#despite having at least a few other ideas unfinished

[ivyithink]

uh-oh, it’s yet another “you are a monster, but you see me and love me for all my faults, and i can’t help but feel the same” dynamic, we have no choice but to go insane over it

[raccoon-eyed-rebel]

Part 20

Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Part 19 🟣 Part 21

A reverse harem vampire AU ft. Mikey, Marshall, August and Sherlock

Series summary: Somehow, you've managed to live with your boyfriend and his roommates for months before finding out they're vampires, but the real shock first comes when they find out you have a special quality. A quality the guys would love to make use of...

Warnings: SMUT, NSFW, 18+, MINORS DNI. P-in-v sex, fingering, angst, ongoing vampire shenanigans, more blood than we're used to... Mentions of a knife kink. Paranormal voyeurism... (I swear, regular tags and warnings just don't feel sufficient for this :') )

Word count: 4.7k (It's a long one)

A/N: Loving kisses, a successful date, a bitch, a good friend, a messy bite... I'd call this fluffy if it wasn't so... smutty.

@geralts-yenn @deandoesthingstome @summersong69 @ellethespaceunicorn @mis-lil-red @sillyrabbit81 @livisss @itsrubberbisquit @ktficworld @proud-aroace-beastie

“Mikey?” You threw the door open — and you should have known better. Your heart threatened to beat its way out of your chest at the sight before you. It was really just Mike, on his bed, phone in one hand, dick in the other. The scenario left very little to the imagination with regard to what he was doing…

Then you blinked, and all the evidence of what you’d run into vanished.

“Swe—” He stopped talking — again — and you felt your heart being crushed under the weight of that unfinished word. And this time you weren’t having any of it.

In a few steps, you closed the distance between you and the edge of the bed, where a disappointingly fully dressed Mike was sitting. “Sat it,” you said, putting your hands on either side of his face after hauling him to his feet. “Call me ‘Sweetcheeks’. Wrap your arms around me, hold me, look me right in the eye and say it.”

Despite your explicit and pressing demand, you were surprised when his arms snaked around your waist and he cleared his throat. “Sweetcheeks, I’ve been an idiot.”

“Yeah, well… what else is new?” you chuckled, and your heart jumped for joy when he joined you. Then, you looked at him: “We’re going out. Tonight. Dinner and a movie.”

“We can get burgers and head off to see Saw?” Of course he suggested a horror movie!

“You know I can’t sleep after watching scary movies, Mike,” you whispered.

“I know you can’t sleep alone,” he corrected you — and he was right. “I’ll protect you… Sweetcheeks.”

“Cool, it’s a date,” you said before giggling like a schoolgirl. At least the sound made Mike smile even wider. That was good, right?

“Dinner tonight, princess? I’m making chicken fried rice.” August pressed his lips to yours before you could answer.

“Sounds fantastic, August, but I’m going out. Mike and I are going on a date.” You tried to fight the smile off your face, but you just couldn’t manage.

August wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close, peppering kisses along your jaw before dipping his head down to reach your neck. “You’re happy, princess. I like it when you are happy.”

“Even when you’re not the one making me happy?” Why? Why did you ask that?

“I do make you happy,” August said matter-of-factly. “In fact, I make you very happy.” He lifted you onto the kitchen counter, standing between your legs, which you wrapped around his waist.

In the middle of your passionate kiss, Sherlock stumbled into the kitchen.

“Good morning you two,” he said, his indifference to the scene in front of him evident in his voice.

You pushed against August’s shoulders so he would let you go, and hopped off the counter, stalking towards Sherlock in a few big, angry steps. It surprised you that he wrapped you in his arms and kissed you — quite firmly, and inappropriately for a communal area of the house. It also surprised you that he was quite cold to the touch.

“I heard you have a date with Mike tonight?” he asked with a kind smile. “A wonderful idea. May I request some time to feed before you leave?”

“Only of you don’t ask me so formally,” you snorted. “I love you, of course you can eat. You’re not filing a tax form!”

“Well, then,” he said, his smile growing more mischievous, “would my beautiful love accompany me to bed, please?”

Your heart almost jumped out of your chest when you heard him say those words, before realizing that you always retreated to his bedroom to feed. It had just become a thing you usually did in private. Not for anyone’s sake, but simply to take full advantage of the calming sensation you felt, and to really give yourself some alone time with your guys. This time would be no different. No different at all.

“Please, make yourself comfortable, darling,” he said kindly when you stepped into the room. “I will get you some tea, and… August?” Sherlock turned around before the door opened and indeed showed August, standing outside, holding a cup of tea in one hand and a glass of water in the other. He sighed, while Sherlock chuckled. “Thank you very much.”

August grumbled something unintelligible while rolling his eyes before turning on his heel and disappearing, leaving you and Sherlock to it.

You took the glass of water and drank it quickly, not because you hoped to get this over with as quickly as possible, but because you wanted to crawl into Sherlock’s arms as soon as you could.

You waited a few minutes, just laying on his bed, curled up in his embrace with your head resting on his chest, while gathering your thoughts as well as your courage. Then, you kissed him. It surprised you that he was so greedy in his reciprocation, to the point where he quickly took the lead in your little bout of passion, pinning you to the mattress, the weight of his body comfortably crushing your soul back into your body. Sometimes that was just necessary.

What did bother you, however, was the fact that he seemed to be having no physical reaction to your kiss whatsoever. Why the hell not?

His lips traveled from your mouth to your jaw, and eventually to your neck, where you felt his fangs scrape over your skin.

Of your four partners, Sherlock had the gentlest bite, and he took the most time when feeding — save for Mike when he had access to his preferred location. You’d once asked him why, and he had answered that throughout the years, he’d had to feed quickly for such a long time, that he refused to now that he no longer had to.

“Thank you, darling,” he said quietly when he was done making sure your wounds would heal.

“Why do you always say that?” You’d never asked him that before, you realized, even though you couldn’t remember any time he hadn’t said it.

“You let me bite you. You voluntarily allow me to wound you so that I may feed on your blood. Darling, if that is not something I should be thankful for…”

You sealed your mouth over his to stop him from talking, and when you retreated, he smiled. A tingly feeling ran all the way through your body as you looked deep into his eyes, and you opened your mouth to speak. To your surprise, Sherlock put his hand over your mouth, a serious look in his eyes. His pupils were dilated, you noticed. Strange…

“Whatever you say next, I will have to obey. Please choose your words with great care,” he said, his voice strained, as if he had great trouble speaking.

“Thank you for explaining,” you said hesitantly after Sherlock’s hand had disappeared. “Can we get to the snuggling part of the event, please?” You needed to feel his arms around you once again.

“Of course,” he spoke slowly, “your wish is quite literally my command.”

“Can you tell me what’s going on?” you asked when he was curled up around you, pulling you close. “I thought we’d made it past the excessive caregiving aftermath of the feeding?”

“We have. You hypnotized me,” he chuckled. “It will wear off.”

You turned around in his arms and looked at him. “I didn’t mean to do that,” you said. It was strange; you felt guilty about it in a way you had never felt guilty about gaining access to Mike’s gift, or August’s. You had grown to thoroughly enjoy Marshall’s…

“It’s because I have a choice. There is no passive side to this gift, other than that I have been told I can be excessively charismatic,” he said as though he could read your thoughts. He couldn’t, which meant they had to be displayed clearly on your face. “You get to share in their experience, and they are glad to let you do that. I, on the other hand…”

“You don’t like the gift?” you asked carefully, sending this was not a topic he enjoyed discussing.

“I abhor it. That time I used it on you haunts me, still. And you were right to admonish me over it. If I had seen any other option, please trust that I would have gone that route. I am terribly sorry.”

“But you use it for good,” you suggested in a feeble attempt to ease the pain in his eyes.

“There is nothing good about taking away consent and free will,” he sighed. “Although the interrogations do require a consent form, so I suppose… It still makes me quite uncomfortable at times.”

“Sherlock, please be honest with me,” you said pensively.

“I feel the need to remind you that I have no other choice, darling.”

“Is it okay, when this happens, if I ask you to tell me you love me?”

“Certainly,” he replied, a hint of amusement to his voice.

“Then tell me you love me,” you commanded as you rolled on top of him, straddling his hips.

“With all my heart, my darling,” he answered before pulling you down into a searing kiss.

“Omg, hey Mike!” Rose walked towards you, closely followed by Jenelle. “What are you two doing here?”

“Movie date,” Mike said with a big smile. Dinner had been awesome, and standing here with him, his arm wrapped around your shoulders, felt like an absolute dream. “What about you two?”

“J got stood up by her date,” Rose explained, “so I came to the rescue!”

“She was hot as hell, too,” Jenelle sighed. “Here.”

Mike let out a low whistle when he saw the photo on her phone screen. “Goddamn. Too bad Tits McGee clearly doesn’t have a brain.” He pulled Jenelle in for a hug. “You are way too pretty to be treated this way. Wait, I can say that, right, Sweetcheeks?” He turned too you, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“Yes, Mike, because you’d be right.” You weren’t going to be offended by Mike thinking J was pretty. She was, end of.

“Will you guys sit with us?” The movie had been out for a while, and there were only a handful of people in the lobby. Assigned seats, schmassigned seats.

“And listen to you guys making out all through the movie? No tha—ow! The fuck?” J had caught an elbow to the ribs from Rose, which didn’t go unnoticed by Mike. Mostly because J wasn’t exactly quiet about it, but still. Mike put two and two together unusually quickly.

“Alright, Sweetcheeks, how much do they know?” he asked, feigning annoyance.

“Just that you guys are working through something, nothing more.” J and Rose looked innocent. Or rather; they tried to. And failed.

“Everything, Mike,” you sighed. “They’re my best friends, and they know everything.”

“That’s okay, it’s all my fault anyway. We’re starting to… heal, I suppose.” It was sweet to hear Mike say it that way — and he was right, of course. “We haven’t kissed yet, though. So I wouldn’t worry about the making out part.” Even the oversharing was adorable, dammit…

He was right though; you spent the whole time staring at the screen — except when you snuggled into Mike’s side as well as you could (stupid chairs…) when things got scary. You did hold hands all the way through the film, though, which was really nice. You hadn’t really realized how much you’d missed his touch, even though he was fairly cold…

“Well that was horrible,” J said when you walked out of the theatre a few hours later.

“Are you kidding me?” Mike clearly disagreed. “That was great! Blood, gore, Jigsaw. And I got to hold my pretty girl again.”

“Oh, yeah, no, def,” Jenelle agreed with him. “Fabulous date movie. Horrible third-and-fourth-wheel-movie though. Rose?”

“Agreed, and can I just say that—”

“Out of my way.” A shoulder hit you from behind, sending you tumbling into Mike’s chest. “Right. Go snuggle with your bloodsucker, you vampire skank.”

“Bloodsuckers, plural, right?” You didn’t even know the girl who asked.

“Yeah, bitch has a whole harem. They snack on her.” Katie raised an eyebrow at you and smirked in a way that would put mean queen Regina George herself to shame.

“Oh my god, she’s literally a blood whore?” Again; who was that girl even?

“Listen, you might want to step the fuck off, you insufferable, miserable, narrow-minded, hillbilly cunt.” And she’d better listen, because Jenelle was about five seconds away from losing her shit.

“Fine. You’re not the kind of person I want to be seen with, anyway. You’ll get what you deserve,” she said as she turned around. “Just you wait.”

“She said what?” Now August was five seconds away from losing his shit, and even though Jenelle’s impressive five-eleven frame could be intimidating — especially considering she was taller than Mike if you added her afro to her height, which she always did.

“Jenelle dealt with it,” you said quickly, chuckling at the memory of the imposing law student using some impressive adjectives you couldn’t have come up with in a million years to put Katie in her place. It had been by far the most eloquent opprobrium you had ever heard in your entire life. No, you hadn’t known that word before you left for your date.

“She is an amazing friend,” Mike said. He was right. You could always count on her to stick up for you. Rose, too, but confrontation generally scared her. Jenelle grew up with four brothers, so…

“I wonder what Katie meant when she said I’d get what I deserve…” you pondered.

“You know we’d never let her get to you, right?” Marshall said before giving you a kiss on your forehead.

You nodded. “Yeah,” you said. “Mikey… Can we just go to sleep, please?”

It was strange to get into bed with him again, after weeks of practically avoiding each other, and it was no surprise that it took the two of you some time to figure out how you fit together at least somewhat comfortably — especially since Mike required some access to your neck. He hadn’t asked to feed, but you knew better.

“Go on,” you said, baring your neck to him when you’d finally settled in.

He looked at you, his face contorted into a strange grimace that told you he was uncomfortable with something…

“Are you sure, Sweetcheeks? I mean… I told you I’d go back to—” Without thinking, you kissed him. Hard — and so incredibly passionately that when you broke away, you were gasping for air.

“I’d rather die than have you feed off some…” Nope, that was not a nice thing to say about someone just doing their job. Try again. “You belong with me, Mikey. And…”

You fucking hypocrite. You’d made such a circus of making him call you ‘Sweetcheeks’ again, but there was something you hadn’t been able to tell him for weeks, too. It wasn’t just him. And it was time for you to bite the bullet.

“I love you, Mike,” you whispered, trailing your fingers over the side of his face. “And I’m incredibly glad we’re finding each other again. You can feel what I desire. If it’s anything other than you sinking your teeth into me…”

“Oh, there’s something else,” he mused. “But we’ll save that for later. I’m guessing no boobies?”

“Eh…” You considered it for a moment. “Let’s park that, for now? My neck is fine, though. But no more nonconsensual vampire marriages, Mike.” He didn’t need the warning — he was an idiot, not a jerk — but you couldn’t help yourself.

He had to flip you both over to be able to get to the side Sherlock hadn’t punctured that afternoon — seriously, sometimes you felt a little… used. You loved it, of course, but still.

Mike inhaled deeply, dragging the tip of his nose over your neck as he did, and sighed. “You smell so fucking good.”

For some reason, his words make your cheeks heat up.

“I thought I was going to go insane when Sherlock got to you this afternoon, I—”

Why did you feel the need to interrupt his confession — which no doubt was about to turn steamy soon — with your insecurities? “Could you tell what he desired?” The first rule for a peaceful life was still ‘don’t ask questions you don’t want to know the answer to’, right?

“He wanted to be close to you, and he wanted to feed,” Mike said simply. Was that all? “Have you considered talking to him, Sweetcheeks?”

Okay, fine! Now that everyone in the house had pointed out that that was what you should do… maybe you should give it a go.

“Now, where was I?” Mike’s soft lips trailed over your skin, sometimes placing soft kisses that made you whine softly. “You’re so warm, you taste so sweet. Especially like this. All worked up and hot for me…”

“Mike, we shouldn’t…” And why the hell not? You were so innately attracted to this guy that it bordered on completely ridiculous, and he already knew you were dying to feel him again. On top of you. Behind you. Inside you.

“I can hear your heart beat faster for me,” he growled, his lips moving gently against the skin of your neck, “I can feel the blood rushing to your cheeks — and your pussy. Your body and mind are screaming for me, Sweetcheeks. Make no mistake, I’m screaming right back…” He ground his hips into you to prove it, and chuckled. His fingers tentatively dipped beneath the waistband of your pajama pants.

Your permission was silent, your response was not. Mike wasted no time slipping his hand into your panties and seeking out your clit, making you gasp.

You came so quickly you barely registered it.

“Fucking dripping…” Mike growled before nipping at your earlobe. “All for me, Sweetcheeks?”

You nodded, but it wasn’t enough. “Yes.” Still wasn’t enough for him. “Fuck… yes, baby, all for you.” You’d pay good money to have that smug grin wiped off his face.

He dipped his fingers into you with ease — he hadn’t exactly been lying when he pointed out you were soaked — and pulled his hand back, which surprised you. Then, he wrapped his hand around his cock, biting his lip as the slow, lazy strokes forced moans from his throat. You just looked at him — mostly with fascination, but also a bit of confusion.

“What? This is as close as I can get to feeling you directly on my skin,” he muttered. He was adorably out of breath.

“I’ve considered getting an IUD, but putting them in apparently hurts like a bitch and—”

“So take August.” Mike shrugged, not minding the interruption in your moment at all — and also still stroking himself, which you found both oddly amusing and very in-character.

“What?” you said, thinking you had some idea of what he was getting at, but wanting to verify it nonetheless.

“Take August,” he repeated, slightly louder than before, “I’m sure he won’t mind playing walking painkiller if it means he gets to fuck you raw.”

“Deal!” you heard from the other room, and you couldn’t help but laugh. Soon, the door opened. “Seriously, I didn’t quite catch what you were talking about but I’m game.”

“You help her deal with the pain of getting an IUD, we get to ditch condoms, everyone wins,” Mike summarized. “Now fuck off, I’m trying to get laid.”

“You’re way past trying,” you chuckled. “Goodbye, August.”

“Awh, you’re not going to let me watch?” he teased. Alright, semi-teased. You knew for a fact he’d love to watch.

Next to you, Mike grinned, meaning he’d caught the surge of desire that had flooded you for a moment as soon as the words had tumbled from August’s gorgeous lips. Not that there was any way they hadn’t heard your breath hitch or caught any of the other specs of evidence that the idea excited you more than it probably should.

“Best I can do is let you listen in,” Mike decided before gesturing at him to get out. August gave you a questioning look, and you nodded, another rush of heat washing over you as you thought about what this meant.

‘Treat her right’ were his parting words to Mike before he made his way, presumably to his own room.

“Mmh, you always do,” you hummed contently as Mike finally left his cock alone and focused on you again. He smiled as he plunged his fingers back into you, finding the right spot almost instantly. It was a cute smile; eyes twinkling, fangs out… you watched him with wide eyes as he bit down on his lip, piercing the skin.

“Oh,” he chuckled at his own mistake.

The little bead of blood formed slowly, and you watched it happen, until it got too big to be contained and rolled toward the outside of his lip. You rarely acted on an impulse so immediately — and you were fairly sure you’d never acted so impulsively that it even took Mike by surprise — but there was no fighting this urge to pull Mike closer and… you didn’t quite kiss him. That would have been one thing, but this was something else entirely. You licked the blood off his lip. And you didn’t stop there, no. You sucked his lip into your mouth while Mike let out a very loud moan. A suspiciously loud moan.

“You did not just...” There really was no need to finish that question. Mike was probably embarrassed enough as it…

“Yeah, I totally did, Sweetcheeks,” he said, grinning at you like he’d gone insane. “That hadn’t happened in at least three decades, babe. Fuck that was hot. Kinky. All that good stuff. Did you… was it… just… any good?”

“I’m mostly still in shock over what just happened.” And the fact that it had made Mike jizz in his pants.

“I kinda do want to run this by Sherlock,” he said to your surprise, “I mean… developing a sudden taste for the good stuff could mean you’re transitioning. It's not technically possible, because I know we’ve all been very diligent and responsible about our garlic, but it doesn’t hurt to have it checked out.”

“She’s not,” you heard from the other side of the door as footsteps — Sherlock’s footsteps — passed by the room and disappeared further into the hallway. “I would have noticed!”

