a minute, but when she raised it, her violet eyes were aflame with inspiration. She grabbed Nozomi’s tea cup before Nozomi could react, swallowed the rest of the tea, turned the cup three times while humming complacently and then slammed the cup dramatically back on the table. When it finished rocking, unbroken, Yoshiko inched forward to peer inside.

“Is it a bomb?” Nozomi giggled.

“A blonde.” Yoshiko muttered. Nozomi froze.

Yoshiko leapt to her feet, throwing both hands up, “The Great Yohane has called forth success in love as great as her own for her…” she looked sideways at Nozomi, who frowned with the slightest shake of her head, “her great and wise friend, Nozomi, washed up from the far reaches of the East on this Western shore. If, “And here Yoshiko flopped next to Nozomi, head on Nozomi’s shoulders, “she’ll stop hiding in the back of her best friend’s store.”

“Oh.” Nozomi mouth matched her choice of word.

“Yoshiko-chan is very wise tod…”

“Yohane…”

Hanamaru leaned over to kiss her lover on the cheek, “Thank you, Yoshiko-chan.”

Yoshiko blushed, and pushed away from the table, “I’ve got a meeting tonight. I’ll see you later, Zuramaru?”

“Looking forward to it,” Hanamaru managed an endearing and unique blend of cheeky and cheering whenever Yoshiko needed push.

“Meeting?” Nozomi asked as the door chimes played Yoshiko out.

Hanamaru froze, hand on the teapot. Nozomi became instantly suspicious, “Maru-chan?”

Hananamaru blew out a long breath, her eyelashes blinking wildly, “You know how Yoshiko…”

“Yohane” Nozomi deepened her voice and Hanamaru flinched, then scowled, her nose crinkling up. Once again, adorable.

“Is interested in cryptids?”

Nozomi nodded.

“There’s a reading group. Sometimes, they meet here, but mostly they meet…” Hanamaru paused, “somewhere else.”

Nozomi couldn’t help it, the huge laughs just rolled out of her, while Hanamaru watched curiously and mildly concerned. When Nozomi came up for air, she smirked at her friend, “You, Kunikada Hanamaru, are a worse liar than that grounded Fallen Angel you call your girlfriend.”

Hanaamaru’s eyes were blanks as she replayed Yoshiko’s latest pronouncement, “Displaced Celestial Being. Yohane is rebranding.”

Nozomi still had a chuckle left, “Oh, that’s a good one.”

Hanamaru passed a hand over Nozomi’s cards, “If you actually stopped avoiding this Eli, maybe I could be laughing at your girlfriend.”

“Oh, so you want revenge, ZURAmaru.” Nozomi leaned in with a leer.

Hanamaru turned away, her profile scorn, her eyes saucy, “You know Yoshiko doesn’t like it when you call me that. And yes.”

Nozomi gathered her cards, “I’ll put that on the pro side of the list.”

“Nozomi....” Hanamaru’s tone matched the message from the cards in severity. “You know ignoring answers is throwing kindness back in the face of the gods.”

“Ah, Hanamaru, but…” Nozomi searched for the right word.

“Fearing.” Hanamaru dove in.

Nozomi countered, “hesitating in the face of change is so deeply human that surely the gods will be patient with me.”

Hanamaru stood, “Gods may be patient, girls not so much.”

Nozomi knew Yoshiko and Hanamaru could be trusted to speak the uncomfortable truths. She leaned back, remembering Eli’s bright blue eyes and wondering what they were looking at now.

###

Nico Yazawa was lying on their couch, her green, avocado based beauty treatment slathered all over her face. She had her cellphone raised and was snapping a selfie.

“We are not getting Russian food again. Nico loves you, but…” Nico sighed as she hit send, “But Nico misses the honey mustard drizzle over a LIGHT salad from Muskies. Just send the fortune teller a text and ask HER out for heavy Russian food.”

Eli frowned, fidgeting with the edge of the couch cushion. “Have you asked out the feral DJ who hates me yet?”

“Maki” Nico drawled, “is currently out of the country, in Toronto, with K Pop stars hanging off her arms. So Nico is waiting to ask in person. And sending selfies.”

Eli sat up from the other side of the couch, ripping Nico’s phone out of her hand and reading her last message:

“Hey, Ripped and REDonkulous, stop by Nico’s when you get back into the country.” And there was Nico’s green goop coated face, tongue sticking out, eyes wide and twinkling.

“You really did send a pic of you in that slop.”

Nico rolled her eyes and grabbed her phone back, “Nico always looks good. And Maki appreciates honesty. None of the K Pop stars will let her see an eyeliner smear, let alone the night before look.”

Maki’s ringtone went off.

“What did she say?” Eli was genuinely curious. Nico and Maki’s courtship was outside the boundaries of anything Eli considered a lead up to dating, but Nico seemed pretty calm and happy about her situation, unless Maki had posted a pic from gig recently.

“Are you auditioning for a zombie flick?” Nico almost flinched. No one but Eli would have noticed. Nico tossed her phone to the side, “So why won’t you text Nozomi?”

“What do I say?”

“Hi, remember me, we agreed to be friends because I’m too much of a coward to ask you on a date.”

Eli reached behind her to grab a pillow and toss it at Nico, “I’m not a coward…” Eli’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Things are just weird right now. And I have a lot going on besides the...”

Nico leaned forward, using the pillow to prop her elbows on, “Ask her when she’s in, go have tea, let her read your future, and talk, Eli.” Nico tilted her head, almost smiling at her phone, “Even if they don’t say much, it’s still nice to have someone open your text, you know.”

Eli sighed, laid back down, her long legs stretching out next to Nico’s shorter ones, “Yeah.”

Nico watched her best friend, not hiding the sadness she knew was weighting her gaze. Eli wasn’t paying attention to her anymore, staring at the ceiling, thoughts elsewhere and Nico wished she had something comforting or constructive to say. And then her notifications pinged. Diamond Princess had posted a TWIG shot from tonight’s gig and there were five girls in skin tight clothing stretched out across her rig, mugging for her camera. Nico had problems too, even without monthly fur outbreaks.

###

You Watanabe’s least favorite thing about her job as the Coast Guard’s LAPD liaison was that she rarely got to wear her uniform. Too often she needed to slip under the radar, or pass as a someone out boating, or just be able to wander without her clothes or posture screaming “COP.” So she slouched, tried to bring back hacky sack, and switched her uniform hat for a dad cap. Of course, the friend she was meeting had it worse; at least You didn’t have to keep a pair of wings on the very low down low. Yoshiko, You had known her for a long time, most of them late nights in dark places, so Yoshiko allowed You to call her by her human name. These were human streets and it helped Yoshiko keep a barrier between these meetings and those with the more than mortal. You understood that, she too swam between two worlds, land and sea, footed and finned.

Yoshiko was whistling as she approached; You didn’t even have to turn, Yoshiko just settled a couple feet down the pier, leaning back against the railing, hands in the pocket of her leather jacket. No gang insignia on the back, just a pair of black glittery wings and Gothic graffiti reading “Dodged the Sun; Kicked the Moon.” You once again found herself taking a moment to appreciate how carved out of breathless glory Yoshiko looked when she forgot to dim the glamour. Then You stomped on her own foot and muttered, “friend, dating another friend, don’t go there.”

Yoshiko looked straight up, stretching her throat, then tilted her head to flutter eyelashes at her rendezvous mate, You was just glad the Fallen Angel wasn’t looking directly into the sun. That was always disconcerting.

“What’s up, Captain? What dark horrors can Yohane assist you in sealing away in the pit? ” Yoshiko sounded amused under the flare of drama, but whether she was reading You’s face or thoughts with those piercing purple eyes didn’t matter. You had been born an open book where women were concerned.

“The usual.” You chuckled, but her blue eyes flashed fierce. “Rumors. Bots. Trolls. Closed Facebook groups. TWIG hashtags. Social media chaos starting to spread, viral werewolves who transmit lycanthropy via saliva, mermaids drowning swimmers, wildfires being started by mutant Trinity Alps salamanders who breathe fire.” You hung her head, hands behind her neck, sighing, “It’s a flood.”

Yoshiko frowned. Hanamaru was pretty internet allergic, so Yohane spent maybe ninety minutes a day on the basics, on her phone, mostly responding to messages. She’d found it best to keep a low profile. It was too easy to feed the glamour greed; to start to crave the crowds, to yearn for the veneration. Hanamaru had pulled her back from that summit once; Yoshiko had kept herself grounded since then, helping others, in this world too modern and cynical to promote new gods to more than temporary power.

You continued, “Patterns seem to indicate local actors, a cell recently set up somewhere. There’s too many details and specific targets identified.” You took a piece of paper out of her pocket, “I think you’ll recognize some of the names.”

Yoshiko read quickly and then with a snap of her fingers and a spark the paper was gone, “I’ll warn them.” Yoshiko turned so she was facing You, “But what do I tell them?”

“The same thing I’m telling you.” Yoshiko’s name had been the first on that list, “Keep a low profile. Be wary of new people. And don’t have any more meetings at the bookstore, you goof.”

Yoshiko sighed, “Zuramaru will be sad; she likes making everyone cookies.”

“She can still make the cookies.” You was still not used to domestic Yohane, so concerned about the very prosaic activities of her partner.

“Oh that reminds me.” Yoshiko pulled a wrapped square out of one pocket, “She made you Orange Carrot Cookies. Says you need to fatten up.”

“Too busy burning off calories.” You’s best friend was the pool at her condo. Laps and lounging made her less likely to find leisure making her lonely. “Tell Hanamaru I appreciate the home baking. Does a sailor’s heart good.”

Yoshiko snorted, “Try that line on someone single, not MY wife, who’s waiting for ME.”

“Wife? You did it?” You's voice went shrill with surprise, carrying over the water.

Yoshiko startled, “Never mind that. Don’t tell Zuramaru I said….just…” Yoshiko closed her eyes, once again carved out of some substance more striking than flesh, her voice resonant with ancient echoes. “I gave up everything for her. And realized it had been nothing at all.” Yoshiko stood tall, grace in her smile as her voice softened.“Find you someone like that, my friend.”

“If only.” You pushed herself off the pier rail. “Take care of yourself. Tell Hanamaru I’ll stop by for dinner soon.”

“Good.” Yoshiko giggled, “You look hungry.”

“Or something…” You thought to herself as she waved Yoshiko off and turned to watch the sun drop into the iridescent sea.

A/N: I've been working on this for awhile, on and off. Turns out I miss writing a werewolf AU while spending my summer Shakespeare-ing. And I haven't really had the chance to write anything complicated with Aqours and I've been wanting to. So here we are. Enjoy!

[consulting-celiac-in-the-tardis]

21 Easy (and Cozy) Self Care Ideas to Practice this Winter

New blog post! Now that winter is making days shorter, colder and darker, it's more important than ever to make self care part of your regular routine. And I'm not talking about the Instagram #selfcare that requires fancy bath bombs or expensive lotions. I'm talking about 21 easy ways that you can get cozy and relaxed this winter, whether you're a college student like me, a busy mother of two or a full-time worker with a demanding job schedule.

Some of these self care ideas may seem obvious, but others may surprise you - and many of them are scientifically-backed ways to tackle stress. So regardless of how busy you may be this holiday season, check out these 21 ways you can add more self care into your holly, jolly life.

1. Make yourself a warm, welcoming drink.

On cold winter days, it probably feels natural to reach for something cozy to warm you up. If you're really looking for help relaxing, though, fill your mug with tea. Research has found that drinking tea can help lower people's stress levels. Plus, it can be pretty dang delicious! (If you have celiac disease, just make sure it's gluten free).

2. Watch a sappy holiday-inspired show or movie.

Sometimes, we don't need an award-winning movie or TV show to enjoy ourselves. At least a few times this winter, embrace your silly or sentimental side by watching a bad Hallmark movie or bingeing your favorite holiday baking show. (And if you eat chocolate while doing it, that's obviously worth bonus points).

3. Go thrifting for cute and comfy winter clothes.

Updating your wardrobe for winter doesn't have to hurt your wallet. Instead, make looking for comfy hats, mittens or scarfs a fun adventure by hitting up your local second-hand store.