“Settled?” Mike asked. You laughed in response. There was something incredibly funny about August’s earlier intrusion and this one by Sherlock, and the way it didn’t even ruin the mood.

“Settled. Just a… I’m going to call it an impulse, for now. I’m not sure if it’s a kink thing.” Your cheeks felt like they were on fire, and they weren’t the only part of you that felt that way.

“God I hope it is!” Mike sighed as he snuggled up against you.

“What, so you can ruin another pair of pants?”

“Hey, fuck you!” He pouted at you, but you could see the grin lurking beneath.

“We were getting there, I believe.” You cocked an eyebrow and then Mike had finally had enough. For a second, he withdrew, pulling his t-shirt over his head, and then he pounced on you.

Your pajamas did not survive the carnage, and neither did his. He was hard, and you couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Didn’t I tell you? Significantly reduced cool down time,” Marshall sounded in your head, making you laugh even louder. Mike looked at you, not asking the question he clearly wanted to.

“Marshall,” you clarified, before yelling at the man to butt the fuck out.

Mike managed to rip four condom wrappers open so enthusiastically that he ruined their contents as well, at which point you finally pointed at the intact, unwrapped, latex nuisance you were already holding. He didn’t hold still while you rolled it onto his cock, and he sure as hell didn’t wait so much as a second to drag your ass onto his thighs.

He pushed into you at the same time he bit you, and you squealed. Rough and eager Mikey was fun. He had been from the beginning of your relationship, and he was now, and he would be in the future — that endless future you suddenly had with him again. He crouched over you, using one hand to grasp your hip, the other to pin your wrists to the bed while he drank from your neck, impatient and greedy and messy.

He fucked into you with something almost resembling a tender kind of rage, caring enough to avoid hurting you, but rough enough to bring you to the edge with just his cock — not something he was usually good at, you had to admit.

He came up before he finished, his lips red from your blood, which trickled down his chin. For the first time ever, you saw your monster in those bright blue eyes. And you loved him even more. The final few brutal thrusts were accompanied by low growls and swearing, and you stared at his face intently, noting the mellowing of his gaze after he opened his eyes again. Watching Mike’s ‘coming’-face was incredible. It was a very raw, honest moment — and for a significant amount of bonus points: it looked absolutely ridiculous —and it was beautiful. Intimate. Connected to you in indescribable ways.

“Wow. Okay, ehm… babe I made a fucking mess, alright? Didn’t mean to do that. Very sorry. We gotta get cleaned up…” Of course, he beat you to the bathroom.

In the hallway, you ran into Marshall, and there was no way you’d ever be able to convince even a single hair on your head that this was somehow a coincidence. He had to have heard.

“I did,” he said, his voice hoarse and his words punctuated by quick, shallow breaths he drew in as he looked at you. “I tried to stay in my room, but…” He raked his eyes over your naked form over and over again, committing whatever it was that he saw to memory before abruptly turning around and disappearing into his bedroom.

In the bathroom, you got your first good look at what Mike had meant. He had made a mess. Which, in this case, meant that your neck looked like someone had ripped your throat out, your shoulder was covered in blood, and it slowly trickled down, over your chest, between your breasts… in your mind, you heard Marshall again.

‘I want to watch you bleed.’

Well… you wanted him to watch you bleed as well.

“Fair warning,” Mike said as he wrapped his arms around you from behind and he glanced at you in the mirror. “He likes to play with knives. It won’t scar as long as you don’t need stitches and he can… treat the wounds the way we usually do.” He grabbed a washcloth and began to clean you up as he explained.

“How do you even know?” you said, your eyes wide with some mix of terror and fascination.

“We told you we met somewhere in the late eighties, right? He met me because I hung out with a group of goths,” he said, and some shards of that conversation came flooding back to you. Something about Marshall screwing around with Mike’s ex… “There was a lot of mixing chemicals to dye hair, and piercing your own eyebrows with sewing needles. That kind of stuff.”

“And they went nuts for the whole vampire thing,” you said, remembering the conversation a little better now.

“Yeah,” Mike said. There was something suspiciously apologetic to his voice. “I did, too. I mean. I was human back then. Okay, long story short; Marshall had this friend, Serafine — probably not her real name, but who cares? — and we used to… hook up.”

“You did what we do,” you said. It wasn’t a question, and the guilty look on his face told you more than you needed to know. This happened in the late eighties. Three decades ago. You didn’t even know him. You weren’t even born! “I’m irrationally pissed about this, Mike.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” he said. “But, ehm… why?”

“Because, Mike,” you said, slowly walking towards him, apparently scaring him enough that he backed up until he was standing against the wall. “You’re fucking mine.”

[the-moon-lullaby]

'Simple Moments'(MCL HSL Nathaniel)

N/A : This was unfinished in my drafts since a little while so I thought I should give it another try and see where this lead

Sum. : As the school play occupies everyone's mind in Sweet Amoris, Nathaniel can't afford to let himself get distracted. Unfortunately for him, it seems to be out of his control.

TW : none, it's just cute (if you don't look at the slight angst that comes with Nathaniel's situation)

Nathaniel let out a deep sigh as he stretched on his chair.

He had been caught up in paperwork for at least a good hour but still, he wasn’t eager to go home.

The school was probably empty by now and if not, it was only about time. Only a few students were staying this late after the end of class. It was mainly the most studious ones who stayed around and despite being a part of them, Nathaniel was on his own in the Student Council Room. It was often the case but he didn't mind or at least he didn't think he did as this habit became so ingrained in his routine that he didn't bother thinking about his loneliness.

Sometimes Melody would walk in and sit besides him. She’d try to talk but there was too much to do and not much to say so the conversations would inevitably meet a dead end. When he thought back on it, he felt a bit bad for the girl. He could see that she liked him and it might have looked like he was leading her on but he wasn’t trying to.

Truth is that he had other things on his mind which were slowly drowning him. 

Today, Mr Faraize had given them back their test results. Usually, Nathaniel wouldn’t have given it some second thought or wouldn’t have been worried about it but this time, he couldn’t help it. He turned pale when he saw his grade and he hoped that no one noticed it. Anyone would have found him ridiculous. It wasn’t a bad grade, it was actually pretty good. Above the class average. But certainly not above a certain person’s expectations.

No, really, he wasn’t eager to go home.

Which is why he decided that he would visit the library before leaving the school. Mr Faraize mentioned a book that might help them go through this part of the history program and that they could borrow it from the school. Deep down, he knew it wasn’t a lack of understanding that earned him this grade but he didn’t like the idea that he allowed himself to get distracted. In his defence, with the school play being set up and the commotion it created among the other students, it was becoming hard to focus on anything else.

Also, these rehearsals with Candy…

He probably should’ve focused on school work but he was too glad she asked his help to decline. And it was worth it because during that time he spent with her, it was as if his concerns were suddenly far away and these suffocating thoughts which filled his mind on a daily basis faded to the sound of her cristalline laugh. He quietly smiled as he thought back at her reaction when she received her grade too. And how her and Alexy beside her, who probably didn’t do a much better job than hers, let out a sour laugh and some snarky comments. 

Had she been distracted too ? And was it by their rehearsals ? Or was it just Nathaniel hoping that, whatever relationship they had, it wasn't only one sided ? The way she smiled and looked at him when it was only the both of them... It had to mean something, right ?

He stopped this thought from flourishing in his mind, ignoring that his pulse got quicker and ignoring the knot forming in his stomach as he entered the library.

He began to pace the shelves, looking for the said book, without success. ‘It’s really my day’ he ironically thought. As he was ready to leave, empty handed, he noticed someone sitting in an isolated corner.

Candy, with the book wide open in front of her, staring at it as if trying to decipher something. Her confused look amused Nathaniel. « Is it that bad ? » he asked as he walked toward her.

« Don’t make fun of me... You'd probably be surprised to know that The Cold War isn't really my cup of tea. Mr Faraize could tell you so... » she replied, grimacing. 

Nathaniel let out a soft laugh at her expression. «I think we were a lot to got it wrong on that test..." he said thinking it’d reassure her. She looked up at him with a puzzled look. He instantly regretted saying this. He did not want to complain about his grade knowing that she wouldn't find it bad at all. He knew what it’d look like and he didn’t want her to think of him like that. Like this grade-obsessed nerd everyone seemed to see him as. He hated it.

"Also, I didn’t expect  to see you here so late in fact. » he added, hoping to change the topic.

« Well me neither ! But I guess that I should get used to the idea that you never leave this school » she laughed. As much as he liked her laugh, Nathaniel couldn’t help but feel saddened by her remark.

Oh, if only she knew. 

« I was actually looking for this. » he said pointing at the book. « Mr Faraize talked about it so I thought I’d give it a look ».

« What a perfect student ! I’ll be honest, I don’t get everything that’s in it but given my grade, I’ll better keep digging into it » she said lightly. Visibly, she wasn’t upset about her grade. Nathaniel thought that she was lucky. She’ll probably not receive a sermon about it when she gets home. He simply nodded, ready to head out when she called him before he got to. 

«  I mean, if you really need it, we can share it. If you want… »

It was like his body made a decision before his mind got to react and before he knew it, he was drawing a chair next to Candy. They sat together and she placed the book in front of him, turning the pages to go back at the beginning of the chapter. He started to read it but he could feel her eyes detailing him and at this moment, he wished nothing more than to be a mind-reader.

Time was quickly passing by and neither of them seemed to actually notice it. Studying was often interrupted by some random comment on Candy's side and Nathaniel would just jokingly roll his eyes, pretending to be annoyed.

Nathaniel thought that Candy was a terrible study-buddy as she was not as serious as she should've been but he also had to admit that she was the best one he ever had.

For the simple reason that she made him smile, she made him laugh. And the most astonishing part was that she didn't even look like she was trying to. She made his heart feel lighter by simply being around and Nathaniel was delighted by this unfamiliar feeling. 

He also liked how she leaned toward him as he tried to explain to her the notions she didn't really catch on on her own. He felt useful and despite him, he liked how she looked at him as if he was the smartest person in the world. It made him feel good, feel enough, and it was something he almost forgot the feeling of.

Sometimes as she was writing down his instructions, his eyes would study the lines of her face, somehow lingering on her lips. Nathaniel thought that they seemed so soft, almost like ready to be kissed. He felt bashful and slightly ashamed to think about pressing his mouth against hers every time her face and his were separated by these few inches. He could swear that he saw her "sneakily" look at him too, probably thinking that he had his attention on something else as well. Yet, he didn't remember when was the last time his attention wasn't set on Candy.

This improvised revisions session concluded by them starting to talk about the play. He listened about how excited she was with a light heart and an attentive gaze. She looked pretty like that. She always looked pretty but even more when she was talking about things that were close to her heart.

Then, the moment where it was time to leave came. The duo arrived in front of the school gates, ready to separate when Nathaniel changed his mind. "I'll walk you home".

« Oh, it’s okay, you don’t have to » she answered him, lowering her face to hide her blushing cheeks. This sight made Nathaniel smile, amused.

"I insist. It's getting dark and I’d feel better knowing that you got home safe" She looked up to him with rosy cheeks. She'd often blush when they were hanging out together (and in all honesty, sometimes he would too). For example, just moments before, when they were studying and his hand had accidentally met hers in search of the shared book. She looked at him so strangely then, right before lowering her head as she had done it at this instant. He hoped that it wasn't that he was making her feel uncomfortable but this thought was interrupted by her voice. 

« Alright, let’s go then ! ».

The walk home was pleasant, both of them feeling playful as one willingly teased the other. Nathaniel managed to forget about his grade while he was laughing and for her part, Candy savoured this laughter that she guessed to be rare outside the school walls.

Arriving in front of her loft, they stopped. "Thank you for the walk home, it was really nice". She was blushing but he noticed that this time she kept her head high, looking him in the eyes. He gently smiled at her

"The pleasure is all mine. Good evening." . He only expected her to return him the greeting but she seemed hesitant. Nathaniel frowned his eyebrows, a bit confused. Before turning toward the loft's door, she quickly stepped in his direction and placed a quick kiss on his cheek whispering a shy 'good evening' and disappeared inside the building before he could find something to say.

He stayed a few seconds like this, baffled. And without realising it, a smile had made its way on his face.

He chuckled quietly and turned around heading toward his place, light headed and with a singular tingling feeling in the belly. 

By the time he arrived home, he had forgotten what was waiting for him there.

Despite this, he couldn't think about anything else than how good he felt. About how good these simple moments with Candy felt.

Alright so this isn't a headcanon but it's still a little something. Hope you enjoyed it and see y'all soon ! 💕

[mageathenaeum-hl]

Let Me Be the One to Save You

Summary: Garreth reflects on a year having past since he'd met the Hero of Hogwarts, and struggles with his ever developing feelings. He goes out foraging one morning, unaware of just how indispensable his existence is about to become for MC.

Rating: T Status: unfinished/draft Word count: 5677

Tags: unnamed MC, POC MC, seemingly unrequited love, pining, jealousy, blood and injuries

Happy Weasley Wednesday! ❤️

Garreth really tried not to think about her. Not about her long, lush curls of ebony hair which bounced when she walked, light and springy like weightless cotton, reaching all the way down to her hips. Not about her chocolate coloured, smooth skin, nor piercing russet eyes that seemed to burn constantly with an intimate fire whenever she would look at him. 

Not about the way the twilight that was her general appearance, the epitome of a night sky absent of stars, paired so well with the Gryffindor reds and goldens she always wore, making her the very image of fiendfyre and coal, of power and vigour. 

He had no right to allow his eyes to wander to her in class, covertly tracing her figure below her robes, or his ears to tune into the pleasant melody of her voice when she would speak with her friends in the common room, muting all other background murmur, and lulling him in an odd, sleepy trance. 

Just because she had helped him once or twice with gathering his ingredients. 

Just because she had never said a word of dismissal of himself, or his ideas, thus opening up an entirely private floodgate of deeply buried insecurities, and baseless hopes for acceptance. 

Just because she was the only one to encourage his potion making, and endeavoured to brainstorm with him on his recipes on occasion, despite not being of much help, even going as far as to consult with some of her Ravenclaw friends, and Professor Sharp and Madam Scribner both for resources. 

A scarce few episodes of receiving a miniscule amount of unassuming kindness could not be all it took for him. Seriously. 

Why the faculty found her more agreeable than himself, even though he always tried to be friendly and amiable, he could guess, but it vexed him regardless of the reasons. It vexed him that she succeeded where he failed, always. Even his aunt Matilda seemed to like her more than him, her own nephew. (Granted, one of many, but still.) 

She was a beast on a broom, both in class and on the Quidditch field. A master duelist too, the likes of which not even Sebastian Sallow had a chance of beating. The pride of Gryffindor House, that one. 

Speaking of Sebastian Sallow. He was often with her, and so was his closest chaperone, Ominis of the infamously prestigious House of Gaunt. Garreth did not know the two well; just as classmates at best. They had barely exchanged a few sentences between themselves over the years. 

Sallow and Gaunt appeared to Garreth sometimes like her footmen, other times like her bodyguards, though he highly doubted she had needed any, probably ever. At yet other times, the three seemed close-knit friends, bonded in spite of the intensive house rivalry and other obvious societal differences within a relationship built on mutually private secrets and inside jokes. 

Others flocked around her too, almost like wasps around a glass of sherbet, hoping for a taste of the sugary drink that was her good favour. There would have been more of them no doubt, had she been pureblood and pale as well, on top of her heroism, charisma, and the fame she had garnered during her first year at Hogwarts (ironically as a fifth year student). Her connections and strength alone lured purists like Duncan Hobhouse and Malfoy to at least take a passing interest, if nothing else then out of sheer curiosity. 

The sweetest flytrap, that one. 

The sheer volume of male company in particular got a little less the closer she had grown to Sallow, however, and this too vexed Garreth, almost equally as much. It irritated him that he had evidently been grouped with the others, even though he was sure he was not on their level. 

He was not as vile and superficial as many of them had been, nor did he behave as such. No, what he felt for her was more on the level of admiration, or adoration, patterned with envy – sentiments the likes of which would fit in a book similar to that of Rumi’s poetry. 

If he allowed himself to write poetry, or if he had even been any good at it. 

So, Garreth tried not to think about her. Not during the school year, and not during the summer. Not to write about her in his diary, and not to strike through any and all paragraphs of his reminiscence on her when it happened to flow out of his half-aware quill. Not to allow daydreams to encroach on his homework and his brewing, or keep him distracted from his reading, or quality time with his friends and family. 

Year Six, Semester One, a week before Halloween 

Hector told him he had been acting strange recently. Leander informed him, somewhat guardedly, that he had been oddly irritable, and asked him what had been wrong that morning during breakfast. Natsai observed him, ever since they had crossed paths in the common room earlier, with an odd sparkle in her dark eyes that seemed full of curiosity she dared not openly voice, rather opting to lie in wait for the perfect opportunity. 

He needed to get away from everyone for a while, Garreth realised with a sigh. 

She was not present at breakfast. Neither was Sallow, he noticed, despite himself. 

But Garreth did not think about it. Did not dwell on it. Not at all. 

With an empty smile and an equally empty excuse of going foraging presented to his friends and brother, he exited the Grand Hall through the closest door which led outside, and summoned his broom as soon as he was under the clear sky. 

Once mounted and off the ground, his lungs quickly filled with fresh autumn air. Scents of wet grass and leaves mixed with those of morning dew and gusts of Skiron as landscapes zipped past and below him. 

He cruised above the South Hogwarts region for a while, in the end deciding to make good of his excuse. Leaning to his dominant left, he let himself hang upside down for a while, eyes closed as he allowed his broom to sail on the air currents, taking him in any direction the wind and his mount agreed on. 

His brew of the day will depend on whatever he will end up harvesting, he supposed. 

It was cold. Not all too unpleasant. Nonetheless, he could have at least brought some gloves with him, his fingers were turning rigid. 

He exhaled. He was sure his breath was a visible steam of white, judging by the subtle wave of warmth hitting his face amid all the cool wind. 

Garreth opened his eyes slowly, at the same time reigning in his broom to fly at a slower pace. The first thing he saw was a vast expanse of murky, navy water under equally as vast a sky, considerably cloudier than what it had been when he had departed. 

He flinched when he felt something brush against the tips of his locks, quickly gathering that his hair had been hovering inches above the highest canopies of a small assortment of deciduous trees – had it caught and matted into the branches, that would have been one very abrupt and painful stop he would have made there. 

There’s one for my diary, he managed a quick half-joke with himself. 

Hastily, Garreth pulled himself up into the correct riding position, further decelerating, and lowering altitude toward an elevated clearance. He dismounted on top of a stone slab reminiscent of a picnic table of sorts. 

“Best be careful,” he noted to himself as he inhaled purposefully deeper and slower, to adjust his breath post flying. He had no idea where he had ended up. 

The landscape behind him, opposite the coastline he had initially seen, was mostly that of thin woodlands, plowable fields and gentle hillsides; man-made stone structures resembling castles could be observed further in the distance. An intense scent of saltwater lingered in his nostrils almost immediately after he had dismounted. 

Somewhere close to the sea, he concluded dumbly after a second, properly refocused on the present at the expense of Hogwarts life and that other, painful topic of human companionship or whatever, as he made his first step off the stone table, and into the picturesque nature about. 

The immediate environment was abound with bushes of Lacewing Flies and bundles of Leaping Toadstool Caps, a wild Dark Mongrel lurking among the trees here and there. (The first one had surprised him, but he was ready for the others with properly erected Protegos and subsequent Stunners.) 

Eventually, rather than go further inland, Garreth descended down a narrow, swirling path toward the beach. A decision he soon found himself almost regretting, when he stopped to consider how much colder it had been to be exposed to the open, merciless coastline wind at the tail of October. 

But fortunately, fate favours the brave. Either them, or ones of equal lack of common sense and presence of luck. And Garreth certainly got lucky, as among the many leeches to be juiced and shells to be collected and ground into fine powders later, he had stumbled on a washed up carcass of an incredibly evasive sea creature – the hippocampus. 

One in relatively good condition too. 

As sorry as he was for the beast in the moment, even taking some time to pay it its due respects and thank the gods for the unexpectedly bountiful autumnal harvest, Garreth soon enough busied himself casting Diffindo to collect on some of the hippocampus skin, flesh, and other useable parts, hurriedly storing them in conjured vials, which he deposited in his robes, the pockets of which he had had a friend magically extend before. (All illegal things Auntie Matilda had warned him were strictly forbidden outside of Hogwarts, but what she did not know could hardly hurt her, he was sure.) 

In his elated busywork, Garreth had completely forgotten both the cold, and all his troubles. He had likewise forgotten to mind his surroundings, right up until the moment someone shouted his name, breaking his focus. 

He lifted his gaze off the hippocampus carcass just in time to notice an enormous dugbog sprinting right at him, its muscley tongue dangling out of its boulder-sized maw, red eyes aglow with part killing instinct, and part sadistic joy upon the prospect of a shortly incoming feast consisting of both himself and the mountain of meat behind him. 

He was given no time to react. He had given himself no such time. 

In the next moment, the dugbog was promptly hit with a purplish white burst of magic from somewhere to Garreth’s left, the force of which sent the foul creature flying into the sea off the coast. Following the remaining gleam of the fired spell with his eyes, Garreth was immediately holding his breath anew, as he perceived the figure of the person who had saved him, and who had also shouted his name before that. 

Fiendfyre and coal. 

“You are mad, Garreth Weasley!” she bellowed as she approached in a sprint. “What on earth do you think you are doing?!” 

He had no words to respond with. His thoughts were a mess in an instant. Emotions, so bloody many of them, were stuck in his throat, threatening to spill over. He was frozen, he was boiling, he wanted to ascend, he wanted to fall into a hole, all at once. 

Did his fate favour him, or did it absolutely loathe him, he was all but sure anymore. He wished for her to have left him to die, and did not, all the same. 

“Why are you all the way out here, in Feldcroft?!” his night without stars demanded to know, exasperated with something Garreth wanted to, but dared not define as worry in her features. 

Here had been Feldcroft, after all, as she had just informed him. The home of the one and only Sebastian Sallow, he happened to know. 

And the two of them both, at the same time, had not been at breakfast that morning. The realisation seemed to sear itself into his nerves, burning white. 

“What’s it to you?” Frayed, weak words came out of Garreth’s mouth, bitter and foreign on his tongue. 

She blinked at him, unsure how to proceed in the moment. “We’re friends?!” was the reply, spoken in shaken confidence, the end of the sentence curving into a question. 

“Yes, well,” Garreth scoffed, licking his lips nervously and looking away from her, (anywhere but at her really,) “not so close friends I’m sure.” 

“Garreth!” she chided offendedly. “Listen to yourself!” 

“If you’re going to lecture me like everyone else, you are very welcome to just leave me alone.” His tone was more frigid than the late October wind blowing between them. And yet, his heart thundered, ablaze, breaking apart with every thrum. “I am grateful to you for your intervention just now, but you truly need not concern yourself with me anymore. Especially go out of your way to do so.” 

“Garreth…!” she sputtered, significantly quieter this time. From the corner of his eye, his gaze being in the moment coined to the sand in which both of their boots had been half-buried, Garreth could perceive her repeatedly clench and release her fist at her hip. 

He liked her – he admitted to himself then, for the first time in over a year he had known her. He liked her very much. But she was Sallow’s. To her, he, Garreth, had been nothing more than a friend. At best. 

“Have I done something?” he heard her whisper. The quiver in her tone lured his eyes upwards. He stopped their advance somewhere at her collarbones, hidden underneath a thick tartan scarf. A desire to gut himself open as painfully as possible overcame him when a portion of his mind, somewhere deeper, took notice of the lovely ways in which her current, tightly fitting travel attire pronounced the lush hourglass shape of her figure. 

He had no right. None at all. 

“If I’ve done something to earn your scorn, I’ll do anything…” Her breathing turned somewhat erratic; she was making long breaks, and inhaling shallowly. She fidgeted with her hands, wand dancing between her palms, and shifted her weight several times over the span of a couple short moments. 

She was panicking. But Garreth found himself only further irritated by it – if she had already secured the handsome and charismatic Sallow and the intelligent and influential Gaunt, what worth could his own friendship possibly hold for her? 

Because he was a Weasley? One of her many prosperous connections? What was the advantage to him over any of the other Wesleys, like his aunt, or his successful older brothers? Was he but a contingency in case her pureblood Slytherin friends ever decided to discard her? 

He knew he was horrible to even think of it. He was being terrible to her, unfair to her friends, whom he did not even know, outside of being casual acquaintances. But his mind was screaming at him to find something to hate about her, anything, no matter how small, to help him not crumble into dust right then and there and never recover himself. 

A shadow of a movement behind her sent all alarms in Garreth instantaneously going off. He was so stupid – utterly idiotic, to throw a tantrum and pout in a place crawling with danger, without first making sure they– she, was safe! 

Before he even knew what he was doing, he grabbed her wrist and pulled hard, throwing her, and himself protectively over her, opposite the water’s edge. 

The dugbog’s thick tongue darted right above their heads as they landed in the sand. A second of hesitation longer and their heads would have been lopped clean off, without a doubt rolling away on the shore by now. The ground rumbled as the beast started running, its cover blown and discarded. 

With a laborious cry of frustration and pent up anger, Garreth’s companion threw him off, straightening herself in an instant, and proceeding to blast the creature with a burst of pure white magic, the likes of which Garreth had never seen before. 

“I’m trying…” she grunted, hitting the creature with another pearl-coloured nonverbal spell, which this time took form of lightning, “...to have…” she levitated a stone from nearby without so much as a word of incantation, and seemingly almost no effort, “...a bloody conversation!!” 

The stone launched the dugbog backward a good two metres or so, flipping it over to its back, and splintering into pebbles in the process. 

Power and vigour. 

Garreth swallowed thickly, unsure if whatever it was that was twittering in his nerves was terror, or adoration his heart had secretly been whispering about in his subconscious for a year. He raised his own wand with an unsteady hand, but determined to aid the girl all of his affection was focused on in her fight, as he immediately took note of her now laboured breathing. 

Without question or hesitation, he steadied her with one arm, leaning her against his side just as she lost balance. A new pair of glowing red eyes emerged from the water right behind the first squirming giant. 

Garreth aimed a Depulso at the flipped dugbog, launching it back into the sea and into the other one. 

“More are coming, and you’re exhausted,” he said, internally hating himself for not having the presence of mind to register it before. “We’re retreating. Accio broom!” 

Grabbing the speeding mount mid-air with his wand hand, he quickly climbed on, scooping his companion up and positioning her securely in front of himself, then promptly taking off, leaving a dusty vortex of sand and gust in his wake – and just as good, as it was sure to disrupt the aim of the blasted creatures below. 

For the most part, his companion was steady before him, but something still seemed off about her; maybe the way her muscles were unnaturally tensing under his arms, or the way she refused to look at him, choosing to instead lock her gaze on the expanse of land directly below them as they darted over the woodlands. 

The headwind carried over the scent of her hair as its many cheerful, soft little locks beat at Garreth’s cheeks – fast-fading rose oil, and plenty of fresh pine, with hints of other flowery fragrances. 

Almost not sweet at all, and certainly nothing close to sherbet. 

Garreth swallowed thickly, gaining altitude and slowing down. He quietly set course for Hogwarts, preparing mentally for a tedious flight, as almost the entirety of it would be upwind, not to mention the extra weight of another person. 

“Land in Feldcroft, please,” his companion requested then, quiet but firm. 

Any protests that infested his mind, Garreth chose to keep to himself. His mouth was pressed in a firm, silenced line as his eyes busied with searching for the outskirts of a village he knew Feldcroft to be. 

It was not too difficult to find. He grounded the broom in the vicinity of the village well, more carefully than he normally would have had he been alone, thereby ignoring the fact that his companion had probably been a better flyer than himself in favour of basic, gentlemanly courtesy. 

And it was a good thing that he did, as apparently, she was presently not feeling like herself. The moment her feet touched the soft soil below, she stumbled to the side. Unprepared, Garreth barely managed to catch her. 

“You’re unwell,” he pointed out. His voice chose not to mask any of the worry that had clutched his heart at the sight, quite against his will. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she breathed, waving her hand dismissively. “I just need some rest.” 

“Let’s get you a bed. Where are you staying? With Sallow?” Garreth’s eyebrows knitted inadvertently as he posed the question. He banished the mental image. 

“Nowhere,” she answered, breathing deeper now, and clutching at Garreth’s hand that had somehow found its way to hers, to offer support. “I’m looking for him, actually.” 

“He’s not home?” Garreth queried, somewhat surprised, but otherwise not all too interested. 

“Nor Hogwarts,” she responded. “Ominis says he hasn’t been to the dorm at all since last night, or any other of the usual places. Sent me a rather panicked Patronus in the middle of the night, asking if Sebastian had been with me.” 

Garreth banished another mental image. 

She grunted then, like one does when they are in pain, and he held her tighter, lowering her to sit on the ground, her back to the stone well. He squatted close to her, still holding her hand. 

“Have you been out all night searching for him?” he asked, disturbed to no small extent. Even if they had been lovers, that would have surely been uncalled for. Sallow also was a skilled enough duelist not to need her protection or anything. He was no child. 

(Unlike himself, clearly, his brain supplied unhelpfully.) 

She chuckled through a frown. “He has a penchant for trouble if left alone, that petulant child,” she joked. 

At least, Garreth sincerely hoped it had been a joke. 

His next question was posed carefully, laced with all the frost of the sudden realisation that washed over him when he finally noticed, being now as close as he was to her, that some of her attire had been a deeper shade of red than the rest. Particularly around the left of her abdomen, and on her sleeves. 

“Are you injured?” 

She hesitated. “A little.” She attempted an expression which only vaguely resembled a reassuring smile. “Ran out of Wiggenweld in the troll den. Got hit by something nasty by a Dark wizard on my way to the shore. But I handled him.” She sighed deeply. “Episkey won’t mend it.” 

“You’ve been running around with an open wound?!” Garreth almost shouted, growing instantly perplexed, and starting to panic. “For how long?” 

She pouted, not responding immediately. It was all the answer he had needed. Too long. 

At that moment, a voice of a middle-aged woman sounded from the side of them: “Excuse me young man, but is everything alright? I saw you two land…” 

“No, it’s not, thank you,” Garreth turned to the woman instantly, purposefully ignoring the look of ‘Do not involve others, I’ll handle it’ his companion was giving him. “Madam, do you have any Wiggenweld and Blood Replenishing Potions? Or somewhere I could brew them right now?” 

“Oh dear,” the woman straightened with evident urgency, the likes of which seemed to infect her immediately through whatever the expression in Garreth’s eyes was. “Come,” she said. “You can use a spare bed in my home. I’ll lend you a cauldron.” She produced a wand from her sleeve, and levitated the girl carefully, with a practised hand. (The latter squeaked shortly in protest at being so rudely lifted without consent.) 

“We mustn’t lose any time with injuries,” the older witch urged as Garreth got up to follow her. “Was it goblins? Or a beast?” 

“She tells me it was a Dark wizard,” Garreth answered honestly, pacing behind the woman as they all too soon reached a small run-down hut which appeared to be her home. Feldcroft sure was small. “Are you a mediwitch, Madam?” 

She tilted her head to the side to grace him with an unexpectedly pleasant smile over her shoulder as she opened the door. “Unfortunately no, but I’ve handled my fair share of wounds and lacerations. This village lost too many people last year, mostly to skirmishes with Ranrok's loyalists.” 

The girl was swiftly lowered to a bed immediately accessible upon entering. The bed itself was tucked under a staircase and facing the hearth. Their host conjured additional blankets and a dressing screen next to the bed, then stoked the sleepy embers with a quick Incendio, cast without even looking directly at the fireplace. 

“We do have some Wiggenweld on hand, but you'll have to brew the Blood Replenishing Potion, young man,” the woman told Garreth in a calm and collected tone. 

“Yes, of course,” he returned, somewhat breathless. 

“Any ingredients you need, just tell me, and myself and the neighbours will make sure to acquire some for you,” the older witch assured. 

She then turned to Garreth's companion, who was in the midst of propping herself up, and off the bed. “Now miss, please cooperate and lie back down this instant. The sooner you are comfortable, the sooner you will also be properly healed.” 

Her features were soft, but her voice was strict. Garreth was quite familiar with the sight; he had often seen both his aunt and mother take up this particular bearing to their posture, especially when they would scold him and his brothers in situations similar to this one, for being careless with their safety or health. 

The other student grumbled, but obeyed, sitting back down. 

Feeling relieved and comfortable in his decision to trust the older witch, Garreth turned to the fire to start on his own task. He grabbed a silver cauldron off the stack in the corner, and filled it with clean water via the Aguamenti spell. “Madam, may I ask where you keep your ingredients?” he began, turning around to find that both women had disappeared on the other side of the dressing screen. 

In the next moment, he heard the sound of ripping fabric, his favourite voice grunting, and the unfamiliar one sucking in air through teeth and tutting. 

Concentrate, Garreth, he scolded himself. “Madam?” 

“Sorry dear,” he heard a muffled reply from the woman. “They’re in the cabinet just behind the kitchen door.” 

The kitchen was barely a few steps away, and the door was barely a door – more so just the frame. Garreth laboured to stay focused as he tried not to listen to the older witch try several healing charms on whatever wounds the girl he fancied had sustained. The more names of spells he heard, the more worried he grew, and all the more rushed his own work became. 

Luckily, the older woman did not need to contact any of her neighbours for ingredients for the Blood Replenishing Potion. Garreth found them all in the cabinet, and carried them over all at once to have at hand by the hearth. He added one by one carefully into the boiling pot, stirring clockwise and counterclockwise as needed, and mending the fire to exactly the right temperatures for each step. 

After a while, he stripped his coat and robe. 

“Breathe deeply,” the woman was whispering, as his favourite’s breaths grew shallow. 

Garreth removed his tie, and undid a couple buttons. He stirred the cauldron. 

“Do not sleep. You must stay awake.” A sound of gentle slaps, skin on skin. “Stay awake.” 

Grunts turned into soft wails. “It’s hot…” she complained. 

“I know darling. I know,” the motherly voice was cooing. “Just a little more, and you can sleep. I promise.” 

You are mad, Garreth Weasley. He repeated the words absently, rhythmically, as he minded the potion. 

It was done, finally. All it needed now was cool. Garreth pulled the hearth hook away from the fire with his wand, and let the contents steam. He wished he could cool the potion artificially, but any such attempt would ruin it immediately. 

He stood for a prolonged second, mustering up the courage. 

“How is she,” he asked aloud, unmoving. 

For a brief while there was only silence, broken by soft wails and short and uneven breaths. Then he heard the older witch exhale heavily through her nose. 

“It seems to be some sort of curse,” she said quietly. “It prevents the wounds from closing. Spellwork is ineffective, and Wiggenweld only mends the skin for a minute or so, after which the lacerations reopen. It doesn't heal.” Another sigh. “I wish we could transfer her to St. Mungo’s, but she’s too weak for either Apparition or Floo already…” 

And then, a quiet: “Garreth…” In her voice. 

“Garreth…” louder, and a painful sob. 

Before he next blinked, his hands folded the dressing screen, and he was by her bedside. 

Gods, the state of her. The overwhelming coppery smell of fresh blood, probably until that point concealed by some obscure barrier the older witch had set up within the confines of the dressing screen and the cramped space below the staircase. All the red – on the sheets, on the conjured bandages, on the floor. Empty Wiggenweld Potion vials everywhere, by the dozen. Her dark hair, usually always light and springy, now soaked and stuck to her skin and the pillow. And her skin… Frozen deep grey, almost. It was riddled with incisions new and old. Faded scars that looked like lightning, stretching from her neck to below her stomach and under the sheets that hid her lower body, down and across her entire torso. 

What on earth had she even been through, all her life? Just how much about her did he have no idea about? 

Her biggest wound was exactly where he had expected, in her left abdomen, tightly wrapped in fresh white cloth, which was already soaking in new scarlets. 

Garreth stifled a sob, a scream, and the urge to vomit, all at once. Instead, he just took in a few forced, ragged breaths from behind his hand pressed over his mouth, and quietly knelt next to her pillow. 

“I’m here,” he was whispering. “I’m here. You’ll be okay. You will.” He swallowed thickly. “I’ll make sure.” 

His trembling hands wrapped around one of hers. She meekly squeezed back. 

“Garreth…” she panted, barely audible. Tears were streaming down the corners of her eyes, in straight lines that passed through her hairline toward her ears. “Sor…ry… I’m–” 

“Shhh…” Garreth soothed her. “Tell me later. You can tell me everything later.” He raised one hand, and carefully brushed some of her locks off her forehead. “I have some things to tell you too, later. So, you have to get through this, alright?” 

She whimpered, as if to protest, but did not attempt to speak anymore. 

The older witch approached Garreth from behind, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. “Let’s feed her some of your potion, dear,” she said, as composedly as ever, and then approached the bedridden girl to force the contents of the vial she had carried in her hand down the latter’s throat. 

Garreth watched her from his place on the floor by the bed, temporarily rendered unable to do anything. The older witch did not ask him to either, as she went back to the cauldron to refill the vial she had no doubt conjured, and fed the girl another dose. 

“I’m not sure if a double dose is the safest,” she said after a moment, “but you would agree we have little choice right now.” She sighed. “Who knows how much blood she’d lost before you arrived here.” 

For hours, there were no major changes, for better or worse. The girl drifted into a state of unawareness, then finally, to sleep. 

Garreth and the older witch administered the Blood Replenishing Potion every hour – she showed him how to do it to an unconscious person. They monitored her breathing constantly, and changed her bandages whenever they would become unable to contain the blood, vanishing the old ones, and conjuring new ones out of thin air. Bottles and vials too. 

Garreth brewed constantly. Two medium silver cauldrons of Blood Replenishment, and dozens of smaller ones of Wiggenweld. They quickly ran out of ingredients, so the witch eventually went out to speak to neighbours for help. 