4. Be your own masseuse.

Massage has been shown to reduce people's physical tension and mental stress - and if you have a chronic illness or chronic pain like me, a good massage is always a good idea! You don't need to hire a high-end masseuse to reap some of these benefits, either. Give yourself a massage instead by rubbing your own muscles while lotioning up after your shower or using a tennis ball or foam roller to break up any knots and tension. Pair this massage with a relaxing bubble bath and you have the makings of a perfect self-date night.

5. Set aside extra time to read a book, just for fun.

I know that winter can be a busy time with friends and family, but don't forget to set aside some alone time in your schedule. Add a good book into the equation, and your quiet night in will be extra enjoyable.

6. Bake yourself something festive!

Besides getting to eat a delicious pumpkin or apple inspired treat, you'll feel nice and cozy when your kitchen is warm from the oven and smelling like the holidays. (And if you need some ideas for gluten free pumpkin desserts or baked goods, try out this recent round up of mine!).

7. Walk it out (outdoors or at a local gym).

Depending on the weather where you live, going for a walk outside might not be an option. Even if you have to go for a walk inside, though, your brain will still thank you. Research has found that exercise can drastically improve people's mental health, and even just walking will lower how often people have "bad days."

8. Take up a new, indoor hobby.

And if being outdoors is realllly not an option, starting a new hobby that takes place indoors is ideal. Start putting together puzzles, learning how to cross-stitch...or even practicing rock-climbing, like I did last year! Who knows - you may end up finding a hobby that you love doing year-round.

9. Try out hot yoga.

Because there's no better escape for winter weather than a relaxing, mantra-and-stretch filled session of hot yoga.

10. Light one of your favorite candles.

More research still needs to be done on the benefits of aromatherapy, but science seems to suggest that certain scents can help us chilllll out. Find a scent that you enjoy, like lavender or peppermint, and experiment with burning different candles and seeing which smells work best for you!

11. Purge your social media feeds.

You've heard of spring cleaning, but winter is another great time to set yourself up for a fresh start in the New Year. If you find yourself spending more time than ever on social media since it's too cold or dreary to go outside, pay attention to how each account makes you feel and ditch the ones that aren't doing you any favors.

12. Get crafty and let out your inner child.

Create a wreath to hang on your door, use colorful pens and papers to create homemade cards or just doodle in a notebook. These kinds of creative activities have been linked to improved mood and creativity the next day...plus, you might end up with some very cute gifts to give this Christmas. Win-win!

13. Pamper yourself with a face mask.

I've only started using face masks this last year, and the hype is worth it. My favorite is a simple mix of honey with cinnamon that I apply on "problem areas" for around 10-15 minutes before washing it off, but there are tons of safe (and even delicious!) face mask recipes you can find online. No fancy or expensive ingredients or products required. Plus, dry winter skin will definitely thank you for the extra TLC.

14. Dust off your crockpot and experiment with a new yummy recipe.

I know I've certainly been lax in using my crockpot lately, and it can be hard to feel motivated to start cooking dinner first thing in the morning. But your future self will definitely thank you for the little bit of prep you do earlier, and winter is the perfect time to whip up something warm and gooey. May I suggest my crockpot stacked enchiladas or vegan mac and cheese?

15. Throw a pajama party.

Whether you have a solo party or invite friends, spend a whole, blissful day hanging out in your PJs.

16. Do something nice for someone else. 

Acts of kindness have actually been scientifically shown to improve people's physical and mental health, so passing it forward this winter is actually a win-win. Donate to a local toy-drive, send a care package to a solider or pay for the next person's coffee in Starbucks. Little acts can have a big impact.

17. Start a gratitude practice.

If you're the journaling type, you can start writing what you're grateful for every day in a notebook. Otherwise, sticky notes or just thinking about two things you're grateful for each morning or night will still give you a positivity boost!

18. Set aside time to play your favorite "pointless" game.

Whether it's Sudoku, Words With Friends or a video game that you used to play for hours every day in high school, give yourself permission to just sit back and play for a little while. I know that during most of the year, I'm a major multi-tasker and anytime I do get to play a game, it's because I'm traveling or waiting to start another chore. So chillin' (pun intended) with my gamer self during winter is one of my favorite ways to relax.

19. Declutter at least one part of your house.

Along with purging your social media feeds, on days when cold weather keeps you in the house, you might try purging cluttered corners as well. Decluttering can not only improve concentration, but it can also improve your mood, lower your stress levels and give you a better night's sleep. And if you play your latest Netflix binge, favorite podcast or an epic holiday playlist in the background, you can make decluttering feel a lot more fun too.

20. Stretch yo' body.

At least for me, finding the motivation for a hard workout feels a lot harder when it's cold, dark and dreary outside. So on days when you feel like you're in a funk but don't feel up for a full workout, do some gentle stretches (even in the comfort of your own bed!) instead. It will loosen up your muscles, slash your stress and might even help you be more productive at work.

21. Choose a mantra for the upcoming year.

Obviously, you shouldn't spend all winter pining for spring...but it can't hurt to spend a little time reflecting on what you want from the upcoming months. In 2018, my word or mantra of the year was "discomfort." In 2019, it was "open." And while I haven't decided exactly what word I want to keep in mind during the start of a new decade, I think something similar to "change" will end up winning. What do you want to get out of this Spring? You still have some cold weeks to help you figure out your answer!

The Bottom Line of Self Care During Winter

As the days get colder and our social schedules get busier, it's easy to let self care fall to the bottom of our to-do list. I know from personal experience, though, that you can't run on empty...and when you better yourself through self care, you're also empowering yourself to be a better friend, family member, and personal overall! So this winter, give yourself the gift of self care rituals...and if you need even more ideas, feel free to check out my previous roundups: How to Create Your Own Self Care Retreat in 5 Easy Steps; 15 Self Care Activities You Can Do Without Leaving Bed; and 21 Self Care Activities You Can Do in 15 Minutes or Less! How are you taking care of yourself this winter? Give me more of your own self care ideas in the comments below! via Blogger https://ift.tt/2OKlqR3

[foofygoldfish]

"because of lou" jsjsjsjs. it's a big meme, so i'll start with pink butterfly!

General:

Rate the Ship

Awful | Ew | No pics pls | I’m not comfortable | Alright | I like it! | Got Pics? | Let’s do it! | Why is this not getting more attention?! | The OTP to rule all other OTPs

How long will they last?

A long time lol - after what they’ve been through in Hope County? At the very least, they’re going to stick together platonically, but they really do love each other

How quickly did/will they fall in love? -

Pretty quick, oops - it was kinda a “we’re enemies, we’re enemies, we’re enemies, ….fuck, i really like her, when did i fall in love with you?” thing. My personal timeline for the game is about six months from helicopter crash to the final showdown with Joseph. Alice first goes to the Henbane about a week and a half in, and first meets Faith after helping the County Jail. They first talked person-to-person, not Herald-to-Deputy about three weeks after the crash, and “I love you” was first said on Halloween, though that was literally when Alice realised that she had actual, hard feelings for Faith, not just a little crush.

How was their first kiss?

….The first that wasn’t Faith the one in ‘you’ll always belong to me’? Lol. It was still unexpected -  Alice had camped out somewhere in the Henbane the night before she was planning on going and checking out the Elliot’s house and see what was going on at the F.A.N.G. center. Faith-faith, not apparition Faith, appeared, and they sat and talked for a while, before Faith leaned over and gave Alice a quick kiss and told her to go to sleep, she had a big day ahead of her.

Wedding:

Going with the no-bomb au for this, sorry lol

Who proposed?

Alice!

Who is the best man/men?

Oh god, you’re making me dig for this - For the big wedding? Mary May is Alice’s maid of honor, with Hurk, Hudson, Grace, and Claire as her bridesmaids.

Who are the bridesmaid(s)?

For Faith - Elizabeth is her maid of honor, with Kim, Carolina, and Jane (Alice’s sister) as her bridesmaids.

Neither had anyone for their first wedding, beyond someone with them to sign the paperwork.

Who did the most planning?

Uh. For the first wedding? Faith. Second wedding? Neither Faith or Alice were allowed to touch the planning stuff, it was all Mary May and Adelaide.

Who stressed the most?

Alice, because of the not being allowed to be involved with the planning (other than certain vetoes), and Faith - both times, she was worried about people’s perception of her still.

How fancy was the ceremony?

First wedding at their cabin: Back of a pickup truck | 2 | 3 | 4 | Normal Church Wedding | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Kate and William wish they were this big.

Second wedding in Fall’s End: Back of a pickup truck | 2 | 3 | 4 | Normal Church Wedding | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Kate and William wish they were this big.

Who was specifically not invited to the wedding?

Joseph, oops. I didn’t write that any of the brothers were there, but John and Jacob were sitting in the back watching the ceremony. Joseph, however, is still locked up….

Oh, Hurk Sr too

Sex:

Who is on top?

They take turns, but usually Alice

Who is the one to instigate things?

….70/30 Alice to Faith lol

How healthy is their sex life?

Barely touch themselves let alone each other | 2 | 3 | 4 | Once a couple weeks, nothing overboard | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | They are humping each other on the couch right now

How kinky are they?

Straight missionary with the lights off | 2 | 3 | 4 | Might try some butt stuff and toys | ….6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Don’t go into the sex dungeon without a horse’s head

How long do they normally last?

How much time do they have? Lol. They’re both pretty good at quickies, but they both love getting to take their time and draw things out.

Do they make sure each person gets an equal amount of orgasms?

Oh, absolutely.

How rough are they in bed?

Softer than a butterfly on the back of a bunny | 2 | 3 | 4 | The bed’s shaking and squeaking every time | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Their dirty talk is so vulgar it’d make Dwayne Johnson blush. Also, the wall’s so weak it could collapse the next time they do it.

How much cuddling/snuggling do they do?

No touching after sex | 2 | 3 | 4 | A little spooning at night, or on the couch, but not in public | 6 | 7| 8 | 9 | They snuggle and kiss more often than a teen couple on their fifth date to a pillow factory.

Children:

How many children will they have naturally?

One - David

How many children will they adopt?

Two! Claire and Caroline! :)

Who gets stuck with the most diapers?

…Faith has a stronger stomach than Alice, so Faith.

Who is the stricter parent?

Also Faith lol - Alice would like to be, but… She’s pretty lax. As long as they aren’t breaking any laws or being stupid, she’s fine.

Who stops the kid(s) from doing dangerous stunts after school?

Alice remembers the stupid shit she got up to, and she absolutely does not want any of the kids to do what she did lol

Who remembers to pack the lunch(es)?

Neither - the kids usually get lunch at school

Who is the more loved parent?

David loves both his moms, Claire likes Alice more, and Caro likes Faith more lol (they do love both their moms, it’s just… their interests just align more with one or the other)

Who is more likely to attend the PTA meetings?

Alice

Who cried the most at graduation?

Alice, lol - Faith would be sitting next to her sighing, rubbing her back.

Who is more likely to bail the child(ren) out of trouble with the law?

The first time it happens? The one that got in trouble expected Alice to help them.

She didn’t.

She said it was their fuckup, they get to deal with it. (She’ll pay bail, if that’s a thing, but the kid has to pay her back)

Cooking:

Who does the most cooking?

Alice is not allowed to cook. Faith learned that pretty early - she’s not a huge fan of cooking herself, but it’s better than eating at the Spread Eagle every day…

Who is the most picky in their food choice?

Alice, but mostly because her favorite foods aren’t really a thing in Montana.

Who does the grocery shopping?

Alice! If they’re going to the city for shopping, instead of just at the general store in town, she’ll make a day of it and go see a movie, go to a park, etc.

If it’s just in Fall’s End, though, it’s Faith - Alice thinks the general store is super depressing lol

How often do they bake desserts?

Maybe once a week? After everything, Alice likes to keep cookies in the house, and her and Faith have fun prepping them.

Are they more of a meat lover or a salad eater?

Alice likes meat, Faith likes salad lol

Who is more likely to surprise the other(s) with an anniversary dinner?

Alice.

Grace helped make the food.

And by helped, I mean that most of the food was made by Grace, Alice just made it all look pretty.

Who is more likely to suggest going out?

Alice lol - her “cooking” is getting take-out.

Who is more likely to burn the house down accidently while cooking?