Garreth would not be replaced at the hearth. Not even after several other village women arrived to further divide the labour. He needed to make sure the potions were perfect, every brew. Others tended to the patient’s wounds, gave her medicine and water, cleaned, and made food and tea for everyone else. No one witch lingered for long, but they kept coming back, in almost perfectly organised shifts. 

The women gossiped a lot. It seemed to keep them sane through both their overwhelming work and monotonous routine, as well as through the horrors the hamlet had suffered in recent years. One of them recognised Garreth’s companion as The Hero of Hogwarts. From these women, he then learned of the goblin attacks, which had almost stopped completely within the past year since Ranrok’s defeat, although they still happened on occasion as isolated incidents. He was likewise told of the feats his classmates had performed for the local community, and much of Sebastian and Anne Sallow’s childhood. 

By the evening, the little hut had cleared of visitors again. The initial host had also gone out, and Garreth was left alone with the patient, brewing another Blood Replenishing Potion. 

Lost in his thoughts as he processed all of the new information he had heard, he reached for the hearth hook with his bare hand; jumping back the next moment, he toppled over the chair which the village witches had prepared for him to sit in as he managed the potions. 

Grunting, he straightened himself on the floor; and instantly, his ears caught the sound of a soft crack beneath the weight of his right forearm. He sat up onto his shins and turned around, noticing a couple vials of his earlier harvest shattered on the floorboards – they must've spilled from the pockets of his robe, which had been thrown over the now overturned chair. Seashell fragments mixed with what seemed to be a sample of hippocampus inner flesh, probably trapezius muscle. Of course, all now covered in blood of his own. Ruined. 

Garreth sighed, his nerves too tired for him to get upset. He lifted his arm to inspect the damage to his own flesh. Fully prepared to mend the skin with Episkey and not waste any vitally needed potions on himself, he produced a handkerchief from the back pocket of his trousers, using it to remove the debris from his forearm and get a better view of the injury.

Unfinished draft

[salmalin]

I Wanna Talk About "Comments"

IMG ID: Yknow go figure you’d abandon this for a popular fandom… goes to show you just write for attention and instant gratification. May as well just delete this. It’s clogging up space. To do all this and walk away for mainstream games is so typical for people like you who claim to be in it for the art. You’re in it for the ratio, you’re in it for your massive ego, so just delete it.

I've been getting a few comments like this lately, and this one is honestly the least biting, but I've been seeing enough of them that I've decided to post this.

I've already deleted this "Named" Anon Comment off the fic, and I'm not going to reply to them, but I wanted to take a moment to talk about this mentality, and why comments like this make no sense.

Basically: They're angry that I'm taking a break from this fic from a small fandom—a fic they've never interacted with—while I'm also writing another story for another fandom that happens to be bigger. This bigger fandom fic has (despite being in first-person with a non-linear storytelling style, famously hated formats) gained a bit of attention. Which is fine. That happens.

So let's talk about why this comment sucks, and why it fails at every level to be any form of criticism, constructive or otherwise.

"abandon this for a popular fandom" Everyone can see that this fic is marked as incomplete. Whoever this is, they chose to click on an incomplete fic that hasn't been updated in eight months—only eight months. A drop in the bucket, really, and the time I went between chapter 5 and chapter 6 was over a year. This is on them. They do not get to put this on the writer. At any point they could have stopped. At any point, they could have closed the fic. They knew this from the get-go. They did not. This was their decision, and they're trying to blame me for their despair. They made it through 245k before they reached this point, and I know because they commented on the last chapter specifically.

"you just write for attention and instant gratification" "Instant"? I don't think this person knows how writing works. Like, on a fundamental level. This story started getting posted in 2020, with my most recent update this year (2023), and they think writing and posting something is looking for "instant gratification". Bold to assume this is "instant". (Bold to assume we have any control over it at all.)

"May as well delete this. It's clogging up space." AO3 is only limited by its server size, and my fic is a drop in the bucket. It is not taking up much in the way of space. Besides, just because something is unfinished does not mean it doesn't belong on AO3. That's why you're allowed to upload chapter by chapter. That is a critical function of the website. It's also an archive, which means it's designed to hold information, finished or unfinished. Again, shame on the reader.

"You're in it for the ratio; you're in it for your massive ego." These are not only assumptions, but if this person is really so opposed to the idea of people doing things for attention, they should ignore children when they need food, only read published novels that are obviously written in a desperate grab for money, and never go on AO3 ever again. If writers didn't want attention, they wouldn't post online for free because they'd just keep it to themselves. And if commenters didn't want attention, they wouldn't comment. (But then would we even have a fandom, if no one's talking to anyone else?) Is this the attention they wanted? Probably. I've found that people like this seem to thrive on the misery they inflict on others.

If y'all care to know why this person was so abysmally wrong in this specific context: (if not, just skip to the end of the list.)

This fic that they're complaining I left for a bigger fandom? I actually left that bigger fandom for this fic. That "bigger fandom" was the first video game I was ever obsessed with. It was 1997, and I wasn't even allowed to touch the console. My brother destroyed the final disc in a fit of rage. I've never even beaten the final boss. It has been 26 years, and for a solid 15 of them I was desperately trying to figure out what I wanted to write for the pairing that changed my life. This fic that they're complaining about me "abandoning" Fires of War for has been rolling around in my brain for longer than the media for Fires of War has even existed. In fact, when you search my username here on tumblr, an ask I sent another user laying this out is essentially the first thing you see. (At least, right now.) In fact, my current user pic is from Fires of War. I did not change it because there's no need to.

Fires of War is actually still in progress, and they would have known this if they read the other comments on the same chapter they complained on. I originally took a break from FoW due to stress, and because no matter what I tried, the next chapter just wasn't working. After a break, I realized why—the outline was broken and needed to be adjusted. Meanwhile, the other fic I'm working on to relieve that stress is much, much easier to write. In my eyes, it's much lower quality, as well. It requires fewer stages of editing. The words flow easily because they're much closer to my speaking voice. I'm not constantly researching cultures I know little about for fact checking and world building and (I shit you not) intercontinental politics. (I once researched the GDP, climate, and economy of Spain in 1986 for several hours and proceeded to have a three hour debate with my editor about a plot point. Yes. Three hours.) Oh, and I don't have to write anything in Iambic Fucking Pentameter. (Yes, that's a thing in Fires of War. They are complaining that I "abandoned" a story that has bits of dialog in god-forsaken Iambic Pentameter. Even at my peak, I wrote 8k in two weeks. But with my current "popular" fic, I can whip out 14k in one. That's how much easier it is.)

I want to turn those "ratio" stats off. I've mentioned this to people a few times, actually—I wish there was a way to turn all stats off on the Archive. They actually give me anxiety. I don't want to know how many comments are on my fic, or kudos are on a little obscure piece. I think that information should only be accessible to the writer, like Tumblr follow counts.

Literally talk to me for three seconds and you will be sick of how into the art of it I am. Holy shit, I cannot shut up. I will include required reading. I will rant about the details I put in for plotlines ten chapters out. I will give you a crash course in tone, word choice, and counting verbs. And yes, I count verbs! Holy fuck I am autistic as hell and this is my special interest. I love writing so much. It's my favorite thing in the world. Please stop my I CAN'T STOP I LOVE WRITING SO MUCH GOD IT'S THE ONLY THING THAT KEEPS ME FUCKING SANE. So you can imagine how misguided I think someone is when they say I'm not into the art of it. It just exposes them as someone who doesn't know what art is.

I'm a hermit who doesn't really go online much aside from using Discord as a free texting app because for some reason every texting app I've gotten has been broken. I legit do not like attention. I talk to like four people a day outside of work. I don't even like it when people complement me too much. Even if I went above and beyond, just one sentence is more than enough and move on, please. It's good to know my actions have had positive consequences, because that's crucial for my brain processing said consequences so I can continue said action in the future because I know I didn't do something wrong, but repeated praise makes me uncomfortable. It took me a long time to understand this about myself. This seems antithetical at first, but I do like the comments that break down the themes, execution, etc. in my fics. If they're breaking things down, moving to point to point about parts they enjoyed, there are giving me critical feedback. They tell me what thy enjoyed, and what was picked up. It's extremely useful feedback to know what they enjoyed, and what stood out to them. It helps me write better stories on the future, and hones how I get my point across. Besides, what is art that doesn't spark innovation and thought? It is forgotten.

The strongest hate is born of love—misguided though it may be—and this person has made that clear. Obviously they care about this fandom or they never would have commented like this. But if they knew more about people and less about what they want everyone to give them, maybe the spaces around them would be safer for the people in their lives—or the people they brush against online.

Comments like this often make people not want to write their fic.

Thankfully, I'm actually am in it for the art, so they might be going out of their way to make the lives of everyone around them miserable, but they haven't achieved their goal here.

However, there are a lot of writers who critically need feedback; who need this positive reinforcement. It's also why it's so important to tell writers why you enjoy their work. Even if it's something small like "I like your word choice" or "I really liked this line" or "I can't wait to find out how they resolve this"—that's feedback more valuable than we can really quantify.

"I like your word choice."—The way you pay attention to the words you use is working with the tone.

"I really like this line."—The way this line is formatted is very memorable and hits better than the others. It may be good to pay attention to it to find out why.

"I can't wait to find out how they resolve this."—You have gotten a good grade in suspense, a thing that is possible and reasonable to achieve (or however that meme goes).

I am constantly learning. I am constantly growing and changing as a person and a writer, and other people are critical to this. Sitting in a room and shouting will not make you better at making jokes, and shoving your writing in a corner never to see the light of day will never give you the tools to communicate with other people.

Sometimes I feel like people like this *points to the top of the page* don't want to learn that lesson, because of the painful reckoning with their actions it will entail.

If this is you, or you have done something similar, I recommend going through, finding your old comments, and deleting them yourself, or even apologizing if you can. Clean up your own mess, so people like me don't have to do it for you. This is a public space. Act like it.

[thee-morrigan]

in any universe

The Wayhaven Chronicles Ava du Mortain/Dinah Batra/Nate Sewell 6.5k words rated G (for 'good god I didn't expect this to get so long???') content warnings: snowstorms, mysterious cabins, a rogue time-traveler, and gratuitous descriptions of Ava's eyes read it on AO3

I had the absolute pleasure of writing for @evilbunnyking as part of the @wayhavensecretsanta this month. (Did I spend the past several weeks fully giggling, twirling my hair, kicking my feet, glitter-gel-pen writing in my diary about Dinah, Nate, and Ava? Maybe! 💖) Thank you for letting me have a playdate with Dinah! I had a blast with this, and hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it 💖🥰

— It’s barely past noon, but already the watery winter sun is fading, rays of diluted daylight trickling slowly past the stark, spiky tree limbs that jutted at irregular angles into the blue-grey sky. What little of it filters onto the ground — hard and hoary with frost and the dusting of snow from the spindrift of flurries early this morning — is weaker still, the scant brush of the sun’s warmth against Dinah’s face barely registering, its light trailing off like unfinished sentences, thin tendrils curling into nothing but air, like the smoke of a snuffed candle.

“We should have taken the SUV,” Ava says, and Dinah looks up at the woman walking alongside her, the spectral tendrils of sunlight gilding the edges of her face — the slope of her nose, the wisps of pale hair that the wind has tugged free of her usual low bun — turning the other woman’s profile as silvery as the frosted path beneath their booted feet. For her part, Ava does not look at Dinah as they walk, hawk-sharp eyes sweeping along the path ahead, across the surrounding wood, as if the trees standing sentry are liable to go from resembling a watchful assemblage to becoming one entire, long bare limbs poised to come alive as soon as she looks away.

“It’s not far,” Dinah replies, turning her gaze back to the path ahead as well, the winding, snow-flecked bridleway looping its way through the forest just as the fissures in the bark of the surrounding trees spiraled up and around their vast trunks.

Sweet chestnut trees, she thinks, though she can’t remember when or why she came by this knowledge, at what point she learned to associate the thick, purple-grey trees with that identity.

“It is an unexpectedly lovely day for a walk,” Nate adds from her other side, throwing Dinah a gentle smile. “I’d thought we were due a heavier snowfall than this morning’s flurries turned out to be.”

“We are,” Ava says, turning her head to look at both Dinah and Nate as they traipse further through the woods. “The radar this morning indicated we can expect winter storm conditions this afternoon, and perhaps into tomorrow as well.”

“We’ll be safely back at the warehouse before the worst of it hits, Ava,” Dinah soothes, though she can’t keep the corners of her mouth from curving upwards in mild amusement at the idea of Ava monitoring the weather radar map. “And Nate’s right: at least for now, it’s a nice day.”

Ava sighs and turns her gaze back to the path ahead, though not, Dinah notices, before her expression softens a bit, her mouth relaxing, green eyes glimmering with something approaching a look of fondness towards them both.

##

Dinah is right about the cabin not being much further, situated only a few miles away from the warehouse, and so it isn’t much longer before they reach the place. Despite its relative closeness, however, and perhaps because of its being nestled just that much deeper into the forest surrounding Wayhaven, there is a certain air of isolation about the little house, as though they’ve somehow managed to travel much further than could ever be possible in the time they’d been walking.

She thinks this air about the old cabin, this shimmer of eerie uncertainty surrounding the property, is partly why Tina had begged the favor of her, to check in on the house after a few reports from the owner about things seeming just the slightest bit out of sorts recently — windows that should have been locked being cracked open, bedside lamps left switched on when they oughtn’t have been, and that sort of thing. Tina had been inclined to chalk it up to the particular quiet of the surrounding wood and simple human forgetfulness on the owner’s part, given that he mostly kept the cabin as a source of supplemental income these days, letting it as a vacation rental property. The only reason he’d known to report anything amiss in the first place had been thanks to the cleaning crew he paid to check in on the property once a month, give or take when the cabin was occupied by guests, whose presence could explain any or all of the unexpected occurrences the owner had reported to the station.

Still, Tina had said when she relayed all of this information to Dinah a few days ago, I know it’s probably nothing, but, if I’m being honest, that place has always kind of given me the creeps.

And so Dinah had agreed to the favor. One last thankless detective’s task for old time’s sake, she supposes.

“Just a quick look around and we can go,” she promises Nate and Ava as they approach the cabin now, raising her voice slightly over the wind, which has begun to pick up in the past few minutes, accompanied by a fresh flurry of fat, wet snowflakes.

Despite Tina’s apparent discomfort with it, the cabin appears, if anything, like something you’d find in a winter painting or emblazoned on a postcard, nestled in a clearing surrounded by towering ancient cedar trees and the elegant sweeping cradle of silver birches, long-limbed and half-frozen. The snow-dusted roof glitters in the white-gold wash of afternoon sun, contrasting against the darkened timber walls of the cabin. It emanates a certain charm, as if it holds secrets within its sturdy frame.

Nate, his gloved hands tucked into his coat pockets, gazes at the cabin with a sense of wonderment. "It's like something out of a fairy tale," he murmurs.

“I wonder why Tina said it gave her the creeps,” Dinah muses as they step onto the wide, weathered planks of the porch, pulling her phone out of her coat pocket and scrolling through her last texts with her erstwhile colleague until she sees the code to the lockbox fastened next to the front door.

She punches the code into the keypad with gloved fingers, a bright, staccato chirrup sounding as the electronic latch clicked open, allowing Dinah to retrieve a small leather keychain bearing two keys, one silver and one a dull bronze. It’s the silver one that must be the cabin key, she thinks. The bronze one is smaller, with fewer teeth than its companion. It almost resembled a mailbox key, but she’s not sure it’s quite large enough for a standard post-office box.

She puts it out of her mind, though, as her assumption about the silver key being the one needed to enter the cabin proves correct. As she inserts the key into the lock, a gust of wind howls through the treetops, causing the branches to sway and creak. The sound is mournful, as though the forest itself is warning them of something unseen.

Pushing open the heavy wooden door, Dinah steps inside, her eyes adjusting to the dim light filtering through the frost-laced windows. The cabin is unexpectedly warm, despite its emptiness and the cold of the world just beyond its wooden walls. The wind and promised winter storm conditions have begun to pick up in earnest now and, while the interior warmth is a welcome surprise, she hopes they can report everything in order quickly and begin the trek back towards town and the warehouse before it gets any colder.

Dinah steps further into the cabin, letting the warmth envelop her. She glances around, taking in the worn wooden furnishings and old-fashioned charm of the place. The thick wooden planks that make up the walls are dark and weathered with age, each knot and grain clear as day, like a tapestry of nature itself. The scent of pine and wood smoke fills her nose, mixing with the musty odor of dampness and age, lingering beneath the sharper tang of citrus — oranges, she thinks, rather than lemons — particular to furniture polish and oil soap. Lingering from the cleaners, she presumes.

Before or after they’d phoned the owner? She wonders. Before or after they noticed whatever it was they’d noticed to create the impression that all was not as it ought to have been?

Nate follows behind her, pausing only to scrape the frost and forest debris off his boots and onto the coarse fibers of the doormat. "Seems normal so far," he remarks, though his voice holds the barest tinge of unease.

She thinks she understands it, this shade of uncertainty coloring his voice; perhaps it is only the way in which her brain has primed itself for something, anything, to be unusual. Perhaps it is how preternaturally lovely the cabin had been as they approached it outside, the glittering winter panorama that had made Nate think of fairytales.

Perhaps it is the slight, burnt-sugar taste on her tongue, the roof of her mouth, whose flavor she associates with campfire-scorched marshmallows and, more recently (more pertinently), with magic.

Ava is close behind, the door creaking slightly as she pulls it shut, leaving them in near darkness until she finds a light switch. Dinah’s eyes have swept from Nate’s face to Ava’s, as if seeking a second confirmation of something, but Ava’s gaze is narrowed on the large stone fireplace in the center of the living room.

“How long did you say it has been since this cabin has been occupied?” She asks.

"Quite a few months, if I remember correctly," Dinah replies, her gaze following Ava's to the fireplace. The hearth is immaculately clean, not a trace of ash or soot to be seen. Stranger still, the scent of freshly burned wood hangs in the air; evident beneath the pine and citrus scent. “Well, aside from the cleaners, I suppose. They would have been here last week, I think? Or the start of this week.”

“It seems unlikely that they would have built a fire,” Nate muses, his expression thoughtful as he watches Ava, her gaze still fixed on the rough fieldstone fireplace. “Though the room certainly smells of one.”

"Indeed," Ava replies, her voice low and thoughtful. She steps further into the room, striding past Dinah and Nate to kneel before the fireplace, stretching one hand out toward the cold hearth. Her fingers hover for a long moment over the scrubbed, smooth grate before she pulls her hand back, straightening and turning back to face the others.

“It does not seem to be any warmer than it ought,” she concedes, the beginnings of a frown creasing her brows. “But it smells as though someone lit a fire. Recently.”

“Maybe they burned a candle?” Dinah suggests with a shrug, though her hazel eyes are pensive flick between Nate and Ava, watching whatever unspoken conversation they’re having.

“Perhaps.” Ava does not sound convinced.

“You’re probably right,” Nate says gamely, giving Dinah a smile that almost successfully wipes the earlier glimmer of uncertainty from his face. “What else did you need to check before we head back?”