…Alice. 100000%.

Chores:

Who cleans the room?

They both do - they’re fine with a certain level of clutter/mess, but they work to keep it from getting too bad.

Who is really against chores?

They’ve come up with a good split on the chores - they both like doing different things, so neither of them has to do stuff they don’t like, unless the other asks. (Like - Faith hates cleaning the bathroom, Alice hates doing the dishes, etc.)

Who cleans up after the pets?   

Alice - Faith was very firm on that lol. Alice is why they’re in the house, so unless Alice asks for help, she’s not going out of her way to clean up (normal) messes.

Who is more likely to sweep everything under the rug?

…Alice.

Claire catches her doing it once, and she just laughs and has to promise Alice not to tell.

Who stresses the most when guests are coming over?

Faith - Alice just throws random clutter into their bedroom to deal with later, but Faith wants the house to be just a tad cleaner.

Who found a dollar between the couch cushions while cleaning?

…..Sharky.

He was digging for a chip that he dropped lol

Misc:

Who takes the longer showers/baths?

Alice - Not being pressured or restricted to short showers is one of her favorite things about moving out to Montana

Who takes the dog out for a walk?

Usually Alice, though Boomer loves his walks along the creek that runs through town that Faith will take him on.

How often do they decorate the room/house for the holidays?

Alice insists on Halloween and Christmas, though Faith eventually gets her to decorate for Valentines day as well. They go all out for the first two, with just touches of pink getting added around the house for Valentines.

What are their goals for the relationship?

They don’t really have any? They want to be together and be happy. They’d love to move somewhere warmer when they’re old and the kids have moved on, but… At least at this point, they’re still preoccupied with rebuilding the county.

Who is most likely to sleep till noon?

Alice. 100%.

Who plays the most pranks?

Claire and Caro, when they move in lmao

Faith will show them a few little things, but overall, Faith and Alice don’t really do pranks.

[mintyjin]

neighbor au: mark tuan

true story: when I moved states, my mattress got lost and I slept on the floor for two weeks. we also lost all of my hangers so I couldn’t even unpack my clothes lmao

the first time you met mark was when you were moving in

somehow you lost your mattress in the transit

would be a great time to own a sleeping bag, but lmao you do not

and your couch wasn’t coming in until the next weekend

it’s not exactly an ideal situation

so you go to the apartment door next to yours and tentatively knock

in the seconds after you knock, you look down and see the owner has a food and water bowl set up for any stray animals

which is super adorable awh

the door opens and wow ok he’s gorgeous and kind to animals? wow

pull yourself together, y/n, you need a place to sleep

you give him a small smile and say, “Hi, so I’m Y/N, I’m in 307? I just moved in today.”

“Oh hi! I’m Mark.”

you exchange pleasantries and talk a bit but then you remember why you came

“So this is weird and sudden but my mattress is missing and I don’t have anything to sleep on, would you happen to have a spare sleeping bag or something?”

and his eyes get a little wide and he’s like, “Ah, no, I don’t.”

you’re like ok,,,, guess i’ll keep asking around then ,,,,

and you’re about to wave goodbye and continue your search when you hear mark say, “You can borrow my couch if you want? I’ve got takeout on the way and I always order to much to eat by myself…”

sleeping on the couch of a guy you just met would ordinarily seem like a questionable idea but listen, you’ve been moving boxes all day. you’re tired. you’re hungry. you just want something soft to sleep on

besides, this guy is your next-door-neighbor, you’re going to see a lot of each other, anyway

so you end up sitting on his couch beside him surrounded by more takeout boxes than you’ve ever previously seen in one place

he’s digging into some lo mein like it’s nbd that he ordered not one, not two, but three boxes of egg rollls to eat by himself

“You like documentaries?” he asks

“True crime or wildlife?”

he just smiles and passes you the general tso’s chicken

five minutes into the documentary, he notices you look cold

so he leaves for a minute and comes back with the fluffiest, fleeciest blanket you’ve ever seen

you swaddle up in it and smile widely at him and go to take a bite of some fried rice

“So… where are you from, again?” he asks

you tell him where you’re from and why you moved and he’s so interested in what you have to say 

he tells you he knows what it’s like to leave everything familiar behind for a new city with new opportunities 

you’re like oh????

he’s like yeah I’m from LA and this is not LA so

and you’re shocked because wow LA that’s so so cool and he gets kind of shy but he answers all your questions about the city nonetheless and tells you his funny stories of what it was like to grow up there

when you tell him your own weird childhood stories, he laughs and it’s the strangest and most infectious laugh you’ve ever heard 

so you just start dying

and he can’t stop laughing, either, cause every time he looks over and sees you still laughing, he loses it again

y'all a mess 

you ask him about the animal food bowls outside and he explains that there are two or three cats in the neighborhood that regularly make their way up to your floor of the apartment building somehow 

and he takes out his phone to show you pictures of all of them 

like a proud father or something 

c u te 

but eventually you both start yawning incessantly so he’s like, “You don’t have to sleep on the couch- you can take my bed-”

“The couch is fine! I won’t take your bed,” you insist 

a bit of an argument follows but not the angry kind

more like the “listen here you stubborn but super cute person” kind of argument 

cause mark is super duper duper cute like you’re not gonna deny it 

but you’re too polite and feel like you’ve already intruded too much to allow him to give up his bed for you 

and he eventually just shrugs and is like, “The couch is all yours, then. Bathroom is down the hall on the left.” 

you smile and arrange the blankets and pillows he’s given you to just the way you like them before waving at him and saying goodnight 

he just shakes his head, smiling, and goes into his room

in the morning, you eat leftover takeout for breakfast 

he offers to help you unpack but you’re like absolutely not you’ve done enough and I’m very particular about where things go

and then you go home 

well, next door

it’s a week or so before you see mark again

it’s 8:30pm and you’re finally getting home after a long, dreadful day

and- just your luck- it started raining on your way home, so your clothes are drenched and it’s cold cold cold 

as you walk into your apartment building, wringing water out of your shirt, you see the elevator doors start to slide shut

“Hold the doors please!” you call and to your luck, the person inside hears and actually listens 

you dash in and turn to see mark

he’s wearing a hoodie and sweats and is holding approximately 31 bags of groceries but he’s just as cute as you remembered 

“So I’m guessing you didn't want to take multiple trips?” you joke, motioning to the absurd amount of bags in his arms 

he laughs and says, “Something like that.” 

you’re like ok but fr that looks painful let me help-

and now you’re in his apartment again! helping him put away the groceries 

and you weren’t really paying attention the first time you were over but his apartment is actually very nice 

especially for a single guy in his 20s whom you watched consume a ridiculous amount of takeout 

everything is very soft and clean

he’s got photos and knick-knacks on every surface but you can tell they’ve all got some story or meaning behind them 

nothing looks cluttered or anything 

just comfortable 

it’s quiet between the two of you and you’re about to leave when mark asks if you ever got your mattress 

thankfully, you did, and you tell him that it came the afternoon after he let you crash on his couch 

he’s like ah, that’s good. but don’t hesitate to tell me if you ever need help again! 

you say you definitely wouldn’t hesitate 

he kind of blushes a little bit after that

“Actually, Y/N, can I have your number? I mean, we’re neighbors and all now so I thought-” 

“Yeah, of course! But you have to text me when those cats come by.” 

his expression softens and he says, “And you can text me anytime, even if you don’t really have anything to talk about.” 

boiii you can’t go around saying things like that you’ll give us all heart attacks 

but both of you are too red-faced and flustered to talk much after that little bomb so you go home and take a shower and try to clear your head 

it doesn’t work 

mark tuan is like a song stuck in your head 

the next night your phone chimes as you’re getting into bed and you groan until you realize it’s a text from mark 

to be more specific, it’s a picture from mark of two adorable little cats right outside your door 

you better bet you bolt outside, barefoot and pajamas and messy hair and all

the sight that greets you is almost too cute for words 

mark, in striped pajamas and fluffy hair, with one cat in his lap and the other nuzzling against the palm of his hand 

when he hears your door close, he looks over to you and gestures for you to sit next to him

you sit right beside him, so close your shoulders are touching and you can feel the soft warmth he radiates 

“This is Charlie,” he says softly, his voice slightly raspy in the late hour, as he pets the cat in his lap, “and that’s Violet.” 

“They’re adorable!” you reply, reaching towards the one he called Violet and running your fingers through her soft fur 

“Do you want to feed them?” he asks

you say yes yes yes and he pours some small treats into your hand and shows you how to hold your hand so that the cats will eat from it 

when they take their first shy bites, you look over to mark with a positively gleeful expression and he thinks that even in the bad apartment hallway lighting, even with your messy hair and pajamas, you’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen 

but you’re a bit too preoccupied with rather elegant felines to notice he’s staring at you

but when the cats walk away, he takes a deep breath and steadies his nerves and reaches out to lightly brush a piece of hair from your face 

you’re a bit flabbergasted by the action and stutter instead of speaking 

he’s ok with that 

“There’s this documentary series on Netflix I think you would like,” he says, “can it be our thing?” 

“So is this a date or what?” you ask, hoping your raised eyebrow hides the blush spreading across your cheeks 

“It’s a date, if you’re ok with it.” 

you are

you are so very ok with it

you start watching the series that very night, swaddled under that big fleecy blanket 

and you may or may not be holding his hand

the moral of the story is that true crime docs really bring people together

I mean, hey- you met the cutest, sweetest boy you’ll ever meet in your whole life

and you wouldn’t trade that for any genre

[bussanbaby]

As Alec walks into the New York Police Department, the first thought that hits him is that this place is so much more lively than the Institute. For a simple errand, he’s decided to forego the total glamour, settled for only hiding his runes, as that is more convenient; Luke doesn’t have to make it look like he’s talking to something other than air, while Alec can just pose as a friend that swung by to chat. He almost fits in with his dark get-up between all the navy uniforms, and nobody really pays attention to him, which he’s glad for.

He slinks past the information desk, tips of his ears still subtly burning from the flirting debacle months before, then does a casual jog up the stairs to the first story. His senses are overwhelmed by all the noises and visuals around him - fax machines robotically spit out paper after paper, phones ring in unison from different corners of the floor, people chatter about cases and daily life; Alec has to constantly sidestep out of someone’s way, once or twice doing the awkward waltz where both people move in the same direction.

He manages to find Luke’s office after walking through labyrinth-like corridors, all laden with wood-paneling and illuminated by yellow-tinted lights hanging overhead. Everything here reminds Alec of those old cliche crime novels and noir movies Magnus has a soft spot for, even the ‘Det. Luke Garroway’ written in bold lettering over the rippled glass in the door. With a perfunctory knock, Alec peeks his head inside, almost expecting to find Luke in a beige trenchcoat and with a cigarette between his fingers, the off-white smoke curling in wisps towards the ceiling.

Instead, the werewolf is sat at his desk with his feet up on it, a cup of what Alec assumes to be coffee in his hands. When he sees Alec, he smiles wide, with a wave of a hand welcoming him further in.

“Hey, man, good to see you,” Luke says, setting down his mug and straightening up before shaking Alec’s hand, cold from the autumn chill outside.

“It’s been a while,” Alec answers, unzipping his coat and searching through the leather messenger bag hanging on his shoulder. “You should come by more often, Magnus has been complaining about you missing cards night last week.”

In quite a short timespan, Luke has gone from an associate Alec worked with out of convenience to a close friend and basically family at this point, an unmovable fixture in the Lightwood home. Through all of the harrowing events in their crazy lives, he’s been there from the beginning to the end, a loyal and dependable man that has stolen Maryse Lightwood’s heart with his steadfast strength and that charming smile.

Magnus has once told Alec over a glass of wine that he’s glad they’re all friends now, and Alec couldn’t agree more. Secretly, he and Magnus have been planning to ask Luke to ordain their wedding, but so far there hasn’t been a good moment for that; it doesn’t seem right to drop the bomb on him just in the middle of a case or over a quick beer at the bar.

Luke rolls his eyes with a chuckle as he accepts the files Alec hands him, segregated neatly into three manila-colored folders.

“I’ll make it up to him, I promise, cross my heart and all that.”

He starts thumbing through the files, eyes flicking over lines of text and attached photos; Alec watches him for a bit, perched on the edge of his desk, but finds it awkward to stare so his gaze starts to wander about the office.