##

Their sweep of the other rooms, thankfully, doesn’t seem to spark any additional sense of lingering disorder, although it does take a bit longer than Dinah had anticipated because of the cabin's surprising size. Closets, bedrooms, and a surprisingly well-stocked kitchen are methodically examined by the trio. Finally satisfied that she's done her due diligence and can report back to Tina that everything seems more or less normal, Dinah checks her watch, squinting at the dimly lit dial.

"I think that's it," she says as they finish their search of the cabin. A soft sigh of relief escapes from between her lips as if expressing a quiet gratitude to the labyrinthine cabin for not exposing them to any other irregularities.

Nate, who had stopped to scrutinize an antique grandfather clock situated against a wall just past the entryway, looks up at Dinah's voice, his own lips parting as if to respond. It is Ava, however, who speaks next, calling to them from the far side of the living room, where she's taken up what Dinah can only consider her typical position before a window, this one overlooking the front porch and, beyond, the path they had taken to reach the cabin earlier this afternoon.

"It would appear we have run into a problem," Ava says grimly, her beryl eyes narrowed at whatever she's spotted outside the cabin.

"What is it?" Nate asks, stepping away from the old clock and towards the living room.

Dinah answers as he ducks through the open doorway, having twitched aside the curtain of another window nearer to her. "Winter storm conditions,” she sighs.

##

They decide to make the best of it — because what else can they do, really?   They will spend the dwindling daylight hours and the coming night in the cabin and reassess in the morning. By then, they reason — they hope — the worst of the snowstorm will have passed.

Once more, the trio split up, this time in search of necessary supplies for the coming evening rather than the presumed vandals or squatters they’d been sent to suss out earlier. Ava elects to venture outside and to the small shed behind the cabin in search of firewood, before the snow completely blankets the forest and renders visibility difficult for even supernaturally keen eyesight. Nate and Dinah will stay inside, sorting through the numerous closets and cupboards for candles, blankets, and foodstuffs. 

The cabin resonates with a strange sense of harmony, each of them engaged in their own tasks; Nate humming slightly as he sifts through kitchen cabinets, the rhythm of Dinah's steps echoing through the rooms as she ascends and descends the staircase, rifling through bedroom closets.

Ava returns, though after how long, neither Dinah nor Nate are entirely sure. Time has seemed…looser, since entering the cabin, perhaps since entering the surrounding wood altogether. Slowing and speeding at intervals irregular to their own cadence, each moment stretching on indefinitely but also second by second – ticking away as marked by the steady rhythm of the grandfather clock. 

Nonetheless, she returns, indeterminate time notwithstanding, arms laden with chopped wood, cheeks flushed against the biting cold, her form in the doorway a specter-like silhouette against the backdrop of mounting snowfall. She shakes loose a flurry of snowflakes caught in the folds of her scarf, the collar of her coat, shuffling wet clumps of snow off of her boots and onto the wide, wooden planks of the front porch before stepping past the threshold and into the cabin proper.

Nate emerges from the kitchen as she deposits her findings in a precise stack next to the fireplace, the logs clattering and thudding methodically alongside one another.

“It seems we were wise not to have attempted the walk back,” he says by way of greeting, crossing the living room to pull the front door shut where Ava, arms otherwise occupied, had left it half ajar. The heavy door slides shut with a muted thud, the worn, smooth metal of the brass handle icy beneath his palm as he gives it one more firm, brief tug before releasing it, satisfied that the torrent of snow falling in wet, heavy swirls outside wouldn’t make it into the dry warmth of the old cabin.

Ava gives a murmur of agreement, on her knees before the hearth, hands busied with the work of starting a fire with the wood she’s procured and the ceramic urn perched on the mantle, which is full of matchbooks, taken over a period of years, no doubt, from restaurants and bars and hotels. The logs are slick with the meltwater of snow and ice, although some thoughtful previous cabin guest has left a small stack of newspaper pages on the hearth, tucked behind the spindly wrought iron stand holding a small assortment of fireplace tools, presumably to be used as tinder.

With deft fingers, Ava strips off her gloves, laying them neatly on the stone of the fireplace, and reaches for a sheaf of newsprint, crumpling the pages into loose wads. She arranges them with a few of the driest twigs, striking a match against the strip on its book cover and holding the tiny flame to the newspaper until it catches and begins to consume itself in a bright orange glow. The first crackling embers in the grate send out a thin spiral of fragrant smoke, wrapping itself around Ava as she fans the flames into life. She pauses, straightening a bit to unwind her still-snow-speckled scarf, the wool of it damp in spots where the warmth of the cabin and her fledgling fire have begun to melt the lingering frost, and watches as her handiwork takes hold and steadily grows. The warmth now emanating from the fireplace is welcome, cutting through the chill that had started to settle in her bones.

“Thank you, by the way,” Nate says, coming to stand next to where she’s still knelt before the fire, a pleased hum of a sigh accompanying the words of gratitude. “For the fire, and for venturing into—” he sweeps a hand toward the front windows “—that to gather firewood.”

“And for not reminding either of you that I advised against walking here in the first place?” She leans back on her shins and tilts her face up to look at him, the tops of her booted feet pressed flush against the floor, her palms resting flat against the tops of her thighs. Ava’s voice is dry as bone, but there’s an unmistakeable shimmer of amusement in her eyes, the bright green of them turned aventurescent in the flickering glow of the firelight.

Nate laughs, and the warmth of it, resonant and radiant, sears through any lingering coldness in her that had gone unreached by the heat of the fire now burning steadily in the grate. Warms her to her marrow, as his laughter (his voice, his existence) has done for over three hundred years, now.

“That too, I suppose,” he amends, still smiling as he offers his hand to her, although they both know it is an unnecessary politeness — she does not need assistance to unfold herself from her position before the fire, to rise to her feet. She accepts it anyway, pale, calloused fingers grasping his dark, fine-boned hand as she rises to stand beside him.

Deeper into the cabin, footsteps sound, light and quick, as Dinah emerges from the dark of the corridor behind Ava, a bundle of fabric and a cardboard box cradled in her arms. She smiles, glancing at the fire as she steps further into the room and towards the two vampires standing in front of it.

Something about it — everything about it, she amends, for it is everything, really, about their current situation — strikes her with an odd feeling, a warm swell of something like familiarity or nostalgia or sentiment that takes her a moment to place. The crackling blaze of the fire, warm as bathwater against her face as she draws nearer, warmer still where its glow reflects off of her companions, its light painting their faces and hands in shades of rose and gold and ochre. How the light and heat contrast with the mercurial silver of the afternoon outside, the cloud-smothered sky already grown too dark for the hour, even for winter, its icy fingers pressing and dragging against the windows. The way Ava and Nate always seem to look at her, and even more so how they always — have always, at least as long as she’s known them, in each, century-spanning context — look at each other.

When she places the odd, slip-sliding sensation, she can’t quell the soft laugh that bubbles out of her. Nate gives her a quizzical smile as he steps towards her, reaching to pull the box from her arms. He sets it on one of the two chintzy, overstuffed armchairs in the middle of the room, the one nearest to the fireplace, lifting one of the flaps to peer at its contents.

“Is something amusing you, agent?” Ava asks, one dark blonde brow arched as she unbuttons her woollen peacoat before moving to hang it next to Dinah’s on the wooden coat rack by the front door.

“Just experiencing deja vu, I think,” she answers, unfolding the bundle of cloth still draped across her arm — a cable-knit sweater, it turns out, large and cream-colored and heavy looking, which Dinah slips on over her own thinner sweater, warm enough under her coat for the weather earlier in their day, but somewhat lacking in the current snowstorm. The garment hangs loose on her, the hem landing halfway down her thighs, and she has to roll the sleeves twice to free her hands, but it’s gloriously warm, and she almost laughs again at the memory of another borrowed sweater, in another lifetime.

“Deja vu?” Nate asks, still sorting through the box Dinah had unearthed. Her search of the bedrooms had been a fruitful one, it seems: the box is full of useful paraphernalia for anyone unexpectedly snowbound, including, among other things, at least a dozen long, white candles, a couple of camping lanterns, one heavy flashlight, and packages of batteries for each. Ava has crossed back over to them now, too, and slips a hand into the box alongside Nate’s to help him sort through its contents.

“Thinking of the last time we were…unexpectedly ensconced in a remote location like this. Lauterbrunnen.”

“Ah,” Nate says, and she knows before even looking at him that he’s smiling at the memory she’s called up, can hear it in that one syllable alone.

“The selection of reading materials pales in comparison to the chalet, of course,” she allows, failing entirely to contain her grin at Ava’s quiet, whip-quick rejoinder: “The volume of materials, as well.”

“But,” Dinah continues, that irrepressible grin seeping into her voice, “we do have electricity and running water here, so.” She shrugs. “Maybe that almost evens out, all things considered.”

And, of course, of fucking course, it is at that moment that the power flickers — dims — and peters out entirely.

##

The kitchen, bathed in a blend of candlelight and lantern glow, becomes their sanctuary as the world beyond the frost-coated windows plunges into the inky cold. The kitchen turned out to have an old-fashioned wood-burning stove, so Ava has built them another fire, its comforting warmth and scent filling the air, coupled with the aroma of the soup Nate had found in the pantry (although he’d seemed truly distressed at having only canned food to offer Dinah, with no fresh produce to supplement it, and it had been an effort not to laugh at the consternation on his face).

Canned though it may be, the soup is hot and filling, and Dinah sips at it happily enough, warming her fingers against the large, earthenware mug as she does. In addition to the lighting supplies they’d quickly put to good use, she’d found a jigsaw puzzle in a hall closet, and so, for lack of much else to do, they’re now sat together at the long kitchen table across from the wood stove, puzzle pieces strewn across the width of the table, tiny cardboard islands in a sea of dark mahogany.

Even as they collectively bend towards their task, their breaths intermingling in a rhythm of shared concentration, Dinah’s mind remains centered elsewhere. She finds herself watching her companions more than working on the puzzle, studying their focused faces under the flickering candlelight. There is a certain harmony to their movements, the result, she knows, of years and years and years of working all manner of tasks alongside one another, and Dinah can't help but feel a pang of affection for them both.

“You know you can’t win a jigsaw puzzle, Ava,” Dinah remarks, a teasing grin tugging insistently at one corner of her mouth.

Her comment is rewarded by a soft huff of laughter from Nate and a pointed silence from Ava — although perhaps the latter is less due to Ava choosing to ignore her and more the result of the commanding agent’s intense focus on the scattering of puzzle pieces arranged before her.

She’s not surprised, of course, that Ava takes jigsaw puzzles as a kind of tactical challenge, that she faces them as something to be outwitted through strategic brilliance and logical prowess. It’s part of why she likes her, really: a shared thread of fiery determination that runs through them both, this impulse — this compulsion — to rise to any occasion, meet it head-on and straight-backed, no matter how un-momentous the occasion may be. After all, hadn’t Dinah once taken the task of choosing a wine that Ava might enjoy as a challenge to be faced? Heracles and his Labours; Dinah and her (unboxed) wine.

Ava and her jigsaw puzzle.

Still, scouring hundreds of puzzle pieces in the dim light of the lanterns and candles, coupled with the growing lateness of the hour, is beginning to wear on Dinah and her human eyes, so she leans back in her chair, stretching languidly as she does. Propping one elbow on the back of the chair, she twists in her seat, casting her eyes about the room if only for a brief change in focal distance. Through the open doorway of the kitchen, she can see into the living room, the light of the still-crackling fire a rippling glow, illuminating the overstuffed armchair set closest to the fireplace.

Illuminating the object resting thereupon, which Dinah is quite sure had not been there earlier in the evening. There, lying open and facedown along one of the chair’s puffy arms, is a book.

It’s a squatty paperback, small and thick, its pages, as best she can tell through the dimness and the distance, gone slightly yellowed with age, corners slightly rounded and curling, dulled with the thumbing of untold hands over unknown years of use.

“Nate,” she asks, cutting off whatever conversation had been happening, whatever idle, puzzle-side chatter she’s fully relinquished the thread of now, her focus grasping instead for the unexpected snag of this book in the living room. “Did you leave that there? That book, in the living room?”

She tilts her head, chin jerking slightly in the direction of the doorway, not taking her eyes off the book as she speaks, because she already knows what his answer will be, already knows that, even if he had found a book to peruse while she’d been rummaging through bedrooms and closets upstairs, he would not have left it thus, splayed carelessly as if forgotten in the wake of something more captivating. Knows that, whomever it was who had last touched this book and then left it, discarded and haphazard, on the arm of the chair, it would not have been Nate, whose elegant hands are gentle and careful with almost everything they touch, and always so with books.

Well. Give or take a scant few exceptions, she remembers, although when she thinks of the circumstances in which he might be — in which he has been — so driven to distraction as to be truly careless in setting aside a book, she is reasonably confident that they do not apply to this particular scenario.

Nate looks up from the scattering of puzzle pieces through which he’d been sorting, eyes moving first to Dinah, half-twisted in her chair across from him, to the open doorway through which her gaze is still focused, finally alighting on the book in question. His brow furrows slightly as he glances from the discarded paperback to Ava, who has wrested her own focus from the jigsaw puzzle to the two of them, something in the tone of Dinah’s voice tugging her away from her consideration of optimal puzzle completion strategies.

“No,” he says finally, and can see his own confusion mirrored in Ava’s expression as those cool, emerald eyes slide to meet his, a mélange of question and calculation flickering there as he answers.

Green eyes and brown shift once again towards Dinah as she twists back around to face them, her own dark eyes lingering over her shoulder and into the living room for a too-long moment, as though not trusting the room behind her to remain static once she turns her back on it.

She lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and looks between the two vampires, her mouth stretching in a grim almost-smile. “I didn’t think so,” she murmurs ruefully as she meets Nate’s puzzled gaze. “Although I was really, really hoping to be wrong.”

She stands abruptly, the chair skidding back on the wooden floor with a harsh rasp that echoes in the silence that has settled over the three of them. Dinah meets Ava’s eyes first, holding her gaze for a moment longer than necessary before shifting her attention to Nate. There's a sense of urgency crackling around her as she strides towards the living room, her fingers tightly curled in anticipation.

She moves deliberately towards the forgotten book, each footfall echoing in the stillness of the room. She hesitates for a moment, then reaches out and picks up the novel, the rough edges of the worn pages making her fingers prickle with an odd sense of unease.

She flips it over to see the cover — the title, Time's Shadow, is embossed in gold letters above a dramatic illustration of a branching tree, its roots plunging into a shadowy abyss while its leafy arms reach towards a clock face trapped in a twilight sky, although its hands point to a minute shy of twelve o'clock.

Puzzle abandoned, Nate and Ava have followed her into the living room, though neither of them seems to have any more idea than she as to how this book came to be here, or from whence it came.

Dinah flicks through the pages, her gaze quickly scanning the taut lines of text. The scent of old paper and ink wafts up, mingling with the room's musty air. There is nothing else remarkable about the book. No annotations, no dog-eared pages, no forgotten bookmarks or slips of paper. Just an ordinary book left in an extraordinary circumstance.

Nate steps forward, a mix of caution and curiosity on his face. "May I?" he asks, extending a hand towards Dinah.

Wordlessly, she hands it to him, watching him as he studies the book. He traces the edge of one golden letter before opening the paperback carefully, his long fingers leafing through the worn pages with a careful reverence, dark eyes skimming across the pages, though nothing seems to catch his attention.

The silence of the room is broken, suddenly, by a soft voice. "I hope you were kind enough to mark my place before you turned the page."

The trio whirls around, startled by the unexpected voice that had so disrupted the stillness of the room, a stone thrown into a tranquil pond. Seated comfortably on the weathered armchair against the far wall is a man who wasn't there moments ago, hands folded neatly in his lap, a thin smile etched across his face.

The man is nondescript in most ways — medium height, mid-forties perhaps, with salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed back from a high forehead. His eyes, as calm and deep as a placid lake, meet theirs with an amused glint.

Dinah straightens her spine and takes a step forward, her gaze hardening to steel on this stranger. "And you are?" She manages to ask, forcing her voice to remain steady, courteous, even, tempering the whirlwind of questions threatening to break loose.

Ava has moved to lean against the threshold that divides the two rooms, her fingers curling around the edge of the wall as she studies the interloper. Her green eyes hide nothing of her suspicion as they flicker over him, assessing and analyzing with a calculated precision.

The stranger chuckles, the sound warm and non-threatening. "My name is Cyrus," he says, his voice as soft and smooth as worn leather. "And I mean no harm."

Nate, still holding the book, steps closer to Dinah, his face unreadable. There is a moment when their gazes meet; an unspoken understanding passing between them. When his gaze flicks to the stranger, though, there is nothing but polite interest on his face, as open and friendly as it had been the day Dinah had met him. "And why are you here, Cyrus?"

The stranger — Cyrus — merely chuckles, a low, pleasant sound that echoes through the silent room. He leans forward slightly in his chair, steepling his fingers together. "There are many answers to that question," he says finally. "Some requiring less explanation than others."

He glances at the worn paperback still clasped in Nate's hand. "I suppose you could say I'm here for my book." He gives another light laugh, then shifts, leaning back a bit in his chair before unfolding his hands and gesturing towards the other armchair, the couch. "Please, take a seat," he says, an air of welcoming familiarity settling around him. "There's much to talk about."

Nate and Dinah share a glance, a silent question passing between them. Ava's gaze is fixed on Cyrus, her posture rigid but curious. Finally, Dinah steps forward, her footsteps echoing in the quiet room as she takes the offer. She sits, her back straight and her mind whirling with a thousand questions.

Nate follows suit, handing the book back to Cyrus as he does so. The man accepts it with a warm smile, tucking it next to him on the chair.

"Now then," he says. "I, along with my book, am here, in part, because this is my house."

An indignant, disbelieving noise escapes Dinah before she can stop it. "No, it isn't. Micah Langley owns this cabin."

The stranger's smile, while not fading exactly, has morphed into something cut through with sorrow. "Micah Langley is my husband. Or, well." He pauses, as if considering. "I suppose it may be more correct to say he was my husband. What year is it, please? It is possible that I may have already died. It's so difficult to keep track of which year it is, let alone which timeline one has stumbled into."

The statement hangs in the room, a tangible thing that seems to ripple and flex with tension.

“I am,” Cyrus continues calmly, voice as placid as if he is discussing the weather on any given Thursday, “come unstuck from time.”

They gape at him, for a long stretch of moments.

Nate breaks the silence first. "I beg your pardon?”

"Unstuck," he repeats with a nonchalant shrug. "One minute I am somewhere, the next... here. I do not control it. It just... happens. Just as you might walk through a door. Exit one room — one time — and enter another."

He asks again: What year is this?

When Ava answers, he sighs and gives a small nod. "As I suspected. In this timeline -- in this universe -- I am unfortunately no longer among the living."

The group's silence stretches on for a few moments longer, the only sound being an occasional crackle from the fire in the grate behind them.

And then they begin to ask questions.

Where had he come from? What year had he left? How did he cope with the constant displacement? Did he have any control over it?