He’s not here often, so he takes in the dark decor, the other desk he passed earlier, much less cluttered than Luke’s, a brown leather jacket draped over the back of the swivel chair. The din and chaos of the station are subdued here, reduced to a steady murmur; the fan above their heads makes a soft noise each time it turns, just lazily pushing the warm air around.

“How’s Maryse?” Luke inquires, aiming for casualness, but missing the ballpark entirely; Alec knows how much time these two have been spending together lately, going on small little dates, holding hands when nobody is looking, and eating dinner together during Luke’s breaks at the precinct. And Alec’s glad for it, he really is, as he hasn’t seen his mom this happy in what feels like forever. When she smiles now, she glows, radiant and more beautiful than when she ever was with Robert.

She’s in love and how does Alec know that? He looks at Magnus the exact same way.

“She’s good, although a little stressed.” Alec senses Luke’s eyes on the side of his head as he glances down at his linked fingers. “She’s filing for divorce next week. I’m sure she’d enjoy your company.” He adds meaningfully, looking up with a soft smile tucked into the corner of his mouth.

Luke smiles as well, pleasantly surprised with Alec’s words. “You’re okay with me getting together with your mom?”

Alec shrugs, running the pad of his thumb over the ring on one of his fingers. “You make her happy, so why wouldn’t I?”

The werewolf sighs, mouth slack as if he’s weighing what to say next, but it turns into a grin he tries to hide by looking down at the files again - Alec can see his eyes crinkle at the corners, the way they do when he laughs at his own dad jokes; when he’s happy.

After a moment, Luke closes the file he’s been browsing through, an air of seriousness hanging between him and Alec.

“I’m glad,” he says earnestly and before it can get too sappy, he adds, “Also there are probably the most detailed mortuary reports I have ever seen in my career.”

“I’ll make sure to tell Izzy,” Alec chuckles, pride curling in his chest at the praise of his sister’s work. Since she’s back and healthy, she’s been working harder than ever before, picking up new responsibilities and basically becoming Alec’s trusted right hand.

“I’m gonna go give these to the evidence folk for comparison, be right back,” Luke announces and as he passes by, he cordially claps Alec on the shoulder and then the shadowhunter is left alone, yet not for long.

After a minute or two, the door creaks open again and a woman walks in, head bowed down in focus, holding a conversation with a person on the other side of the phone stuck to her ear.

She seems familiar, all tall frame and long brown hair - at first Alec can’t quite put his finger on it, but he quickly realizes she is Luke’s snooping partner. Alec has seen her during the Azazel case and later when they had to deal with the fallout from when she found out about the Shadow World. They debated how to deal with her having proof of the existence of NYC werewolf packs during the weekly council meeting and in the end, they’ve decided against clearing her memory (again), since it was just a matter of time before she’d be back sleuthing.

For the first few weeks after she and her partner were sworn to secrecy, they were monitored just in case something slipped out, but aside from bombarding Luke with tons of questions about, well, everything, she’s been staying low and not meddling with any more affairs.

“We have some suspects for the Harley case, but I can’t tell you anything solid before the analytics lab gets back to me about the substances found at the scene.” The woman - Ollie - looks up, sensing someone is in the room with her. Her eyes narrow at Alec and a mix of barely concealed curiosity and distrust settles in her expression, her whole body tensing up for a possible fight.

“I’ll call you back,” she barks out and ends her conversation. With the phone still by her ear, she moves her arm towards the holster sitting on her hip, gun secured inside.

Alec placatingly lifts his palms to shoulder level, just on the right side of amused. While it wouldn’t be difficult to move out of her aim with the help of his speed rune, Alec’s never been too fond of firearms in general, too unpredictable and destructive for his liking.

“I’m just running an errand for Detective Garroway, none of that is necessary.”

Ollie visibly relaxes, but that last thread of wariness is tightly woven into her posture as she lets her cell clatter onto the desk, choosing to lean against the back of her chair instead. She observes Alec and he allows it, only cocking up a questioning eyebrow.

“Are you a werewolf from Luke’s pack?” Ollie asks without any preamble; Alec appreciates the straightforwardness, but he can understand why Luke sometimes looks like he just got done with a six hours long interrogation.

Alec shakes his head with a quiet chuckle. “No. I’d tell you what I am, but that’s against the law.”

“Are you really giving me the old ‘if I told you, I would have to kill you’ spiel? I’m not-” Ollie stops abruptly in her tracks as realization dawns on her face. “You’re not kidding, huh.”

“Nope.”

Ollie is about to ask another question, undoubtedly one Alec can’t answer either, but before that can happen her phone starts ringing, the vibrations shaking the entire surface of the desk. Involuntarily, he glances at the caller’s ID which shows the name ‘Samantha’ on top of a selfie of Ollie kissing another woman on the cheek, one with darker hair and a wide grin.

She hastily grabs the cellphone and swipes across the screen, strands of hair flying into her face. The conversation is mostly one-sided, only interrupted by Ollie’s hums of acknowledgment; she doesn’t seem to realize the soft smile inching its way across her lips. As much as Alec tries not to stare, he can’t help but notice how different she looks with her guard down, how the caution directed at Alec falls away to reveal a gentler side.

“Yes, I’ll buy cookie dough. No, I won’t forget. Yes, I know I’m the best. Love you.” She hangs up and smiles sheepishly at Alec, caught in a moment of weakness in front of a stranger. “That was my girlfriend, Sammy,” She adds as an explanation, and while her voice is still friendly, Ollie stands a little taller, her chin tilted up defiantly.

She’s silently challenging Alec to call out her choice of words, to doubt her relationship like most of the world; Alec feels like he’s seeing himself in a strange mirror, all the moments in which he introduced Magnus as his boyfriend, held his hand and kissed him in public. He used to be scared, but not anymore - now he’s proud to love Magnus and ready to fight anyone who disapproves, shoulders squared and eyes intense.

“Don’t worry about it. My partner does something like this too, he calls me to make sure I ate something other than granola bars and coffee.” Alec says with a faint laugh, but this is more than a relatable moment - it’s two people from entirely different worlds finding a connection, encountering the intrinsic solidarity that comes with similar experiences. Alec might already like Ollie just a little bit more, no reason at all.

The atmosphere between them warms and Ollie pulls out her chair, sitting on it the wrong way around, forearms resting across the back.

“Oh, that’s sweet! What’s his name? Tell me something about him,” She inquires like an old friend, chin propped up on a palm and interest gleaming in her eyes.

Usually, Alec would cut her investigation short, but there’s a certain pleasure that comes from talking to others about how great Magnus is, so he indulges in it, more open than he’d usually be - especially to a Mundane.

“His name is Magnus,” Alec speaks slowly, picking through all the information about the love of his life that’s stored in his brain, from how many sugars he takes in his tea, through all the important dates to all the painful confessions. “He’s a little bit older than me, has a great fashion sense and is the most incredible person I’ve ever met.”

Ollie coos teasingly at Alec’s sappiness, then laughs when he rolls his eyes. “How long have you guys been boyfriends?”

“Over a year now.” Alec folds his hands together, thumb running against the smooth gold of the ring. It’s been a couple of months since Magnus has proposed to Alec and slid the band onto his finger with utmost reverence, kissing him breathless after.

Sometimes, Alec still can’t believe it all happened - turning to see Magnus down on one knee, his golden eyes filled with love and devotion, hearing ‘Alexander, will you marry me?’ and getting to answer with ‘Yes, yes, of course I will’, because there was never a doubt in his heart.

Alec shakes his head to get out of his thoughts and back into the real world before he looks up at Ollie. “You know, we got engaged. So technically, he’s my fiancé.”

It feels so good to say the words out loud, hear them ring through the room with pride. There are moments when Alec glances over at Magnus doing something entirely ordinary and the need to tell the entire world about their love skyrockets until he wants to climb the tallest NYC skyscraper and shout it from the top.

The smile on Ollie’s face grows tenfold and she draws a little closer, pushing herself over on the swivel chair.

“Congratulations are in order.” Head tilted to the side, Ollie juts her chin towards Alec’s palm. “Could I see the ring?”

With a nod, Alec stretches out his arm and Ollie lightly takes hold of his palm, turning it slightly this and that way. He’s almost used to it by now, after breaking the news to his closest people so many times, whether alone or with Magnus at his side. They compliment the ring and tell him how amazing it is to see both of them so happy, how bright Alec’s eyes are and how much he has changed. And he loves it all, he really does, preening on all of the praise, taking in their unwavering support and joy over his and Magnus’ prosperity.

Ollie admires the ring with a complicated expression, delighted yet wistful in a way, almost longing.

“I’m happy for you, Alec.” She tells him quietly, swallows around the next words. “I hope I get to be in your shoes one day.”

Alec’s heart gives a painful tug and he sighs, pulling his hand free to set it on Ollie’s forearm, squeezing gently.

“You will, I’m sure.”

At times, it feels like all hope is lost, but Alec now knows that it’s important to fight for his own happiness, even when the world seems bleak. Despite people telling them nothing could be done, he and Magnus didn't give up, didn't throw in the towel when troubles weighed down their shoulders. They’ve made it so far and they keep going strong, already setting next goals to achieve.

“The ring is engraved and do you know what it says?” Alec pauses for dramatic effect, a lopsided smile bright on his face. “Amor vincit omnia. Love conquers all.”

A comfortable silence falls across the room as Alec takes his hand back, once again starting to play with his ring, a constant reminder of his contentment, his home, the stability it brings. If someone told him that one day he’d be telling someone else that it does really get better, that dreams of loving freely are achievable, he would laugh and call them insane; yet, here he is.

Ollie sighs, eyes downcast and thoughtful when she rises from her seat, then wanders back to her desk. She raps her ringed knuckles against the wood and then leans her hip against it, obviously gathering the right words to say next. “Should I be expecting a wedding invitation anytime soon?” She quips, but there is a thankful note to it, an answer given without obvious words.

“I’ll try to squeeze you in between all the magical folk already on the list,” Alec jokes back.

Their conversation is interrupted by Luke, who freezes in the doorstep, at first just looking between Alec and Ollie as if he can’t believe they aren’t at each other’s throats yet, or at least haven’t started digging the trenches to hide in. With a short, pleased hum, Luke smiles to himself, crosses over to where Alec is to hand him another bundle of files.

“These are all the evidence reports relevant to the case. I thought they might come in handy, see if you can make any connections.” He informs Alec, voice lowered for the sake of privacy and Alec nods in response, halfway through putting the documents in his bag where they’ll be safe and sound until he can drop them off at Izzy’s desk.

They both look up to Ollie watching them conspicuously, clearly not interested in any personal boundaries as Alec has realized long ago. He and Luke share a knowing look and Alec stands up. “I’ll be going then. Luke, see you later?”

“You got it. Say hello to your mother for me.”

Alec gives a two fingered salute to both of them as he moves back towards the door. When he passes by Ollie’s desk, she shoots him a conspiratory wink, like there’s a secret only the two of them are privy to. As the door closes behind him, Alec can hear Ollie ask about his mom and the first half of Luke’s heavy and pained exhale.

It’s been a productive first half of the day, Alec thinks - he surprised Magnus with breakfast in bed, held a meeting at the OPS Center, met Maryse for coffee amongst all the other things, and perhaps the most important one of all: he made an unlikely friend.

[delicrieux]

RIVALS  [ peter quill x reader ] 0.1

a/n; i wrote a ficaroony because i love peter quill and he deserves more appreciation and also every problem in this story would be solved if the two would just express their feelings /sobbing

summary: Some things are just obvious from an early age: you and Peter were meant to get along no better than a cat and a dog. And not the modern spin on a cat’s and a dog’s relationship either (none of that Disney fun-loving BS). No, we’re talking about that good old fashioned thirst for blood, spite and rivalry.Only that your situation really was Disney like. Which is ironic, since you’ve been raised to spit in anyone’s face that even mentions the name ‘Starlord’.

words;  2,427

warnings: a bit of swearing

0.2 MASTERLIST KO-FI. WRITTING CHALLENGE!

i need your help!

The current state of the ship and its crew can be described in one word: bored.

Whiskey. In Terra it’s high noon but no one really counts space hours so why the hell not? Peter Quill sits idly drinking by his cluttered table, trying to drone out the occasional buzzing and clatter and the piercing sound of squeaky metal by clogging all of his senses with alcohol. There isn’t a particular reason to indulge in daytime drinking festivities, but there simply isn’t anything better to do so he had helped himself to a glass a little while ago. He has finished three in total. Now he sits silent, his mind sometimes drifting out of these cramped walls of his beloved spaceship, branching further and further into the unseen horizon and onto a lonely planet that is just waiting to be looted. His fingers tap of the table and he shakes his head again: that stupid fucking clanking!

Gamora’s lips tighten into a thin line as she continues to keep a close eye on the ship’s monitor, making sure it steers in the right direction. Which really is just a waste of time since it seems like the whole Galaxy has taken a day off: no sudden storms, no space police, not even an asteroid astray. The captain’s chair, though comfortable, grows stiff after a while of not moving. Her arms fold over her chest and she shifts from leg to leg. Her eyes drift back and forth from the processor to the map dully, as if trying to find any bit of excitement in the task. Or anything, really. She shuts her eyes painfully. The clanking is more annoying than usual, that’s for sure.

But where is it coming from? Too close, the only human-like figures think in union. Rocket had dismantled and re-made his makeshift bomb for possibly the tenth time (in counting!), and while yes, he has the silent pleasure in knowing he’s getting on the crews nerves, not even this activity can satisfy the impeccable feeling of absolutely NOTHING happening. He figured making an explosive out of a hairdryer will surely occupy his mind for at least until something interesting happens, but so far not even a message from anyone (the message really doesn’t have to involve cash or danger. A simple ‘hello’ from a long lost friend sounds more exciting than this). And so he sits and fidgets with spare parts, his mood never spiking from ‘mildly entertained’.

No one really knows what Groot is up to, but from the occasional exclamation of his name echoing from somewhere in the ship, the crew breaths out a sigh of relief: Groot is still here. Maybe it’s not even a sigh; they just take a collective breath since the air-conditioning is broken.

Suddenly, a big red dot appears on the map and approaches at an alarming rate. Gamora blinks, jumping from her seat and slamming her palms on either side of the map monitor, surprised that on such a lazy day there is something moving their way at an incredibly fast pace. Her eyes bore into the distance; in the blankness and the occasional shimmer of faraway stars she notes the object swirl and fall from her field of vision. She narrows her eyes – is it a ship?... Her further questions are cut short by the beeping. This calls for the whole crew’s attention.

0.82 Yellow Stripe is requesting to dock.

“Oh no,” Gamora barely surpasses a jerk as Peter’s voice ring just in her ear, “no no no.” in one swift move she is nudged out of the way, “Where is the deny-cancel-delete-forget it ever happened button?”

“Friend of yours?” Rocket inquires. Peter snorts.

“More like arch-nemesis.” He mumbles, about to press the big red button as in ‘No, go away’, but Gamora beats him to it and with all her force pushes the friendly green one that simply states ‘Invitation accepted!’.

“The hell did you do that for?!”

She stares at him, her palm refusing to leave the safety of the green glossy surface in case Peter decides to claw at her fingers, “Look, nothing has been happening. Zip. Nada. If your arch-nemesis, as you put it, decided to suddenly drop by something has to be going on. Something we’re not aware of.” Silence. “People like that don’t just pay a visit out of the blue.”

“Yeah, or maybe she just came to finally murder me.”

Gamora smiles, though it’s hardly affectionate. Her eyes sweep the weapons stocked in one of the closer lockers, Rocket holding his hairdryer-explosive and lastly Groot curiously sticking his head out through the door to see what the commotions is about. Finally, she returns to Peter, “I think we got you covered.” The chilling tone of her voice leaves no room to argue and the ship falls quiet. Peter finishes his glass. Gamora loosens her grip on the button as a heavy ‘dunk’ rattles the whole spaceship. Groot and Rocket tip-toe closer just in case of combat.

This continues for a while. The air tension filled, growing in anticipation and curiosity with every new sound the 0.82 makes as it docks. A cloud of cold smoke leaks from the doorway Groot entered minutes ago and the team shares a look – is this really happening? Rocket tightens his grip on the explosive, though seeing as Peter seems anything but alarmed, disturbed, or in any other way ready for danger with the capital D, he merely raises a brow and slumps his shoulders. The way this is panning out, it seems no fight is going to break out. Rocket’s previous excitement on testing out the bomb grows bitter and he curses under his breath. If anyone heard him, no one said a thing.

“Jesus Christ!” A female voice rings out from the other room, riddled with disgust and Peter can’t help the smirk that grows on his lips. He raises his glass to take a triumphant sip but remembers it’s empty. Awkwardly he sets it down on the console, ignoring the amused look Gamora sends him.

Footsteps. Heavy footsteps. Boots with a metal hilt, the only girl in the crew notes as her arms fold over her chest and she stares impatiently at the doorway, trying to paint the picture of this arch-nemesis. She is pretty sure Peter was joking when he said so, but still, knowing him and his pelvic magic she might just be another pissed off ex- girlfriend. These thoughts plague her and she is even more curious than before. Something falls in the other room and another yelp escapes the captain of the small yellow ship. Finally, the short statue of the mystery woman appears in the doorway—

Human, is all Gamora registers as she takes in the delicate glow of the shorter woman’s skin in the bleak lighting of Peter’s spaceship. A bead of sweat runs from her temple and gets lost somewhere near her jaw. And an angry human at that. Her face is scrunched; gloved fingers soon dig into her thick black rimmed googles and slide them off. Pair of (color) eyes meet hers for the briefest of moments she looks at Peter, “You are sick.”

“Healthy, actually.”

“You have serious issues, Peter. Did any of you see the engine room? Docks? No one? No one bothered to shine a LED light? Seems like a Picasso painting—“ Peter clears his throat loudly.

“(Title).” He addresses her. The woman, now dubbed as (Title), contemplates on whether to continue to describe her recent appalling findings or skip them entirely and never put on her goggles again. Her expression falls neutral and before Peter can say anything else, she leans onto the doorway and lowers her voice.

“Quill.”

His shoulders slump, “C’mon, it’s not that hard. Starlord.”

“No fucking way am I calling you that.”

|*|

When the initial disgust melted off you found yourself almost comfortable being in such a…unique spaceship. Unique is the only nice way you could put it without offending Peters feelings too much. Introductions flew by in a flash, one moment you were casually calling Peter everything your mind could come up with instead of Starlord, and the next you were pulled closer by the curious raccoon and his tree friend. The two of them flashed you a smile: Rocket and Groot! For a moment you were surprised that they have a higher mental capacity than a goldfish. You had yet to meet people/aliens/creatures that tolerate Peter and can form a coherent sentence. Lastly you shook hands with Gamora, another reality grasping companion that is female and hasn’t slept with Peter. That trivia earned a pleasant ‘Oh!’ from you. With that you moved on.

There is one particular room in ‘Starlords’ spaceship you always fancied, even after the two of you broke apart. It doesn’t have a name, nor do many go down here as you realized with a quick look through your googles. The walls are made of thick glass that opens the view of the whole universe, a lone boardwalk being the only surface that can hold your and his weight. Your feet teeter over the edge and you look down: the black abyss of space illuminates the edges of your shoes. The buzzing of the motors fills the silence. It’s always silent when you go down here. The occasional footsteps from up above draw you out your thoughts of the good old days when you hated Peter’s guts less and he tolerated you more. History is a tricky thing: whilst it is important, it’s unchangeable. Your parting of ways was inevitable, especially because of his eccentric taste and your strict morale code clashing fiercely on many occasions that almost led to either your or his death. Neither of you felt badly about it.

Except now, maybe. You aren’t sure yourself. You had taken off your gloves and left on a table near a whiskey bottle that much you recall. Your bare fingers grip the metal edge you sit on, shoulder slumped, deep in thought. Through the crown of your lashes you gaze at him – he is staring straight ahead, relaxed, slightly dazed perhaps, as the verbal fight the two of you engaged in long forgotten. A soft blue light illuminates his features and you trace them carefully, trying to remember each detail with striking precision and faintly searching for the boy you knew that long ago. Same home planet, taken by the Yondu Ravager Clan and raised by it too. In the back of your mind you make a side-by side of little Peter, dressed in his pirate gear and trying to operate a gun you had constructed under the strict eye of your kidnappers, and the young adult that sits within arms-length. You find no resemblance between the two. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say they are completely different people. Then again, the last time you saw him was roughly five years ago, maybe even more.

Disappointment. Is that what you are feeling? Emotions mix and blur, just like the vast outside creeping behind these large windows. You swing your feet, a childish habit, and Peter snorts with an amused shake of his head, “Strange for you to shut your mouth for once.” You don’t take offence to that. You don’t take offence to anything, but don’t reply either. You tilt your head downwards again and stare at your feet, an action he notes and raises a curious brow, “Yo, (Title), you okay?” He asks lighthearted, leaning in just enough to be close but still minding your personal space.

It feels different somehow. When you first landed this, all of this, was an unpleasant mystery and you were beyond irritated to have made such a long and tiring trip to see a person you didn’t even want to talk to. Now, here, in the secure company of just the two of you the mood shifted drastically: from annoyance it went to heavy mixed feelings you don’t want nor are ready to voice. So instead you shrug and crack a smile. “Not really. Seeing you again is never pleasant.” There’s a tad of truth to every joke, as there is to lie, and while yes, seeing Peter again has raised some long forgotten spikes of emphatic brother-sister feelings, your sudden change from playful to serious isn’t entirely to do with him. He waits for you to continue and you are almost surprised that he doesn’t crack a stupid one-liner as a failed jab at your brooding. “I bet you know that I didn’t come here because I miss you.”

Ouch, he wants to say, but doesn’t. He nods. You continue, still not lifting your head up, “Finding you was…tough. Save me the story of running away and what-not, I don’t care. I didn’t come here to relish in old memories.” Yet you explicitly asked him to talk here, in your favorite place, despite anywhere being okay. You ignore this fact and any that fallow along with it and swing your legs again as if that would help you focus. “You have a good team. Not good good, but, you know…Good.” Your throat runs dry and a spike of nervousness sparks in your chest, going all the way to your fingertips. You gaze into his eyes, feeling your heart jump when your gazes connect in the dim lighting, “I need your help.”

The weight of your words is heavy, and though your request is quiet and reserved he knows you’re desperate. You would go to someone else, to anyone else, instead of him if it was whimsical or within your power. A spurge of pride. He can’t help but smirk. You frown, “Yeah yeah, c’mon, laugh it out, you won’t let me hear the end of this yada yada, I know.” You wave him off.

“I’m going to hold this against you forever.”

“Whatever, I don’t care.” The blankness returns to your face and he knows you’re back to being serious, “Do you…Do you remember the Carnic incident?”

“You mean when you ‘accidentally’ blew up a model spaceship? Of course I remember. It’s on my highlight reel.” He ponders for a minute how this is relevant, “You we’re banned from—“

“-Entering Terra territory.” You finished for him, the same heaviness returning to your voice as it grew quiet again. A note of pain strikes your features and Peter leans out taken aback. Turning away from him you are quick to compose yourself.

“My mom died. I want to say goodbye.”

TBH

[what-happened-to-agent-georgia]

I know you can hear me

For the ( @rvbficwars) RvB Angst War. Prompt by @riathedreamer: “Simmons returns to the moon to find it empty”

Rating: Teen for language

Warnings: Canon-typical violence/language, Spoilers through Season 15 Episode 10.

Pairings: Simmons/Grif

Word Count: 1960

Ao3

It’s around the time Caboose says, “You talk about Grif a lot” that Simmons realizes what he’s been in denial about for days. Why that hollow feeling hasn’t gone away.

He’s made a huge mistake.

When he sees the way Tucker and Agent Washington grin at each other like idiots when they pick up the Freelancers on the beach, Simmons realizes he has to go back.

“Drop me off at the moon,” he demands. Or, he wishes it sounded demanding. It comes out more like, “Drop me off, uh, at… the moon?”

“What?” Agent Washington is the first to speak.