While in this timeline — in this universe — he is dead, he confirms, in answer to Dinah’s slightly incredulous protestations that he hasn’t been alive as she’d known him — known of him — for almost a decade. However, in other universes, other timelines, he is very much alive. Oh, he’s dead in some of them still, he acknowledges. But in others he lives on, lives well, lives differently.

In every universe, though, the one constant: his beloved.

The man who owns the cabin still, though has barely stepped inside it since the death of his husband — this breathing, dime-store-noir-novel-reading, dead-not-dead man sat on an armchair before them.

Somehow, in every timeline, Cyrus finds Micah, or Micah finds Cyrus, or they find each other.

Across any world, each forking decision path splitting into a crystalline myriad of mirrors, a tapestry of threads, tangling and intersecting and weaving together in infinite ways. In every universe, they are bound to meet, or to have met. A microcosm of their own making, each of them the reference frame for the other -- the special relativity of two human bodies, the nature of their time and space impacted by the other's gravitational pull.

The night passes and they are insatiable, the three accidental guests of this man’s former home, asking him question after question. What does he mean, unstuck from time? How does it work? How can he know how else he lives in other realms of time? Of space? Are they each of them truly him? How did he first learn this? What does this mean, practically speaking? How, how, how?

To his apparently eternal credit, he answers all of them, or at least all of them as best he can, with the same unflappable serenity of demeanor with which he’d introduced himself and his…situation.

At some point, the power clicks back on, lamps humming back to life, the radiator clanking as it begins the process of re-warming itself and the cabin. The sudden noise and light — low though it is — cracks through the spell of the evening — no, somehow now nearly morning — and the four of them blink at one another as reality creeps back in.

Cyrus stands and stretches, stifling a yawn. "I do believe, my friends," he declares, his voice resonating with the soft weariness of the late hour, "It is time I took my leave."

"But," Dinah protests, her sleep-deprived mind still struggling to grasp the enormity of their conversation, "where will you go?"

He tilts his head towards Dinah and smiles, a sad but understanding gleam in his eyes. "Once more into the fray, I suppose. Another timeline, another universe."

He walks to the entrance and looks back at them, his features softened by the diffused light from the lamps. "Do not worry for me. In each world, I am home."

##

(Later, as they are straightening up and finally, finally preparing to leave the cabin and return to their own homes, their own reality, they will discover that he has once again left his book, forgotten once more on the armchair nearest the fire. None of them are certain whether the dog-eared page — the sight of which once again sends a streak of dismay across Nate’s face — marks the same spot as the book had been opened to before. But whether it is or it isn’t, the page that’s been saved now includes a note, of sorts, in the form of a single highlighted sentence: Space by itself, and time by itself, are doomed to fade away into mere shadows, and only a kind of union of the two will preserve an independent reality*.)

*this is, in fact, an actual quote from the physicist Hermann Minkowski, in an address to the 80th Assembly of German Natural Scientists and Physicians, 1908. Physics: secretly the most hopeless romantic coded science since 1908!

[gemini-sensei]

Need more Robby x PregnantReader fluff :( that shit was sooo so cute

@sensei-venus is amazing at writing Robby 🙈 I'm a little jealous, but i got an idea for a Robby fluff, so here it is.

Robby Keene x Pregnant!Reader

Fem!Reader ○ fluff ft. Robby angst ○ unedited ○ goes with the future parents au (as I'm calling it ig)

I didn't know how to end this exactly, so sorry if it feels unfinished. Also I haven't been to a ultrasound since I was 5 so I'm going based off of basic knowledge lol. hope you enjoy!

Robby feels like a tornado is raging inside of him as he sits beside his wife. His leg his bouncing and no matter what he does, he can't stop it. There's no reason for him to be nervous, it's only a scan to find out if the baby is a boy or a girl. It's not as if they're there for anything else. He knows that they have a healthy little baby on the way, but there's something in the back of his mind telling him that something can still go sideways. Otherwise, why would he feel this way?

Reader squeezes his hand and he looks up at her, seeing her happy smile. It always manages to brighten to mood, even if he feels like his joints have turned to jelly and his stomach is flip-flopping. All of that eases with one look and a kiss on the cheek.

She giggles. "You're nervous."

It's no question. She knows. He knows she knows. Still, he wants to deny it. He hums and looked down at his shoes. "I guess."

"What do you want the baby to be?" she asks, turning all her attention onto him.

They were still waiting to be called back, like they had been for several minutes now. They'd arrived a little early and the doctor wasn't ready for them, still seeing another patient. Though it had only been a few minutes, it felt as though they've been sitting there for at least an hour. The entire time, all he could think about was their little one.

Their itty bitty little one it seemed, as Reader is hardly showing much at all despite being halfway through her pregnancy. Her belly appears more tubby than pregnant, which sometimes make Robby wonder if he's imagined all this. In comparison to Hawk and Miguel's partners, his wife was so small. Hawk's girlfriend was three times the size of Reader whilst Miguel's wife was even bigger! The glory of multiples, he supposes, silently happy that they were having just one baby.

In all honesty, Robby isn't sure if he'd be able to handle taking on more than one baby. His own childhood experience was far from perfect, in fact it sat on the complete other side of perfect. He knows little to nothing about babies, but he's been figuring it all out. So when it comes down to it, he isn't sure if it matters whether he wants a little boy or a little girl.

He just wants to be a good dad to them.

"I don't know," he admits softly, looking at Reader with gentle eyes. He smiles at her. "Whatever you want."

"I'm fifty-fifty if I'm being honest," she tells him, playing with his fingers. She spins his wedding ring, which he doesn't mind, and giggles. "Though, maybe I'm leaning toward a boy."

"Really?"

"Yeah." She smiles at him shyly. "I want him to be as handsome as you."

He smiles back at her. "I want our baby to have your smile."

"Really?"

"It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

She starts to tear up and he can't help laughing. He cups her face in his hand and rubs her tears away with his thumb. "Aw, don't cry, please."

"You know I can't help it."

"I know."

He kisses her forehead and as he pulls away, the door opens.

"Keene!"

He stands and extends his hand to his wife, helping her up. They walk back and follow the nurse to a room. They get set up for the scan, Reader hopping up onto the table and lifting her shirt, a little ahead of herself in excitement. Robby is at her side the entire time, smiling at her as she talks to the nurse, updating them on how she's been feeling and how things have been.

The doctor comes in and laughs at Reader's enthusiasm, seeing her already ready for the scan. They all make their greetings to each other, Robby staying on the quiet side as his nerves resurface. The doctor puts on fresh gloves and sits, gels up Reader's belly, and grabs ahold of the wand. Once everything is ready, she gently puts it to Reader's belly.

The picture comes up on the machine and those worries Robby has having before are swept away. Reader had done a good job of distracting him in the waiting room, but nothing puts his mind at ease like seeing their little one. His cheeks hurt with how big his smile gets and he squeezes Reader's hand. She smiles up at him before looking at the screen again.

As the doctor moves the wand, inspecting the image, she nods and eventually says, "the baby looks healthy as can be. We're still a little concerned about their size, but they seem to be progressing just fine. They might just be a small baby at the end of the day." She smiles at the parents to be. "Now, I understand you two wanted to learn the sex of the baby. Is that right?"

"Yes," Robby and Reader answer together. They laugh at themselves, their excitement permeating the air. They feel silly, but in the best way possible. He coughs, calming himself, and says, "Yes, please."

The doctor keeps her smile, radiant and happy, and nods to them. She turns back to the screen, explaining how they're going to look to check. As she moves the wand, Reader does her best to sit still. She wants to wiggle with a mix of excitement and the sensation of the wand tickling her belly. Everyone's eyes are glued to the screen as the image shifts a little, hardly able to wait any longer.

"Ah, there we go," the doctor chuckles. "Tried to hide from me for a second there, but now I see. Congratulations. She's a girl."

Reader cheers with a squeal, new tears coming to her eyes as she shaking Robby's hand in excitement. She simply can't contain herself, she's so happy. She would be just as happy with a little boy.

"A girl, Robby. Did you hear that?" she asks, looking up at him.

However, he's still staring at the frozen image on the screen, a certain sparkle in his eye. He hears his wife, though, and nods slowly. "Yeah, a girl... Our little girl."

[thelampisaflashlight]

Get To Know

[Quincy can't get Mountain off his mind, thankfully, someone knows exactly where to find him.] Below the cut.

It's been three days since Quincy's last encounter with Mountain, and, despite efforts to will the man from his mind, he admittedly feels a bit... guilty.

Okay, a lot guilty.

Truth be told, Mountain's comment about the uniform had been fine, it was just the delivery that needed work, and, perhaps, had Quincy not been in such an odd mood to begin with, he would have taken it as a compliment -as the other had intended it to be.

But even that feels like an excuse.

Every time he hears the doors to the library open, he almost hopes he'll see Mountain walk in, that the taller man will come to confront him first, but he doesn't.

And, well, Quincy has gotten tired of waiting for things to happen on their own, or for other people to take the lead, so he steels himself and decides to seek out Mountain himself.

But there's just one small problem with that plan.

He has... absolutely no fucking idea where to find him.

For as big as he is, Mountain is not an easy man to locate, especially in a place as large and unfamiliar as the abbey.

Quincy spends most of his break just trying to work his way back after taking too many winding hallways, traversing high and low, that he can't even really focus on finding him in the end.

He gets lost and turned around more times than he can count, and at some point he decides to just give up on the idea of finding Mountain entirely... If only so he can find his way back to the library before the next bell rings.

It's not easy, and Quincy's legs ache by the time he manages to stumble his way through the double doors to the library, Brother Elijah's boasting about his ability to run about the abbey multiple times over at ease coming back to mock him as he takes five painful strides towards the front desk and flops down into his chair.

He's worked up quite a sweat in his searching, so he undoes the first few buttons of the cassock Brother Elijah had given him to wear, picking up his abandoned crossword puzzle, still unfinished, and uses it to fan himself.

He'll try and catch Mountain some other time and apologize.

.

.

.

The library after lunch is deader than a graveyard, and, frankly, Quincy is grateful for it.

It gives him ample time to examine that book he found before, even if the words written within it still make little to no sense to him.

He transcribes a full word here or there, and makes use of the library's computer in an attempt to learn its meaning, but it's a tedious and slow process, and by the end of the day, he barely has a full sentence to work with, but he at least knows the language is based in Latin, using familiar structures and roots...

But, again, he still has no idea what the full sentence is supposed to mean.

The problem with translating things written in other languages, is that meaning or intent might be lost if you are unfamiliar with the tone or the terms being used.

Idioms and the like are easily misinterpreted or taken too literally due to the lack of understanding the source material.

For example, the French idiom for "the apple doesn't fall far from the tree" translates literally to, "dogs are not cats" or something of the sort, which, unless you know the actual meaning, makes no sense whatsoever beyond being able to say, "Well, of course not, they're different animals."

So Quincy is essentially back at square one.

Working a kink out of his neck, Quincy sits up and stretches, reaching for his phone to check the time.

It's close to 5pm now, not exactly late, but later than he's expected to stay and tend to the library, so after giving the floors a once over and gathering up any stray materials he finds lying about, Quincy decides it's time to head home.

On his way to the front hallway, he catches Brother Elijah making his rounds, and the two share a brief conversation about this or that, but both are eager to get on their way, so they part ways with a polite haste.

Passing by the statue of Baphomet, Quincy spares it a glance, taking a moment to admire the, um, craftsmanship of the metalwork, before heading towards the door, but that's when something catches his attention.

When he looks up, he gets a glimpse of the statue's eyes or the first time.

They seem to follow him as he stands, carved in such a way as to always be watching.

He supposes, to his followers, this is meant to be reassuring in some way, but to Quincy it's, well...

Shuffling to one side of the room to the other, Quincy treats it a bit like a game trying to find the statue's blind spots, the spaces where the illusion breaks.

It must look a bit silly as he darts about the face like this, because when he runs around the statue once again, he hears a laugh echo through the otherwise empty chamber.

A sturdy looking man with short black hair stands in the door off to the left hand side of the statue, watching Quincy skitter to a halt, shoes squeaking on the marble as he stops abruptly.

"Ah..."

"Sorry to interrupt your fun..." he snorts, clearly amused by Quincy's embarrassing display, "...but, what exactly are you doing?"

Quincy points at the statue.

"I, uhh... the eyes. I was just..."

The man looks at the statue and hums.

"...I was just... I'll be heading off now-"

"You're Quincy, right?" he says suddenly, "The new librarian."

Quincy nods.

"I've actually been meaning to talk to you, do you have a moment?"

.

.

.

In the back of his mind, Quincy feels that, perhaps, following this man -Aether, he introduced himself as Aether- deeper into the abbey, into unfamiliar territory, is a bad idea.

But for some reason, Quincy trusts him, and maybe that's a mistake, no, it definitely is, but he's nothing if not curious to a fault.

He holds some confidence that, if something were to occur, that he could at least get a swing in, maybe a swift kick to his crotch, but, again, he's decided to trust Aether.

...Maybe it's the septum piercing?

Quincy has always been a sucker for that kind of thing, and, well, he has to admit, Aether isn't... unattractive, but-

"Focus, brain, now is not the time to get distracted." he mumbles to himself, rubbing his temples, "Don't be stupid."

Aether glances back at him curiously, "Did you say something?"

Quincy shakes his head, "Ah, nothing, just talking to myself."

"Ah, well, at any rate, we're here." Aether gestures towards a staircase leading down, down, down into the dark.

Okay, yeah, this was a mistake-

"Hold on." Aether reaches into the darkness and flicks on a light switch, "I keep telling those dingdongs to stop turning this light off..."

The staircase looks significantly less intimidating in the light, in fact, it looks like it's been purposefully styled to look warm and inviting.

The walls are painted a yellowed cream, the overall lighting is softer, and the stairs themselves are covered in a plush carpeting that can't be found anywhere else in the abbey... at least nowhere Quincy has been before.

It's then, that Quincy realizes that this space is likely some kind of a modern addition, and a space where people actually live as opposed to the more ridged structure of the rest of the abbey, which, while beautiful, didn't exactly scream domesticity.

"You can leave your shoes here." Aether says, gesturing towards a small shoe rack, already cluttered with multiple pairs of shoes in varying sizes, removing his own, "Just stick them wherever."

"Ah... Okay?" Quincy does as he's told, setting his shoes beside Aether's, "What is this place?"

"It leads to the dorms, well, our dorms." he clarifies, starting down the stairs, "The clergy live in an auxiliary building elsewhere on the grounds, I'm sure Brother Elijah told you about it at some point."

"He mentioned people live here, I just never got around to seeing where that was..." Quincy hums, following Aether, "I wasn't sure how appropriate it would be to explore... well, not that I haven't..."

"I saw you earlier." Aether says, pausing at the bottom of the stairs, "Walking around that is."

Quincy stands on the last step, now at eye level with Aether, crossing his arms, "You did?"

He nods.

"I was running an errand, so I didn't think to stop and say hi, but you also seemed rather focused on finding something..." he drawls, "Or perhaps someone?"

He tilts his head knowingly and Quincy clicks his tongue.

"I... I take it Mountain talked to you about... about our encounter?"

Aether nods again.

"...And?"

"I think you're both hilariously bad at communicating in weirdly the same way."

Ouch.

"I, I think I was pretty clear with how I felt... at the time."

"You were, but, at the same time, you failed to understand Mountain's intentions... because you haven't known him for very long, and, likewise, he's only known you for a short time as well."

"I..." Quincy hops down off the step, "I wanted to apologize..."

"I know you do." he says, "You wouldn't have been looking for him before if you didn't, but Mountain has also been avoiding you, because he thinks he's done something wrong."

"He's... avoiding me?" Quincy questions, "He... is avoiding me."

"You wouldn't know this about Mounty, but, he is very respectful of boundaries when they are set, though he sometimes... he overcompensates." Aether explains, guiding Quincy down yet another hallway, "So, if you want to talk to him, you'll need some help tracking him down, and I happen to be an expert in that department."

"Because you've known him for so long?"

"No, I mean, yeah, but it's actually because he's a simple guy and hides in the most obvious place imaginable when he's upset."

He gestures at a large, dark wood door behind his back.

"His bedroom."

Quincy points at the door.

"He... he's hiding in his room?"

"Yeah."

"And you want me to... what exactly? Go in there and talk to him?"

Aether nods, "I mean, I'd knock first, lord knows what he's been up to in there, but it would be a nice start."

"Not gonna lie, this feels like some kind of elaborate set up." Quincy says, hesitating in front of the door.

"You're surprisingly... distrustful of others." Aether says, leaning against the wall, "Not a bad thing exactly, pretty smart, but, it does come off a little... rude. If you really want to make nice, you should probably work on not assuming the worst."

"I..." Quincy frowns.

"I can promise you now, beyond getting you to reconcile with Mounty, I have no other intentions bringing you down here." Aether says, before leaning over and knocking on the door, "Mount? It's Aeth!"

There's a shuffling beyond the door and Quincy has to stop himself from bolting down the hallway.

The door creaks open a crack, and...

"...Hi."

"...."

Aether clears his throat, pushing Quincy forward and through the door.

"I'll come back in an hour." he says, "Please try to actually talk in that time."

.

.

.

Mountain's room is absolutely overloaded with plants, all of which seem to be doing well despite the sunlight coming in through a small window shadowed by the heavy boughs of an old oak tree.

There's barely enough room for his bed, the only space with enough room for them to both sit down comfortably, much to Quincy's chagrin.

It's not inherently... inappropriate to sit on somebody's bed like this, but Quincy's mind has a tendency to wander in that direction naturally, having read far too many, uhh, novels that employ the "and there was only one bed" trope among other things...

Mountain must sense his apprehension, because he can't seem to sit still, but moving further away from him just causes the bed to dip and tilt Quincy towards him, and-

"Just, stop moving." Quincy says finally, when Mountain's leg bumps into his knee again, "I don't... it's fine."

"Okay..."

"I... I wanted to apologize." Quincy says, playing with the edge of the fluffy throw blanket covering Mountain's bed, "You... you don't make me uncomfortable, I was... I was already uncomfortable before you arrived, and, I just... I'm not..."

He looks over at Mountain, "You're..."

"I'm big?" Mountain guesses.

Quincy nods.

"Your hands are, like, the size of the top of my head, and your reach-" he recalls their first meeting, how he'd been able to grab the back of his chair from over the desk with such ease, "-you're pretty intimidating, you know that?"

"So I've been told." Mountain says, looking at his hands, "...I can't really do much about that I'm afraid."

"I mean, I don't expect you to... I..." Quincy places his hand on Mountain's knee, "Can we, start over?"

"Start over?" Mountain asks, glancing downwards, then meeting his eyes, "Like... reintroduce ourselves?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, uh, sure, sure why not?"

They both stare at each other expectantly.

"..."

"..."

Quincy breaks first, giving a frustrated shout and hiding his face in his hands.

"Ughhh... why is this so hard?"

"I know, right??" Mountain groans, "Are we stupid??"

"We're definitely stupid." Quincy agrees, "How is it that neither of us knows how to do this?"

"It's so... It's kind of embarrassing, isn't it?"

"Yeah!"