Sarge narrows his eyes and Carolina crosses her arms. Tucker tilts his head to the side. Temple looks over his shoulder from where he sits with Loco in the cockpit, and it feels like the only person who isn’t looking at him is Caboose.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Tucker says, letting out a short laugh.

“No, I’m not kidding,” Simmons says. “I would appreciate it if you dropped me off at the moon.” Simmons hesitates before adding, “Please?”

“And fraternize with that no good, lazy traitor?” Sarge snaps. “Why, the very idea makes my blood boil!”

“Yeah, dude,” Tucker adds, “Grif quit. He’s an asshole. Why go back?”

Because I never should have left. Is what Simmons doesn’t say.

“I just… I need to go back, for, uh, my Dungeons and Dragons books. I forgot them,” is what Simmons says instead.

It’s a lame excuse. He knows it, and everyone else knows it.

“Uh huh… Look, Simmons,” Tucker says, “I know your… nerd shit is important to you, but it’s too risky to go back. And it’s out of our way.”

Simmons’s gut twists at too risky. He remembers what Temple said about the UNSC bombing the fuck out of Freelancers, wonders if they bombed the moon, then shoves the idea from his head because his anxiety is already through the roof.

“I’m afraid I’m with Captain Tucker on this one,” Temple calls. “We don’t know if it’s safe to go back.”

“We don’t know if it’s safe with you!” Simmons points out, regretting it instantly. He tries to backtrack, “I mean, safe. Uh, at the base. Not that we’re not safe with you, just maybe… at the base. It’s underwater.”

Temple gives a start like he’s hurt. He frowns and his eyebrows knit together, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Hmm,” Sarge growls. He fidgets with his shotgun before turning to look out the window. “If you ask me, this is a perfect opportunity for some reconnaissance, to see what the enemy is up to! And for killing Grif. Who also happens to be the enemy!”

“What?” Tucker swings around to look at Sarge. “Reconnaissance? For what? To see how many packages of Oreos that fat ass has eaten? To see what a moon blown to shit looks like? No fucking way.”

It hits Simmons then that Tucker misses Grif too. Feels betrayed too. He also tries not to pay too much attention to the words blown to shit.

“Well, if it turns out the moon is… has been bombed, or whatever, we don’t have to stop,” Simmons reasons. “Then we can just go back to the, uh, underwater base.”

Simmons notices neither Carolina nor Agent Washington has said anything. They keep doing that thing where they give each other pointed looks, though, and Simmons thinks maybe, just maybe, they’ll let him do this.

“Yeah I have to go to the bathroom,” Caboose chimes in. “When is the next gas station?”

Tucker and Agent Washington exchange a look of what appears to be sheer panic.

“The moon it is,” Agent Washington says.

**

Simmons steps off the ship as Caboose clambers back on, then watches it leave. When it’s nothing but a black speck in the sky, he still watches. And when it’s no longer visible, Simmons watches a bit longer.

His mechanical heart is flipping its shit, and Simmons feels ready to overheat.

Breathe in, breathe out. In. Out. Just go in and apologize. Make this right.

Simmons closes his eyes for a second and tries not to think about it. It’s no big deal. Definitely not the single-most terrifying thing he’s ever done.

Fighting the Meta, taking down Hargrove—fucking cake.

“Shut up, Simmons,” he mumbles to himself.

Simmons shakes his head, opens his eyes, and takes one more deep breath before turning towards Red Base.

“Just start walking,” he tells himself. “One foot in front of the other…”

With the speed to rival a sloth, Simmons makes his way to the base they haphazardly plastered together after Donut burned down the other ones.

Simmons would laugh at the memory but he’s too busy concentrating on not hyperventilating.

It really is beautiful here, he thinks.

The sun has begun to set, casting an orange glow on the surrounding landscape. A soft breeze ruffles the grass, and when he focuses on the crashing of waves on the cliffs he feels his breath slow to synch up with the sound. As he crests the hill right before reaching the base he notices the Warthog Sarge crashed is still there, another casualty in the war against gravity.

There’s no sign of Grif as Simmons approaches. No radio playing, no makeshift hammock surrounded by empty cans and dirty dishes, nothing.

Simmons stops in front of the entrance and stares at the opening.

“Fuck me,” Simmons breathes.

For a second he stands there, frozen. He’s starting to sweat, his heart’s whirring in his chest again, and his feet are screaming at him to run the other way.

Don’t be such a baby, he scolds himself. Move, dammit!

On the other side, there is only darkness to greet him, and he adjusts his grip on his rifle before sticking his head inside.

“Grif?” He squeaks. Tries again, louder this time, “Grif?”

Silence.

Lazy ass is probably just sleeping.

Taking a deep breath, Simmons takes a step inside the base.

It looks exactly the same as the day they left, only darker. Dustier. Simmons makes his way to the kitchen first, dreading the pile of dishes that surely waits for him.

“Grif?” he calls out as he walks into the kitchen. There’s no answer.

The dirty dishes in the sink are from weeks ago.

Simmons knows because he’s the one who put them there, to be washed, before Miss Andrews showed up.

Doesn’t mean anything. His dishes are probably just upstairs, or outside, or something.

“Yeah,” Simmons whispers and nods to himself.

He opens the fridge. Cringing, he’s thankful for the filtration unit in his helmet. Almost everything in the fridge has begun to mold, and it probably smells godawful. Those meals Simmons made weeks ago, the last half of Grif’s pizza, a stick pink pool where one of Sarge’s strawberry YooHoos broke open and spilled all over the top shelf.

Simmons stumbles back from the fridge and sprints from the kitchen.

Grif’s got a snack stash, so he probably just hasn’t left his room.

Simmons makes a mad dash for Grif’s bunk. He bursts in, only to immediately trip on a pile of dirty laundry. Landing face-first in the worst mess of all time, Simmons waits for (prays for) the insult he’s sure is coming.

But no one says anything.

Simmons flips onto his back. Stares at the ceiling—how did Grif manage to get that stuck up there?—Simmons takes in the room around him.

Clothes, bags of trash, wadded up paper, and other trash Simmons can’t quite make out in the darkness have taken over the room. Simmons wonders how Grif can live like this, then, seeing his spare glasses and pajama shirt laying on the edge of Grif’s cluttered desk, remembers he lived here too.

Remembers he stopped caring about the mess, as long as it meant he was in the same room, the same bed, with Grif.

The bed.

“Grif?” Simmons asks the mountain of blankets. It doesn’t respond.

Simmons unearths himself and moves to turn on the light. Then he removes his helmet and glares at the blankets again. Looks for telltale signs of breathing.

There aren’t any. Not even his mechanical eye picks up signs of life.

“Grif?” Simmons marches over to the bed anyway. “Come on, fat ass, I know you can hear me!”

He rips the blankets away and is met with an empty mattress. No Grif.

Simmons drops his helmet to the floor. He thinks his rifle was lost somewhere among the heaps of garbage, but he doesn’t care.

For the next hour, Simmons moves from room to room. He even checks Sarge’s room, ducking to avoid the shotgun rigged to fire when the door opens (“You just got Sarged, hehe�� the gun quips). After avoiding the bullet, he leaves, knowing Grif wouldn’t take the time to reset the trap if he were in there.

Carolina’s room is practically empty, save for her mattress and a tattered upside-down photo on her desk. Simmons resists the urge to look at the photo and backs out of her room.

His own bunk is just how he left it—spotless. The only difference now was the thin layer of dust covering everything. Simmons plops onto his bed and lets out a sneeze as a cloud of dust flies up into his face.

Where the fuck are you, Grif?

He shucks his armor and finds his pair of hiking boots underneath his bed. A little voice in his head warns him against taking his armor off in a potentially hostile environment, but he ignores it. If the UNSC decides to bomb the moon, there’s not much his power armor can do for him anyway.

Simmons moves on to Blue Base. Grif’s ukulele is still there. Untouched and—Simmons plucks one of the strings—out of tune.

“Grif?”

Then he searches the clearing where Grif taught Carolina how to relax. Attempted anyway.

“Grif?”

He’s moving faster now, tripping over his own feet as he makes his way to Grif’s cave.

He’s got to be there. Fat ass doesn’t think I know where his secret napping place is, but think again…

Peering inside the opening in the rocks, Simmons regrets leaving his helmet at Red Base. It has night vision, and now he’s going to have to rely on his mechanical eye.

Half-blind and half-panicked, Simmons enters the cave.

“Grif?” he calls out. The only reply gets is from his echo as it bounces off the cave walls. He can hear water dripping somewhere in the far-left corner, he can hear the thud of his footsteps on the stone, and he can hear his ragged breathing as he moves further into the darkness.

But he doesn’t hear Grif.

Simmons backs out of the cave.

When he emerges, the sun has almost set, a small golden sliver peaking over the horizon.

“GRIF!” he shouts one last time.

The waves whoosh in response, and Simmons lowers himself to the grass and watches the last of the sun disappear as the moon goes to sleep.

When he finally moves it’s because he’s shivering. Without the warmth from the sun, it’s freezing. Arms wrapped around his torso, he shuffles back to Red Base.

Right foot left foot right foot left

Simmons stumbles past his own room and finds himself outside Grif’s bunk. Wading through the ocean of garbage and filthy laundry, Simmons scoops up the blankets he ripped off the bed. It feels like years since he was in here.

Flopping onto the bed, boots and all, Simmons wraps himself in Grif’s old blankets. They smell like him. He can’t seem to get warm.

Simmons closes his eyes and tries not to think about the hole in the bed next to him.

[colourmyliving]

It is a hot sticky day and you have been busy meeting deadlines, making important phone calls and running personal errands. You managed to grab a quick bite here and there. You return home, sweaty and bone-tired, and now you simply want to stand under a shower and cool off. As the water hits you, you instantly feel a calm envelop you. All the dirt and worries wash away, and you come out scrubbed clean, renewed and relaxed.

[bctt tweet=” With a few tips and tricks, you can transform your regular washroom into a beautiful oasis for an ultimate rejuvenation therapy.” username=”ColourMyLiving”]

While I hope your bathroom is already hygienic and clean, you can certainly pay more attention to it regardless of the state it is currently in. How about turning it into a tranquil sanctuary with spa-like touches where you can kick back and relax like there is no tomorrow? Surprisingly, it is not that hard nor expensive to achieve.

With a few tips and tricks, you can transform your regular washroom into a beautiful oasis for an ultimate rejuvenation therapy. Let’s begin!

1. Create a Harmonious Atmosphere

The first step is to correct the overall atmosphere of your bathroom. When you go to a professional spa, you may notice that everything is well-matched and balanced. The earthly shades of tiles and installations gel well with green potted plants and warm hue lights. It instantly produces a soothing atmosphere where you just want to loosen up. The subtle scents of wood, salts and flowers combined together are aromatherapeutic and they help to take the burdens and stresses off your mind.

[bctt tweet=”The first step is to correct the overall atmosphere of your bathroom to turn it into a peaceful and tranquil corner of your home” username=”ColourMyLiving”]

Consider remodelling your bathroom into a harmonious blend of colors. You don’t necessarily have to change the fittings. You can make small adjustments by replacing the dingy lights, adding a few plants, wreaths, and paint the wall. Consider decorating the window and vents, and veneering the bathtub, sink and add complementary fittings. If you are the DIY sort and are not afraid to get your hands dirty, you can consider doing your own tiling. You can achieve a lot with the right tiles. Otherwise, hire a professional decorator for the job.

2. Fix the Eyesores

When you are lying peacefully in a bathtub covered in fragrant, bubbly bath bombs amidst flickering lights of scented candles, you don’t want to face your broken, unhinged medicine cabinet exhibiting your prescriptions and painful memories of your past tooth aches and ear infections. Clear out the cabinet of medicines that have expired or you no longer use.

Keep your regular prescriptions at hand but close the door so that they are not visible. You can put a sliding decorative mirror as a door or you can remodel the old mirror by framing it. If it is an open shelf, decorate the wall behind the shelf with a pretty wallpaper and arrange the medicines neatly in an organizer or opaque storage box. Keep your toothbrushes and blades in vintage jars and set your toiletries and fluffy towels in order.

Bathrooms have a fair share of exposed wires, chunky pipes and drab fixtures that can put you off. Put up a beautiful hanging to cover an ugly outlet, cover the exhaust fan with a stylish wall vent and use indoor plants to conceal rusty pipes. With a little creativity, you can easily hide unsightly sights in your washroom without burning a hole in your wallet.

Don’t forget to give a fresh coating of paint where it has faded or crumbled. Fix leaky faucets, rusty taps, and seepage issues. It can be disgusting to see your sink well up with dirty water as you bend down to tidy up. The keep the bathroom clutter free, add a separate cabinet to put brooms, mops, and cleaning agents.

[bctt tweet=”Consider remodeling your bathroom into a harmonious blend of colors.” username=”ColourMyLiving”]

3. Set the Mood

One day you might feel like frolicking in ocean waves under the tropical skies while on other days, you might want to indulge in wild roses. Set the mood whichever way you like. Through dimmers, scented candles, bath salts, music, and greenery, you can achieve any mood you desire. For instance, if you are reminiscing about a snowy holiday you spent in a midst of mountains and frosted leaves, arrange a cozy and blissful spa session for yourself with a few items.

Light up a pine candle and play soft music. Moisturize your body with vanilla lotion, condition your lips with beeswax, rub off dry skin with peppermint scrub and soak yourself in warm water with winter-scented salts. You will feel as if you are lost in a cozy, snow filled valley.

[themify_col grid=”2-1 first”]

Pine Candle on Amazon

[/themify_col]

[themify_col grid=”2-1″]

Peppermint Scrub on Amazon

[/themify_col]

4. Go Crazy on Bubble Bath

Bubble baths can do wonders to your wrecked skin and bad mood. When the water is bubbling with a lovely blend of honey, roses, peaches and sea salts, your mind will immediately switch off the bad thoughts and wander off to all the nice things. At least once in a week, give yourself a luxurious hour to treat your body and mind with in-home spa treatment. As you soak yourself in warm, foamy water, let all the grime and worries wash away. A relaxing and therapeutic spot at home where no one can bother you is like a safe haven. Don’t forget to switch off your phone.

Use bubble baths, bath bombs or bath salts for a soothing, calming and relaxing soak. Search bubble bath on Amazon.

[bctt tweet=” A relaxing and therapeutic spot at home where no one can bother you is like a safe haven” username=”ColourMyLiving”]

5. Upgrade Your Shower Area

Replace the old showerhead with a multifunctional one with different spray settings, steam, and massage options. Have invigorating rinse with a gentle rain shower or clean your pores with a hot, steamy bath. Incorporating steam option in your shower area provides a truly luxurious spa experience and you come out of it with silky, clean and restored skin.

The steam generator holds water and once you turn it on, the water slowly evaporates generating steam. Enjoy the soothing steam and then rinse off with cool water. Separate the shower area with frameless glass doors to maintain a unified look. Laminate the glass doors with a protector film to prevent spontaneous breakage and shattering.

[bctt tweet=”Replace the old showerhead with a multifunctional one with different spray settings.” username=”ColourMyLiving”]

6. A Plush Seating Area

When you can have couches in verandas and balconies, why can’t you have a quaint seating area in your bathroom? Keep a couple of plush chairs or single sofas with a water-resistant upholstery. Brighten up the look with a vintage table and flower vases. When you are waiting for your mask to dry off and want to read a book or wish to peacefully file your nails, don’t roam around the house in impatience but sit in your comfortable seating area and wind off.

7. Incorporate Small Luxuries

Perhaps you fancy installing a small chandelier on the ceiling to add a dose of elegance and a soft source of romantic light in your bathroom, or you wish to mount a floating vanity to revamp the look. Once in a blue moon, don’t be afraid spend some dimes to glamorize your bathroom. To turn it into a luxurious retreat, it is necessary to have some lavish upgrades. Heated floors and towel bars, fireplaces, skylights, frameless glass showers and a water-resistant entertainment center can transform your regular bathroom into a dreamy oasis where you can let go and chill in the lap of luxury.

[bctt tweet=”There are endless ways to transform the look of your bathroom. ” username=”ColourMyLiving”]

There are endless ways to transform the look of your bathroom. While it is mostly used to maintain personal hygiene activities, a bathroom can also be a tranquil spot to revivify yourself. When you don’t have time and money to spend on spa sessions, give yourself the much-needed rejuvenating treatment right in your home whenever you desire.

How to Turn Your Bathroom into a Peaceful and Dreamy Oasis It is a hot sticky day and you have been busy meeting deadlines, making important phone calls and running personal errands.

[wellmeaningshutin]

Short Story #41: Notebook.

Written: 2/9/2017

Dreams were always boring for her, not when they were happening, but when she woke up and remembered everything. Every morning she would wake up, and log down, whatever she just experienced, in the little, black, spiral notebook that she kept under her pillow. At first it seemed like a really neat project to have, but after a couple weeks of this it just seemed like she was listing down nonsense.

Entry #7: I was in the super market, and I was with somebody who may have been my uncle, but when I think about it they could’ve been my brother or my fiance, it’s hard to actually pin it down. We were walking around, trying to find a cake for somebody’s birthday, but when we arrived at the fruit isle it was full of spider webs, and of course spiders. At first I tried running through, swinging my arms around over my head to brush them off, but when I got close there were way too many spiders, like a wall of spiders, so I turned around and ran out of the store. I walked a little ways and went to the beach and tried to dig a hole, and a little boy walked up to me and told me that I had to pay to dig there, but I didn’t have any money. The dream ended when I was in the back of a police car, driving somewhere, talking to the other criminal in the back seat, who was a character from that movie where the twins are detectives, but then one of them turns out to be a dirty cop.

Entry #12: I was at prom, but I didn’t have any shoes so I had to keep asking everyone, but then they made fun of me for not having shoes. Because of this, I went into the bathroom and found my shoes, but it took me a long time to put them on, I don’t know why, it felt like hours passed before I was able to get them on. When I finally was able to leave the bathroom, prom was over and I had to walk home.

Entry #3: I went to the park and had a pretty good time. I played with the dog that I had as a child, and I told it that I never wanted it to leave me again. Somebody told me that I had to stack a bunch of blocks, and I spent the rest of the dream doing that. I think we might have been building a wall to keep something out, but I can’t really remember what it was. Something definitely kept trying to knock it down though.

Entry #10: I had to do an interview for some show that I didn’t know anything about, I didn’t know how to answer any of the questions and just kind of felt like an asshole.

And those were the interesting ones. On the 15th day since she started taking notes of her dreams, she sat on the edge of her bed, legs crossed, and read through all of her entries. Most of them she had forgotten about, and none of them were really interesting, so it was kind of a struggle to get to the end. Her first decision was to throw the notebook away, but has she held it above the trash bin she wondered if she should give up so easily. Tedium had made her forget the original reason she started the whole project in the first place, but she knew it was something really interesting, but she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. It seemed like she may have written it down somewhere, but the paper was lost within the clutter of her room, either under old homework assignments or trapped, crinkled, under the heaps of clean clothes that littered her floor. Reaching a compromise with herself, since alarms sounded in her head every time she moved to throw the notebook away, she decided to keep it under her pillow, but to only write things down if they seemed to be interesting enough.

What she didn’t know was that the important paper was stuffed under her mattress, hidden there so she would never accidentally throw it away, but also inconveniently placed so that when she would inevitably forget its location (something unavoidable and out of her control) she would have little chance of accidentally stumbling across it. This important note was written with a mascara pen, because she had to find something to write with and it was the closest thing at hand after she had woken up on that forgotten night. The note read:

Something is wrong with my dreams, I didn’t know what it was before but this time I saw something. Do not forget this. There is something else in there with you, your dreams are not your own, and I’m not sure if they are even really dreams. The distinction is the way you wake up: PAY ATTENTION TO THE WAY YOU WAKE UP. If the dream fades out, and is replaced with the real world, WRITE IT DOWN. These are fake dreams. They are not to be confused with the normal ones, which have the sudden shift of opening your eyes, the sudden transition from dream to reality. Abrupt = good. Fade = bad. Bad bad bad. When dreams are bad, write them down.

Why is it a fake dream? I can’t figure this out, why it happens, or what’s behind this. We have to find a pattern, so WRITE THEM DOWN. Last night’s dream:

I was

It is left unfinished, because by the time she had started to write about the dream itself, she had forgotten what it was, it already had faded from memory.

A week after she decided to only write down what felt important, on that Wednesday, all of her classes were canceled since somebody called in a bomb threat at the community college, so she was lucky enough to be able to spend the day lounging around, watching detective shows, enjoying the empty house. It was rare to have the house all to herself because her two roommates were usually there morning and night, and when they were gone she was also out, so it was only in these rare moments that she could have it all to herself. While watching the show, she lied on her right side, on the couch, facing the television, bare legs sprawled out, underwear partially covered by her belly fat, her shirt was riding up a little ways, and her hazelnut hair was unkempt and flowed past her head and fart down the couch, as if it too were were stretching out and enjoying the show.

The only times she moved was to blink, which she did now less than often, or to scratch herself.

The show was ridiculous, but it served to be a nice distraction from the stresses of her life. It made everything seem much less serious. Currently, the detective, who was pregnant with triplets, was staking out a gun running gang, and she had been so close to catching them but they were tipped off by a crooked cop, and were deciding to lay low until she moved on to another target. She never had an idea of who the cop was, but little did she know it was actually her partner who was sitting in the van with her, scarfing down product placement and cracking awful dad jokes. As the episode crawled on, it started to become apparent that it was a bottle episode, and a poorly written one. The pregnant detective would talk about what the suspects were doing, which was mainly just playing some card game, then her partner would make some joke like “Not in my house” or “I’ll have what he’s having”, and it all proved to be much too boring.

She started to drift off to sleep, but started to think about the ice cream that had been sitting in the freezer for a couple of days now, untouched since everyone was too busy to remember about it, and she realized that this was her chance. Sliding off of the couch, she stumbled lazily over to the freezer, slid it open, found the tub, and lugged it plus a spoon back with her to the couch, where she changed the channel and decided to watch a made for television film about two dog’s journey when they traveled across Europe, during world war II, in order to find their owner, who was a Jewish boy that got sent a way to a camp. It was confusing, almost offensive, and almost comedic in strange places. By the time it ended, with the dogs curling up with the boy in the gas chamber, the tub only had about a quarter of its original content left, and one of her roommates walked in through the front door.

Her roommate wasn’t sure if she should point out that the girl looked like a huge slob, or if she should question what the fuck was going on with the movie. Instead, she decided to fish out a joint from her purse and get high in the back yard.

That night she had a lot of trouble getting asleep, her mind wouldn’t stop running since it was crowded with thoughts and energy that hadn’t been expelled through productive behavior. Most of that time was spent talking down to herself for not spending the day studying for her economics exam, which was supposed to be that day, but there was also some time spent wondering  what the name of the song stuck in her head was. She was very close to remembering before she drifted off into sleep.

At 3:14am she faded into consciousness, and felt like there was something important, but wrong, about her dream. Before writing it down in her notebook, she had to turn the lights on, but she couldn’t really place her finger on why. Everything just felt wrong, or off, or different. However, when she finally flipped open her notebook she found an entry that she didn’t remember writing. It read:

At first this was another one of those boring ass dreams, so I’m going to skip over that part as quickly as I can. Mostly what was happening, was I was at the circus with my parents, like I did every year as a kid, but this time all of the performers were made of light and I ate a lot of ice cream, and it was really dumb other than that. The visuals were neat, but I’m not good enough of a writer to transfer them onto paper, so lets skip ahead.

Then, I woke up and was in a dark room somewhere, it was kind of like a hotel bedroom, and I wasn’t sure how I had gotten there. There was another kid in the room with me, and although I can’t really remember any defining features about him, like he was some person who I never looked directly at, and instead just saw him out of the corner of my eye, but I DID look at him. Lets not was time trying to explain that though. I talked to the kid and he also didn’t know how he ended up sleeping in that room, one moment he was at the circus with HIS parents, and now he was suddenly sleeping in the hotel room. Something felt off, like I was still asleep, so I tried to pinch myself, but I had trouble moving my hands, like I had arthritis, so I couldn’t do the pinch test. The kid and I decided that together, although we were both scared, we would wander out of the hotel room, go to the front desk, and have an adult who worked there try to find our parents so we could go home.