"Satan's balls..." Mountain takes a deep breath, "Right... I'm... My name is Mountain."

He offers his hand to Quincy.

"I'd like to get to know you."

Quincy takes it gently, "I'm Quincy."

"I hope to become friends."

There!

They said it.

So why...

"...This is still kind of awkward, isn't it?" Mountain says.

"I mean, we are sitting on your bed, that's already pretty awkward." Quincy says, bouncing slightly to emphasize his point.

"Is it?"

"I mean, like, I've sat on friends' beds before, but it's a little different when you don't know each other that well, right?"

Mountain shrugs, "You wouldn't be the first person I've had in my bed that I-"

Quincy covers his ears, "I don't wanna know."

Mountain makes a face, "What? That's what you were implying."

"You could at least deny it!"

"Why should I?" he asks, leaning back on his hands, "It's not like it's anything to be ashamed of."

"That's not what I mean..."

"What do you mean then?"

"I just... I... hearing someone be so upfront about that kind of thing is a little..." Quincy tries to figure out how to word what he wants to say, but it's a struggle.

"Didn't you used to work in a bar? I'm sure you've heard worse." Mountain says, flopping onto his side, making Quincy topple forward, needing to use Mountain's hip to push himself back up.

"How'd you know that?" he asks.

"Brother Elijah talks about you." Mountain supplies matter-of-factly.

"He does?" Quincy's eyes widen, "What's he said about me?"

"That you're stubborn."

"Oi."

"But he doesn't seem to think that's a bad thing." Mountain props his head up with his hand, "He seems to find it endearing."

"Eughh..."

"He also worries about you."

Quincy blinks, "He does?"

"You sound surprised?"

"Because I am." Quincy says, "I mean, I guess... I guess that makes sense."

"Honestly, I'm kind of worried about you, too."

"Huh?"

Mountain sits up again, "You think Brother Elijah is the only person who's noticed the way you look when it's time for you to go home?"

Ah.

Quincy purses his lips.

"...It's that obvious?"

"If I noticed, then yes."

"...Fuck."

[thecameronchronicles]

Angels and Demons Part One: Innocence

Angels and Demons Part 1: Innocence

TW: Smut. Blood. Language. 

Disclaimer: This is based exclusively on the most recent installment of the Hellraiser franchise, and for that details will differ from the previous films.

SUMMARY: Your brother’s recent ‘stray’ brings a specific box into your life that takes you into an (under)world of unlikely and sinister events…

WORD COUNT: 2500

Angels and Demons Part 1: Innocence

“Hell is the highest reward that the devil can offer you for being a servant of his.”

Your cursor teased you with a continuation to your thesis as you would find a temporary distraction in the echo of a knock on your apartment door. If not for the argument with your brother only a handful of minutes earlier on who was on the other side, you would have graciously accepted the reprieve. But instead, you would use your unfinished assignment, feigning focus as you observed him under the guise of this deceptive concentration. 

A six foot-two cautionary tale with his fingers dipped in all vices a man could engage while still remaining alive, now stood within your kitchen with only a duffle over his broad shoulder and a clear look of exclusion that worsened by the introduction ignored by your sibling. And yet, you couldn’t help but analyze the specimen that he was. Tall and brooding, kind eyes concealing darkness of his own tribulations, you deduced how he was simply a hazard. A pretty one. But still a hazard. To your brother’s life, the recovering alcoholic he was, and also to your own life for being the distraction he was already proving to be. 

“Forget her, she’s just uptight since her boyfriend left her for his boss…Been a while since she’s gotten any-”

“What the hell?!” You snapped, rising to your feet, with your laptop now under your arm, glaring at him as if you wished he’d obliterate before you. In truth, you were justified within your worry based on what you’d heard of your house guest. This guest that your brother knew less for than two weeks with attributes that were dangerous to someone on the road to recovery such as your kin. And to make matters worse, he was the complete opposite of you. And yet, the way his eyes fell to you was nothing short of intimidating as he did it with eyes light enough to know he affected you, but indifferent enough to leave the ‘ball’ in your court, and it made you crazed. 

“Well? It’s true isn’t it? Can’t really count your fingers-”

“God, you’re a jerk! Sorry I’m not jumping up and down with glee at the idea of some stranger you hardly know living with us just because you feel bad for him!” But to this, Trevor would look between you both, his lips parting to interrupt your argument. 

“If it’s a problem I can go-”

“No, it’s fine. She just needs a cock and-” Before you would allow him to embarass you again, you stomped off into your room and away from ‘Trevor’, whose eyes remained on you until you were absent. It was a final look before you shut the door that explained how you held his attention, and it was just as exhilarating as it was frightening. 

For the next few days, the awkwardness of his new presence was an adjustment. With two other roommates aside from you and your brother, one of whom never seemed to be home, the space was already claustrophobic. 

But at least they respected rules such as modesty as you would catch him every morning slipping from the bathroom across from your door in nothing but a towel. And even if the sight was enough to have you press your thighs together to the outline of his tight physique accented with his sun kissed skin, you would pull your focus anywhere else-or at least try to. But it would be the meals that proved the most trying. 

Not just because of the close proximity, however, but for the way everything he did made your eyes navigate towards him. The way he purposely sat beside you despite having three other chairs and even the bar stools to choose from. The way every bite he took had your eyes navigate to those lips, taunting you with the forbidden presence. Even to the way his manganese blue hues would concern themselves with you, as if trying to assess your own thoughts of him. Thank God he didn't know…

Following one of these tense dinners where your accolades and the day’s events were discussed among roommates, you stood at the side of the sink as everyone else retired to their rooms and you were left alone with Trevor. Slipping a dish before you, you felt him intentionally glide his finger over your own, forcing you to jolt back and drop the dish to the floor. Now broken into sections, you were quick to retrieve it as he joined you. 

“Sorry, I-”

“It’s fine.” You snapped, rectifying your volume in repetition of those same words, only now with a softer tone. 

“Here let me-”

“Crap!” You hissed, the sharp edge of one of the broken pieces having sliced your finger as you’d been distracted with the twist of his muscles as he’d lifted for a paper towel. He was quick to return to you, disregarding the porcelain between you, before sourcing your wound. 

“I think you’ll live…” He teased as you fought a smile from rising from the corners of your mouth as he caught this battle before watching you roll your eyes. With his touch still keeping your wound as a focal point between you both, he would draw it to his lips, licking away the blood, all before returning his eyes to you. 

“I’m starting to think you just like having someone to be pissed off at…” He explained, pulling your mouth back together from having fallen loose in anticipation to your most carnal of thoughts.

“Maybe you just make it easy…” You spoke boldly against him as his brow raised. 

“Or maybe-” You were suddenly spun against the sink, your hands wrapping around either side as the chrome sat in contrast beneath your hot skin. 

“You just need a release.”

“Trevor…” You breathed in warning as his lips came to your ear, your body needing his touch but your mind screaming how this would only be a disaster. But much like a moth to a flame, you were helpless to the beckoning of his heat.

“So goddamn innocent, fighting all of your little urges…Pretending I don't make your panties wet-”

“You-”

“Don’t even try to deny, baby…I’m gonna find out for myself…” Your fingers wrapped desperately around the edge of the sink as his fingers dipped into the band of your pajama shorts, your lip taken captive between your teeth as his digit made a single swipe into the fabric. The most wicked of smirks felt at your cheek as he made slow motions between your lower folds. 

“I-”

“I don’t care how many guys have touched you…nobody is going to make you feel like I have…” His second hand moved from your hip in a slow ascension to your breast, teasing the nipple made hard by this brush, before wrapping securely yet cautiously around your neck. 

“With how hard you’re gonna come for me, you’re gonna forget all of them-”

The most innocent and desperate of whimpers left your lips as he nodded against you. 

“All I can think about is how you sound when someone makes you come…And I intend to find out…” His fingers lowered to your sex, slipping his dominant finger inside of you with an immediate curve before copying the motions with his adjacent digit, all while his thumb came to your clit. 

“Why the fuck would anyone leave a pussy this tight?” Before you could respond in either a reprimand or an answer, he quickened his motions to such a degree that his interruption was more of a continuation. 

“Unless nobody knew how to handle it…how to make you feel so damn good…shaking-”

“Trevor…” You groaned, yoru hand wrapped around his wrist as his other moved from your neck and to your breast, taking the fabric of your tee low enough to feel direct skin beneath his palm as he moaned. 

“Tell me to stop and I will…but if you don’t, then I get to do whatever I want to you baby…” His teeth grazed the skin of your cheek, the slightest hint of perspiration against his lips as he knew just how deeply he affected you as you shook prior to any actual penetration. 

“And I won’t stop no matter how much you beg…no matter how pretty that sounds…” 

“Ugh…” You moaned as he chuckled. 

“Yeah? You want me to keep-” You were desperate for his touch as the sound of your roommate’s voice sounded behind him. 

“Get out!” He boomed as you allowed your body to fall against him, your head at a rest against his shoulder as it moved beneath you to bring that pleasure from between your legs forward. 

“I don’t want any more interruptions…I want you all to myself.” You were suddenly turned to face him, lifted around him, and taken into the room he had used as his own, which was more of a closet, but enough to fit a single bed, to which you were taken to and laid at rest. 

“Shit…” He groaned as he pulled your shirt from over your head, revealing you completely to him. His hands were gluttonous to your chest, taking your soft flesh with kind authority before his fingers descended to your hips. 

“My god, I’m gonna ruin you…”

“Please…” You whimpered as he licked his lips, leaning down to you and taking you into a kiss before guiding you to sit upwards with a firm hold to your hair. 

“Take ‘em off…” He guided as your fingers traced his belt for a moment, looking up at him beneath thick lashes and ambitious lust. 

“You are so much more angel than demon, baby-but you keep looking like at me like that and I’ll rip every bit of innocence from that pretty little mouth of yours when I come in it…” You smirked at the idea as his brow raised. You breathed as he was now revealed to you, the glory of his nakedness able to be fully appreciated without the bounds of a towel or guise of indifference. You could bask in him, and bask you did. Your fingers traced the lines of his muscles until coming to his Adonis belt, continuing lower still and wrapping him in your hand. 

“Yes…” He spoke in approval, a deep breath hitched as you began to stroke him, his hand against your hair loosening as he could feel your own exhale on the tip of his angered head. 

“If you wanna act like a tease, you’re gonna be treated like one…” He only smirked, somewhat calling his bluff, before you were turned against him. A slap to your ass pulled a gasp from your lips before your hips were aligned with his own. 

“How do you like it?”

“Hard…” You spoke rather sheepishly as he pulled you against his chest, holding his hand to your breast and another to your clit, just as he had done moment’s ago in the kitchen. Only now, with the feeling of his hard shaft at your back. 

“You’re gonna be so fuckin’ sore…” You nodded as he set himself between you once again, this time with commitment. Immediately, your eyes pulled shut to the rush of pleasure and pressure from his penetration. The sound of your voice along with groans behind you only deepened your sensations as his body tensed around you. Your fingers clawed at him in each direction and alon gany surface you could, as he led his lips to your ear. 

“You like that? That good?”

“So good…” You mewled as he pulled tighter on your breast, quickening his fingers. 

“Then tell me, sweetheart…” You turned towards the door as he redirected your focus. 

“Nuh uh-just you and me…and I wanna hear you come for me…gotta know I’m doing good for you, okay?” You nodded as he forced you back onto your palms, bending you at an angle to which he could bring himself as deeply into you as possible. Once finding the spot in which you moaned loudest and clenched hardest, he concentrated on that position, fingertips eating into your flesh as he picked up his pace and pulled you to that orgasm. 

“That’s it…Let me have it baby…Let me-”

“Trevor-Fuck…” He chuckled. 

“I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you swear…” He smirked behind you, “And I love that it’s because of me…” He quickened even faster, bringing you to that edge as you groaned and winced, belted and moaned, until you trembled before him. 

“You feel so fucking good, oh my god!” He groaned behind you, pounding into you through your high and offering you such overstimulation that your tremors continued well beyond your descent and building to a second high. 

“Keep….going…please…” He scoffed, taking you faster. 

“I’m gonna come…you want to use your hand-” Before he could offer an alternative, you dug your nails into his waist and made him release himself within you, his body curving over yours to feel your depths swallow him whole and bringing your second release as well. 

You would be forced awake by the shift of the bed, having been unaware you’d even fallen asleep until these motions. In his absence, you tried to figure out just how you would be able to face him now-or more than this, your roommates, who had come upon your lowered defenses. And yet, you would have little time to decide on what you would say as a glimmer of something gold caught within your peripheral vision. 

Curiosity having gotten the best of you, you moved to its direction, bringing it to view to find a golden cube etched with an intricate design on each face, a different pattern making it appear to you as a heavy puzzle box. Intrigued as to why someone like Trevor would possess such a thing. But once again, you weren't able to question why before your fingers began to move in eagerness, taking a panel and an edge, hearing them click as if you’d unlocked something. For this, another panel was revealed, a single hole, that made you swallow hard for what laid beneath. In anxiousness, you reached inside, feeling nothing but a smooth edge and a button inside. Pushing against it as the bottom part of the cube rested in your palm, a sudden sting would bring you to curse as a blade made its way from one of the small crevices. 

“Fuck…” Trevor cursed as he stood in teh doroway, a look of terror spread across his face as you were ignorant to what it was you was coming, or better yet..what was coming for you…

PART 2 Coming soon!

Taglist: @hopebaker @iovdrew @penny4yourthoughts @magnificantmermaid @pickingviolets @lovedetlost @trikigirl271 @maybankslover @slut4starkey @slvtherinseeker @obxiskewl @obxxrxfes @bluesongbird @slut-era @ailee-celeste @rafesbae

[fonulyn]

so since I've now posted all of my @yearoftheotpevent fics, I figured I'd make one compilation post of them. here's my year of nivannedy!

January: good to be prepared

Leon gets stuck in a snow storm when his car breaks down, and a handsome stranger saves him from the roadside. Of course they hit it off, but only later they realize they actually do know of each other.

February: 'cause you know the love we have is always gonna be

Finally Piers and Leon get married, surrounded by their loved ones, in their very own home. It's been a long road, they've deserved their happy ending.

March: at the shore of the unknown

The end of the world comes quietly, almost secretly, despite them fighting it all these years. But even if the world is ending, Leon and Piers find each other, and their story is only beginning.

April: I crave therefore I am

Piers has been half in love with Leon for as long as he can remember, but no matter how much he's pining, he's not going to be the kind of a dick who tries to come between Leon's current relationship. Except that relationship is not exactly as real as he's been lead to believe.

May: as long as you'll have me

Leon gets infected on a mission, and although there is a known cure, the cure fucking sucks. At least, after Leon alarms him with a few incoherent texts, Piers is there to help him through the worst of it.

June: you're a dream

Piers has been dreaming of his soulmate ever since he was eleven years old, and not even the continuous stream of monsters can keep him from finding whoever that is. Of course, nothing in life can ever be that simple.

July: that heaven in your eyes

Piers and Leon have some honeymoon fun by the lake. It's exactly what they wanted.

August: light in the darkest place

Leon and Piers grew up together, and when at twenty-one they both got a job at the RPD they thought it was a giant stroke of luck. They had no idea their first day was going to be one hell of a long day.

September: all the tears and the fears and the lies and the cries of the past

Krauser kidnaps Leon on Wesker’s orders to use as bait. Things get messy.

October: before I even knew your name

Leon gets an accidental text sent into the wrong number and it ends up changing his life for the better. They might both suck at flirting, especially through text, but that doesn't matter when inexplicably they're still into each other.

November: right from the start

Leon gets some unexpected backup on his rogue mission in the Eastern Slav Republic. Later, he might just have to thank Chris for sending Piers in. Especially as he learns he and Piers work together well in more ways than one.

December: a merry little christmas (make the yuletide gay)

Piers and Leon and their first holidays as a married couple in their own home. Of course with a visit from the Redfields.

I am both incredibly content that I managed to write something for all of the months (even though two of these fics are still technically unfinished, for the Damnation au I haven't posted the last chapter and for the RE2 au I still need to write the rest of it) and really really happy with how they turned out :3

[moodymisty]

❣ Strung out ❣

Author’s Note: The others really need to stop doing physic damage to Tech, he always looks one incorrect math question away from beating someone's ass

Summary: Tech is stressed and about to snap, and therefore requires your particular relaxation methods.

Relationships: Tech/Gn!reader

Warnings: NSFW, Oral(male receiving), Established Relationship, Porn without Plot, some fluff, Getting frisky in the Marauder, reader is gender neutral

Words: 2750

AO3 Link

The first thing your ears had perked to was the sound of a loud bang, followed by multiple other smaller ones shortly thereafter. you looked up toward the direction, trying to guess what it had been.

The next thing was a voice. Tech's; Louder than usual.

“Out! You too! All of you! Shoo!”

It was the sudden amount of ruckus that made you look up from the datapad you had just been reading, up until you heard his distinctive voice from the back of the Marauder. When multiple footsteps started getting closer you rose up from your leaned back position in your bunk, throwing your legs over the side. Wrecker emerged first, following Omega down the gangplank and outside. Hunter wasn't far behind, raking a hand through his hair past where his bandanna laid. He spotted you, then pointed from where he’d came from. He looks exasperated, more so than usual.

“Fix him, will you? He's impossible to deal with right now.”

He leaves the ship not long after, following in Wrecker's footsteps while letting out a sigh. A bit vague, but you could probably guess what he meant.

Seems like they'd been kicked out after somehow pissing Tech off.

Sighing and throwing your datapad onto the pillow you slipped fully off the bunk, adjusting your clothing from where it had bunched up. For a split second you could see out of the open door and see Wrecker and Omega up to something outside, him encouraging her to kick around something in the sandy dirt. Echo was out there with them working in the belly of the ship somewhere roughly underneath you, leaving it relatively quiet all things considered.

Looking away from the entrance, within a few steps you made it to where Hunter, Wrecker and Omega had come from. The Marauder's deck plan was snug and straightforward, even with Tech's heavy modifications it was still divided into three main sections; The cockpit, a center area where the bunks and other life support necessities were, and the belly, where most of the inner-workings of the ship sat along with things like storage crates and other junk. At least where the junk should be, it often spilled out into other parts of the ships despite the best intentions of you and Echo.

Echo had since given up, but you were still holding strong against the tide no matter how futile.

Most of Tech’s work resided in the back of the ship as well, not to say he didn’t have other places stuffed with unfinished goodies; The pilot’s seat being one such place. It was his claimed seat after all, and you didn't really think anyone would argue over Tech being the most skilled pilot out of everyone.

Now in the back of the ship you noticed first Tech on one knee, picking up various different things. A large storage crate was on it's side in front of him, leaving a mess scattered across the floor. He was clearly in the process of picking it up, slowly reorganizing it as he placed each part back in.

'So that's what made all that noise.'

Just barely standing in the area, you watch for a moment before speaking up to grab his attention.

“So am I allowed in here, or am I banned also?” He looks up seemingly surprised, though his face noticeably softens as he puts another thing in the crate.