When I went to open the door I was able to move my hand again, it seemed like it was because this action was too important to prevent me from doing (I don’t know how to explain this). When walking down the hallway, with regained control of my hand, I quickly pinched myself to see how it felt, and although I put a lot of effort into the pinch there was only a very small amount of pain, it felt very feint, but in my mind it was enough to convince me that I really was awake.

Anyways, a lot of time was spent walking with the kid through the hallways of that hotel, and eventually we got to the front desk and the manager of the hotel lead us outside, and stayed with us, then got her phone out and started calling our parents. I don’t know how she had the number, but dream logic isn’t really based on making any sort of sense. Now, here’s another weird part of the dream, a lot of people started walking out to where we were, it was morning now and semi-bright out, and they all decided to get into a conversation with me and the boy.

Its hard to explain this, but bear with me. What essentially started happening was the boy started leading the conversation, with everyone around us pitching in and helping me along, but I was the main focus of it. What scares me, a little bit, was that it wasn’t really a conversation, and I don’t fully know why I feel this way, but it was more of an interrogation. I was explaining to the other boy, because it was relevant to the situation, stuff about my parents, my childhood home, my fond memories, a lot of stuff like that, and none of this was really dream babble, it was kind of like me actually sitting there and explaining all of this to them. It felt real, but in a very weird way. When it no longer seemed relevant for me to talk about my childhood and other information about my life, everything just kind of faded out and back into reality, where I really woke up.

This wasn’t the normal kind of waking up, because it was like everything faded into what I was staring at in real life, in this scenario it was the wall right by my bed. How can I explain this better? It was like my eyes were open THE WHOLE TIME and the images of that dream left me, and I was suddenly aware of what I was actually looking at. I also remember that for a couple of seconds when I saw that wall, I could hear the sounds of the dream slowly fade out too, like I heard them for a couple of seconds while I was still awake, and that never happens.

For some reason I feel very afraid and don’t think I can go back to sleep for quite some time.

While she sat in her bed, staring at the last sentence in the notebook, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to cry or scream, and ended up choosing the former. That entry was almost exactly like the dream that she wanted to write down, and the strange way she woke up was almost exactly the same, with only a few details being differently. In the dream that she wanted to write down, the original dream, the one where she would wake up from the first time, was different, but it was still just one of her dumb, boring dreams and it  isn’t worth mentioning the details. The setting of the place she woke up in was different, but it was also a dark room, and the person she was with was also hard to remember any details about, like it was always seen in the corner of her eye. Once again, she made her way out of the initial, spooky building and made her way out into sunlight, where she was greeted by a lot of people and had to explain what she knew about a different subject, this time it was on what her biggest fears were.

If she could never go to sleep again, she would stay awake forever, but she would have to sleep at some time.

Staying up that night after she woke up, she kept herself awake by watching late night television shows, which were mostly just badly made infomercials that ran for over thirty minutes each. When she would start to nod off, or rest her eyes, she would give herself a good, strong pinch in the thigh and the pain both kept her awake and let her know that she was really awake. On the television, some father figure was trying to take a turkey out of an oven, but his mitts had caught fire and were stuck to his hands, so he had to comically struggle to take them off, and ended up shoving his burning hands into a toilet, then gave a bumbling smile to the camera. This was all done in black in white, so when the product was displayed, which seemed like some needlessly thick rubber oven mitts, the shift into color was sudden and very noticeable. Watching this was still better than anything on other channels, which amounted to soft core pornography and reruns of 90’s television shows that people didn’t even watch back then.

The most uncomfortable part of staying up, which was worse than the way her eyes started to sting, was the unexplainable feeling that something was watching her. She could never place where the feeling was coming from, but this always lead to her quickly looking around the room, looking at every open area, but there would never be anything, and the feeling would always persist. Oven mitts weren’t enough to distract her from the feeling.

Eventually, she did fall asleep and drifted off into some dream where she was in a warehouse, looking for her pants. Real boring stuff. By the time she woke up, she completely forgot about what she wrote in the notebook.

[bussanbaby]

Hurricane heart

It’s the small things that speak of love.

And some days are just worse than others.

Magnus’ sunlit Friday makes his heart feel like a hurricane. It begins early with a call tearing him out of sleep about a warlock child falling unexplainably ill and a rushed home visit, a mother’s grief and fiery assurances that it’s going to be okay, don’t cry please, he’s still here for you to love.

 A slew of clients next – the next one more late and even more fussy and demanding than the last one, all Magnus do this and that and dance as I tell unless I won’t pay. Not that Magnus necessarily needs the money, he’d be fine without it, but it’s about something more than that, payment for services rendered, an act of assistance, two people respecting each other; all because he wants to do something to help the world. The smile surrounded by his goatee is a fake one, all business-like, stretched thin like a guitar string waiting to snap, a dare and a warning all at once, a do not push me too far.

Hours tick by like sand slipping through fingers, quick and fleeting and the warm sun turns into a gloomy, unpleasant evening. There’s thunder angrily stomping around outside the loft windows and the usually welcome pitter-patter of rain is now grating on Magnus’ nerves. The same goes for the ticking of his ancient and probably priceless Grandfather clock a room over. It’s the rhythmic nature of it that makes it feel like a presence hanging over his shoulder and quietly judging his handiwork.

 Magnus prides himself on making his loft feel as homely as possible, a haven, an oasis for any kind of person, especially himself, but today it’s cold and hollowed out. He almost expects an echo to answer his sigh. The light is either too dark or too bright, his table too low, his clutter too present, each thing pushing into Magnus’ peripheral vision, unwanted thoughts like guests extending their stay for the third time.

 His back hurts from sitting hunched over his living room table while he works away on a potion with a deadline for yesterday. His eyes are tired from translating fae manuscripts and reading the fine print on summoning contracts, there’s a stress headache budding right behind the front of his skull and everybody wants something, right here, right now.

 Magnus, help me talk to this demon!

Magnus, make me a potion to forget my lost lover!

Magnus, do this and do that and don’t even expect a thank you, because why would that be necessary!

 He’s tired. He’s so, so tired and he hates the claws of exhaustion, both mental and physical, prickling at his skin. Usually, a day like this is something he handles fine, but he woke up off-kilter, like a boat tilted sideways until it finally sinks. Magnus feels like Titanic already split in half.

 He grits his teeth, even when he knows he shouldn’t, the muscle in his jaw jumping without his control, waits for the potion to turn from yellow to a light blue after the last ingredient is in. When it doesn’t, it’s the literal last drop that makes the cup of his frustration run over. His anger is ice-cold and menacingly quiet, it burns him from inside-out.  

 Magic stretches his veins, swelling alongside Magnus’ annoyance until it bubbles up in his throat as a growl. He stands abruptly from the couch and the furniture shudders, an earthquake in the form of a person making it jump. Orange and red sparks drip from the tips of Magnus’ fingers, falling onto the carpet to leave little scorched dots behind.

 All of the books stacked by the side fly and smash against the wall with a deafening thud and some of the pages tear free, now falling like leaves and Magnus just stands, breathing heavy with fists clenched and the last thing before the lights overhead flicker is the sound of a door opening and combat-boot clad footsteps rushing against the carpets.

 Magnus was so caught up in everything that he didn’t notice the tremor in his wards indicating a guest, but with only certain people allowed in, it’s easy to guess the tall figure halting their steps with an arm halfway to a Seraph blade and a strange kind of grace.

 Alec hangs on to the doorjamb with his hands, clearly expecting enemies, but seeing only Magnus in the middle of a mess. His face shifts from wariness to confusion and then melts into vague understanding as he takes everything in. Magnus watches his lips part around nonexistent words, before he squints, one-eyed and inquisitive.

 “I wanted to see you, but it seems like a bad time…” He explains, but instead of leaving, approaches Magnus, eyes searching and hands reaching up to rest on broad shoulders. A simple touch is enough to pull the cork on the overflowing bathtub and Magnus’ rigid posture falls, fingers unclench, he breathes.

“No, no, it’s just-“  Magnus just shakes his head, the simple motion making his headache twice as difficult.

 “Bad day?” A crooked little smile shows up on Alec’s mouth, Magnus’ personal favourite. A wry thing, not oblivious, but very familiar with the feeling of the dam breaking.

 “Very bad day.” He agrees and sighs deeply from the bottom of his chest, before wrapping his arms loosely around Alec’s waist. There’s that familiar, faint scent of a leather and a cologne he could recognize in miliseconds.

 “Wanna talk about it?” It’s a sweet thing to ask, very Alec-like, honest in its attentiveness, and this time it’s Magnus’ turn to smile, a private thing, there and gone. He shakes his head again. He doesn’t want to worry Alec, but they promised to be open and upfront about their troubles, so in the end, he complies.

 “Not now, later perhaps.”

 Warm fingers move up his neck, eight digits pressed into his spine and thumbs at the hinges of his jaw.

 “It’s like you’re actively trying to grind your teeth into dust.”

 A lilt of laughter colors Alec’s voice as he works away at the pain in small circles and after the moment it feels a little bit better already. Magnus closes his eyes and focuses his attention on the heavy weight of Alec’s gaze on him, the proximity of his body, the warmth radiating through a thin shirt into his fingertips. 

He imagines a calm ocean, waves spilling playfully over each other and his magic settles – fills his chest and spills into his abdomen, unbridled energy willing to settle down when kindly asked.

 That’s the funny thing – Magnus’ magic is such an intrinsic part of his soul and his sole existence that it sometimes feels like it has a mind of its own. He notices it always wakes up at the slightest touch of Alec’s fingers, whether it’s them skimming the top of his palm in passing or a deep embrace where they press into skin and muscle. It sings in his heart, happy just as he is with the love of his life.

 They stand there for a while, Alec massaging all the knotted and tense muscles he can reach without breaking away and Magnus just enjoying the attention, the feeling of loneliness dissipating after the whole day spent around people. When Alec speaks again, voice a tad bit hoarse and even more pleasant, Magnus tugs him closer, presses their bodies against each other until they feel like one. Those long, spindly fingers move from his neck to his hair, scratch along the shaved sides and brush through the strands standing straight up, before dancing across his face – soft touches along his browbones, following the slope of his nose and dipping into the shape of his Cupid’s bow to rest against the corners of his mouth.

 “I don’t know if you know him, but there’s this guy that I’m dating, yeah? He’s tall, buff as hell, and gives great advice. He told me once to step back from work and just breathe every now and again. Find a new perspective. Maybe you should listen to him.”

 Magnus smiles again and this time the smile sticks, not a bomb about to go off but a fireplace with the flames crackling like a song. This Alec is one of his favourites, chocolate with a sprinkle of pepper – playful and caring and casual with a side of flirty, leaning his body against Magnus, arms resting on his shoulders and hands clasped where he can’t see them.

 Magnus remembers that it’s his turn to say something.

 “I don’t recognize him, but it sounds like you really like him.”

 “Oh, I love him, actually. And that’s why I think he should take a five minute break from this, whatever this is.” Alec says, punctuating the last part of his sentence with a jut of his chin towards the bubbling glass on the table and a flurry of papers on the ground.

 A break it is, then.

 Arms wrapped around bodies, knees knocking together, they stand in an embrace. It’s honestly all Magnus wants right now, as he presses his forehead against Alec’s rain-damp skin, feels a breath skim across his lips and something hums in his chest. He’s content to stay like this for a hundred and one years, because this kind of tenderness is a step away from painful.

 It did not come easy for them; months ago, there was resentment and guilt and the sentiment of impossibility. But then, a touch of hands and the world turned upside down. And they’re still here with their own private gravity; the moon and the stars could be sold and the sun could burn out and Magnus would pick a quiet offer of getting takeout and watching something light-hearted over any gemstone or treasure.

 Clients want and his people need and Shadowhunters demand, but it doesn’t matter. Because he has Alec too. Alec, who comes to see him, because there’s an empty space behind his ribs and because there’s a mouth he wants to kiss into the deep darkness of the night and there’s books to be read side by side and songs to be danced to and skin to be touched. Because there’s no hidden motive.

 They part with a mutual sigh and while Alec reaches for his phone to order food, Magnus snaps his fingers – the mess disappears, at least for a while until he has to deal with it, but for now the hurricane is calm.