“You overheard all of that?” Coming closer you kneel down just enough to pick something up and put it away, having largely no idea what it actually was. You try to be gentle with it in the least bit.

“It was kinda hard not to.” Tech nods and continues cleaning things up, until the crate was organized again and he closed the latches. He pushes it against the other crates and shelves, all neatly labeled to his exact specifications.

It made absolutely zero sense to anyone else; Given Tech's brand was organized chaos. And to think you’d once assumed he’d be one of the clean ones...

"You didn't really have to yell at them like that though, I’m sure they were just joking around. " Tech's lips purse tight.

"I have spent numerous hours organizing everything in these crates; I would appreciate if they didn't consistently rummage through them." After placing the crate back in its deemed ‘correct spot’, he sits back into the seat positioned at his workbench while it's turned outwards to face your direction. Looking confused when you let out a scoff, it only takes a second to step closer and lean against the tabletop. There’s not much room on it now that he’s pulled stuff out to work; Tech has so many different projects and their required tools stacked on it, it’s more surprising this hadn’t been the thing that toppled over.

"Someone's strung out."

The scowl Tech gave you was even more stern than usual, even if it made you smile knowing he couldn’t exactly deny it. You knew he hadn’t gotten as much sleep lately as he should, and most of it was naps in the cockpit.

"I am only irritated because Wrecker cannot seem to understand some of these crates have fragile items in them and they shouldn’t be thrown around carelessly." You watch Tech's face for a moment, almost staring before you finally comment. A finger raises slightly to point in the direction of his mouth, while you try not to laugh.

"You know, you do this little twitchy thing with your lips when you're upset." You gesture back to the corner of your mouth as you finish talking, smiling at him. Tech looks upward at you and even if his face noticeably softens, you can still tell he's a bit upset.

You aren't exactly surprised; Being stuck up in the Marauder for so long made things tense between everyone at times.

After a moment of silence you hold your hand out and twitch your fingers inward, and Tech glances to the side for a moment before placing his hand in yours. He quietly sighs, and you feel his thumb brush across the top of your hand. His gloves are rough against your skin and part of you wishes he'd take them off so you can feel his skin, but in the end you don't ask.

It's been awhile since you could do this, and you both find comfort in the small gesture.

"How long's it been?" It takes Tech a moment to figure out what you mean. Since you'd done anything romantic; Be it a kiss or a hug or more. He thinks for only a split second before speaking up, though he's still looking in the direction of his hand in yours.

"Twenty five days. Fifteen if you count the incident in the cockpit." Right. Where you'd almost been caught red handed sitting Tech’s lap. You had to almost throw yourself off of him and pretend you were looking at something on the control panel, but it seemed to have worked out in the end. At least it seemed to, or Echo was just being polite and letting you continue on thinking you were both being subtle.

"I'm pretty sure my heart's still pounding from that; Thank goodness it was Echo and not Hunter." You laugh quietly, not missing the way he seemed not as amused by the memory. Not like you could exactly blame him.

A lot of things become more difficult when your new home is a compact attack shuttle. It wasn’t like you’d had a choice in the matter, after everything that happened on Kamino. Everyone-including yourself-could absolutely use a good bit of a break.

Though now that you thought about it, the Marauder was completely empty right now...

Hefting yourself out of the edge of the table you make your way towards where you’d come in, closing the door that separated the tiny engine room of the Marauder from the bunks and cockpit. At first Tech had thought you meant to leave abruptly, only to watch you instantly start coming back. Though you didn't sit back on the table, instead moving to get onto the floor. He eyes you as you slip down between him and underneath the desk, attempting to pull the seat he was on towards you. His long legs bend outwards, trying to fit under the desk even as you take up a good bit of space. Hands are sliding against his thighs and suddenly Tech's body is stiff, watching you rest between his knees almost completely obscured by the workbench. For being so smart he doesn't seem to understand what you're going for until your hands are at the tops of his thighs, reaching for the seams in his armor.

“What exactly are you trying to do?” He knows the answer, even if he doesn’t say it out loud. He was just about to start trying to talk you out of it, until you licked one long strip up the entirety of his codpiece and his heart skipped a beat. His thighs twitch inward towards each other slightly, looking around as if any second you’d be caught.

“They’re-” You remove your lips from hovering over his armor, while you try and take the offending piece off. You only glance up at him for a second when you start speaking then quickly look back down to try and continue fiddling.

“They’re busy, Wrecker's off with Omega. Hunter’s not even in the ship; I saw him leave.” Echo was still underneath the belly of the ship trying to fix some wiring as well; Something that Tech had originally planned to do before Echo decided to take up the task for him.

But with the still lack of true privacy part of Tech wants to say no, but it's been weeks; Weeks since he'd done anything like this with you. It'd been days since he'd even kissed you.

So in the end he ends up letting you pull away the piece of armor, it falling and hanging off the side of the chair.

The GAR approved flightsuits leave a surprising amount to the imagination considering how tight they are; Impossible to see anything if the wearer isn't fully hard. But when you brush a hand over you can feel him, palm rubbing gently against his cock and quickly hardening under your hand. Even while he's trying to keep a firm face, looking down on your with pursed lips that keep twitching.

When he notices your hair getting in your face he brushes it out of the way, palm against your forehead as you slip a hand into the seam of his flight suit to slowly pull out his cock. His thighs twitch as you do, feeling your warm hand wrap around him. You only pull it back to lick a solid strip down your palm to the tip of your middle finger, something Tech finds ceaselessly erotic before it's wrapped back around him again.

It gently pumps at his cock now slick with spit as your head moves to press your lips against the tip, feeling his thigh tense against your other hand. Your mouth slowly moves more and more downward replacing where your hand was until it was only covering what you couldn't reach with your mouth; Spit sticking against your fingers and the corners of your mouth. You bob your head but not too much, not wanting to hit your head on the edge of the table. Though coincidentally you feel Tech put a hand against the back of your head, mostly resting and applying just the slightest bit of pressure. He’s already struggling, little noises in his throat as he groans while watching you.

“Ahh, That-" Tech other hand suddenly grasps the edge of the table with a tight grip, it creaking when he puts more of his weight onto it. He lets out a moan when your tongue presses harder against him, pulling your mouth off with a soft pop to lick a long strip up the underside of his cock.

His foot is tapping against the metal floor, his are teeth were grinding against each other, his breaths are panting; He keeps mumbling your name strung between other words. Overall, Tech was being loud. The exact opposite of what you wanted, given you were stuck in a ship with four other people outside. Sure you’d closed the door, but you were really not going to take the risk of someone hearing. Though it wasn’t like you could exactly blame Tech; It had been going on three weeks since you’d had any time together privately, let alone privately enough to do this. You were both stuffed to the gills with pent up energy, and Tech was the far worse one at keeping a low volume. It would be cute, if you weren't playing on borrowed time. “You gotta be quiet...” Your lips barely pull away of his cock to speak, before wrapping around him again. You take as much of him in your mouth as you possibly can, your fingers teasing what your lips and tongue can’t. “I- I’m sorry I just-” His moan cut himself off, and you wince at how it echoes in the tiny area. If Hunter decided to come back into the Marauder to get something, you'd absolutely be busted.

Taking his hand off the workbench top he clenches it into a fist, pressing it against his mouth. His teeth are still grinding together behind his lips. For a second his hips jerk upwards trying to move towards your mouth, cock twitching in your mouth..

He moans, now muffled, head falling back to rest against the back of the chair for a moment before lolling to look back down at you.

You look, really good. It makes his entire body tense as he watches your head between his thighs. Just the sight of it makes his cock twitch in your mouth as his stomach tenses.

Trying not to speak Tech instead rapidly taps the top of your hand with his own, about to cum as his chest heaves underneath his breastplate. It makes you pull your lips back so they wrap about the tip of his cock, hand still wrapped around him sliding along the spit you'd left behind.

Soon after the hand he'd tapped yours with he squeezes with his own, finishing in your mouth as your tongue trails over the tip of his cock. The salty taste permeates your tastebuds even as you end up swallowing and pulling away from him, looking up to see Tech's hotly flushed face watching the entire time. The way your tongue darted across your lips for a moment was, distracting.

He pulls his goggles away from his face for a moment as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, a stray beat of spit in the corner of your mouth. They'd begun to slightly fog, though it dissipates once he lets them touch fresh air.

Tech almost feels his heart start racing again as your hand trails down his softening cock and pulling away the spit you'd left, before his flight suit has him trapped once more. But he also feels, relived. You always seemed to know exactly what he needed every time to wipe his worries away, his headache dissipating. A hand brushes over his hair as he sighs, looking down at you.

"I, needed that." Is all he can mutter, and uncharacteristically thin sentence. It only takes a smile, and you're hefting yourself up and out from between his legs and kissing his browbone.

"I promise to return the favor, once we have another moment alone." Of course that's the first thing to come to his mind, and you roll your eyes.

"You don't have to 'return' anything." Tech just wished that you didn't always have to scrap for tiny moments of time, thin margins in-between moments of chaos.

"But, I certainly won't complain." It’s quiet for a moment, before you laugh to yourself. Tech perks up his brow furrowed, curious why.

“Though, you banned everyone from coming down here.” He adjusts the frames of his goggles with one knuckle after shaking his head.

“I didn’t ban you, last I recall.” Sitting back against the top of the workbench you smile, hearing a distant clang of Echo surely hitting the belly of the ship with some sort of tool. “Well, that’s awfully convenient of you then.” You say, and watch as he shows a small smile.

“Indeed.”

[dasher85]

cooking

featuring our Inexpressible duo

Kamisato Ayato x reader | y/n | you

A  short story

just cooking with Ayato...

[ He could effortlessly understand instructions but is hopelessly disastrous at the kitchen ]

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

It was just a normal weekend for you but apparently it's a special moment for someone and he's particularly happy about it. It's the beginning of late afternoon and you've already started to prepare the ingredients for today's dinner.

You're not supposed to be the one who's cooking at the Estate's kitchen but after saying one time, just a mere mumble to Ayato yesterday that you'd want to cook something tomorrow, he sends half of the servants a day off. Just like that.

So breakfast, lunch and now including dinner was all fully under your responsibility for today. You only need to prepare food for the two siblings, Thoma and the few workers that were on duty at the estate today. It's not difficult at all, in fact you find it rather enjoyable because you haven't cooked anything major in a while.

However it seems preparing dinner doesn't seem how you planned it would be unlike breakfast and lunch because Ayaka and Thoma were the ones who helped you.

"Aya- no… .no-" You somehow managed to stop him from adding too much sugar into the mixture of flour. It was so shocking that you're not able to say proper words. Fortunately, your hands were quick to caught the heap of sugar on your hands.

"Sorry…" 

"Are you sure you're not busy? Perhaps it's better if you do the unfinished reports?" You've been questioning him ever so often whenever he's making mistakes especially when he’s adding a completely bizarre amount of ingredients into literally everything that you've been meticulously trying to cook. It's the third time now.

"Come on now…" he smiled, seeking compassion from you.

"Just chop these then. That at least I know you're good at" you lead him to the chopping board and show him where the basket of vegetables and other ingredients were kept. 

"Use a kitchen knife, alright? Here… and don't cut the matsutake too thin" you frowned worriedly before handing him the kitchen knife.

"Understood."

He smiled reassuringly while you could only sigh. Initially you didn't want him to step any further in the kitchen at all but after seeing how happy he was just to inform you that he finally had the time to help you out, you didn't have the heart to stop him.

"I'm leaving you with that, while I cook the other dishes"

So you went on cooking just fine on your own, adding ingredients and progressing through each dish as planned.

"Ayato have you finished chopping the matsutake?" You finally turn to his side of the kitchen.

"Mmm… Not quite there yet"

You helplessly stared at his work progress. There's nothing wrong about his knife skills but he was being overly cautious about the thickness of each cut before actually chopping the matsutake. As if he's measuring every cut with a ruler, his eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly. 

"You don't have to be that accurate with the thickness"

"Should we make haste? The sun hasn't even begun to set." He calmly questions, seeking more time from you. 

"Yes we do. The matsutake needs to be washed again and soaked for thirty minutes before it can be boiled along with the vegetables."

His frown deepens, "I'm on it, not to worry"

Well, he tried to cut it a little faster as required but the faster he gets the thinner the piece becomes. A perfect paper thin cut and you couldn't believe how he even did that? 

At some point, he returns to a slower phase because he knew it wasn't a good idea for him to chop too fast and you quietly start helping him with cutting the other ingredients because he's beyond your help. 

"You're so terrible at cooking. I can't even complain"

"I know…"

"Remember, you're not allowed to cook in the kitchen without me around."

"Understood"

Despite it all, the both of you were just smiling while working side by side to cut away the dinner's ingredients.

The Commissioner wasn't supposed to be at the kitchen either but he really did went on focus mode just to finish off his office work today. Surely he has the most time spent with you right after he finishes his work on a daily basis but it seems he wouldn't want to miss having a cooking session along with you either. So he's here, making an appearance in hopes that it'll ease up your cooking progress. Although in truth, he couldn't do much.

Your other two reliable helpers have offered to help you for dinner as well but they purposefully didn’t come by the kitchen after seeing that the estate’s owner had already beaten them to it. 

"I'm done with the vegetables"

You informed and started helping him with the other half basket of the unprepared matsutake.

"Has it been alright with your work recently?"

"Mmm… Nothing concerning. You, on the other hand, have you had enough rest today?"

"I did and-" you quiet down due to the sudden sharp pain you felt. Your face twisted in a frown before you carefully placed the knife inside the sink and washed the trace of blood from its sharp edge.

'Should’ve focused!' you angrily thought, instantly blaming yourself for being careless and unskillful. Red crimson blood dripped through the small cut on the tip of your ring finger.

"What's wrong-" he looked over towards you, "...let me get some bandages" He was quick to notice the situation right after seeing you running cold water through your fingers. 

"I'm used to getting cuts during combat practice but it's been years. It hurts now" you casually admitted.

"I'm sure it hurts even then… it's just that you didn't have the thought of feeling the pain" he returns after getting the small wooden box filled with medical items just by the shelves nearby.

"You could say that… All I thought about was winning against my opponent. Although it's not a competition" you smiled at the thought of past memory.

Ayato took hold of your hand as he inspected the cut on your ring finger.

"Who was your opponent? Your brother?" He curiously questions as he glanced away from your hand to meet your gaze.

You smiled, "It was my mother."

He let out a chuckle upon receiving the answer, it wasn't really what he expected but considering your background, he wasn't surprised at all. He has already personally met the person a few times before and fortunately he was considered an acceptable suitor upon first glance otherwise things would be difficult.

"Did you win?" he took a bottle of antiseptics solution from the wooden box and gently applied it on the cut with a cotton. 

"Obviously I didn't...oww! That actually stings." You replied to his question but was soon feeling the slight pain.

He quickly brought your hand closer to his lips before he started blowing the small cut as if it was going to instantly remove the pain away. His left hand held your wrist while the other was holding on to your fingers.

"Does it still hurt?" He questions and you only shook your head.

"I didn't know she's also better than you when it comes to combat" he then casually continues the conversation while taking a strip of clean linen using his other hand.

You laughed at the thought, "Oh please… you should be glad that she didn't complain the first time she saw you"

"Perhaps I was well prepared" he smiled confidently before covering the cut on your finger with a linen.

"Mmm… I guess I'll give you that…" You eventually agreed at the thought of it. After all, he literally ventured all the way from Inazuma to your homeland without being given any information from you. It was all his own effort.

"...now I'm curious, if your parents were still around, wouldn't you be married into an actual arranged marriage?"

Ayato ponders at the question as he ties a neat knot to secure the strip of linen in place but was careful to keep it at a comfortable position. 

"Most likely… but I'm married to you now. It's too late, I can't imagine that outcome" After casually replying, he pulled your hand once more before gently kissing the tip of your fingertips. His eyes admiringly locked into yours with overflowing confidence. 

"I know…" you eventually smiled at his affectionate gesture, "...but I don't think they would agree to your choice either considering I wouldn't be beneficial"

"I think, the only reason why I couldn't be with you is, if I were never given the chance to meet you."

Upon receiving his answer, you could only let out a laughter in literal denial over his exaggerating interest towards you.

"Surely, I'm not that interesting at first glance..." you jokingly replied.

"Not interesting? In what terms, beauty, intelligence or status?" He asked with genuine curiosity in his eyes. 

"Personality." In which you replied that wasn't included in his list of options. 

"Listen, if you want to get to know someone your eyes see what's visible first"

"Ohh… so if I'm physically unattractive-"

"and that's the point, you're not." He cuts through your words. 

"...if that's the case, then you only decided to approach me just because of the way I look?"

"Hmm… do you think so?" He suddenly smiled, seemingly amused about the question itself.

"Well, considering it's you, your eyes probably see something else"

He simply nods and keeps your hand within his secure hold. 

"Then what did you actually see the first time you met me?" you add, somewhat getting a little more curious although you knew you're probably falling into one of his sly traps. 

"The ripples of your beating heart" he unhesitatingly replied in a whisper. 

You scoffed and shook your head in complete disbelief. 

"Alright… let's get back to cooking now."

"You don't believe me?" He laughed. 

On most days you spend your time writing or reading and sometimes painting on a canvas, so you barely even talk. The household is often quiet but occasionally you would hear footsteps and distant whispers. The servants never once disturbed your current study room at the estate but it still gets to you sometimes.

If you didn't venture out into nature, you would be at your own residence. Simply because of this, you would be returning to your own residence especially during the day because your residence would provide the atmosphere you need.

"I believe you. How could I not?" You smiled but was keeping in a laughter. For once, you didn't. 

But just like any other day, you wouldn't miss a chance to have a nice conversation with him. In most conversations it would be something totally random and sometimes it's about politics. Obviously all the political issues or internal affairs are all coming from him but you're there to give him an idea or two. You're basically his unofficial advisor and nobody would know even if that entire idea about capturing someone for interrogation was all your suggestion.

"I could clearly tell that you're not" he suddenly brings his face closer towards you, as if deliberately trying to check the flickers in your eyes. 

You courageously stared back at him as you brought your face even closer than he did by only leaving a few inches apart.

By a mere second he was surprised but slowly copied the same smile displayed on your lips. Just a heartbeat before he could even react, you had already retreated away. A little too fast for his liking.

"Did I finally get your attention? Now we need to really get back on schedule. Dinner won't be ready on its own" You finally revealed the reason behind your actions and yet had not even the faintest idea how emotionally devastating it was to the person opposite you.

He could only sigh to temporarily dispel his unrequited desire that was only a grasp away just to abide with your instructions. 

"Indeed my attention is all yours now"

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

Check out the [ Story List ] for other sequence in the Inexpressible Series

A/N: I actually have too many Ayato shorts in drafts but I’m not sure if it’s interesting to read because its all about Inexpressible duo. 

[rosalind-hawkins]

My YGO Hetero Ships: Part 1

Wanted to make a little post about my Yugioh hetero ships because I feel like I don't talk about them much. And then the post wasn't little, oh well. Mostly Trustshipping and Polarshipping rants.

Peachshipping is a bit of a foregone conclusion for me. It's intuitive and I think they work so well together and are good for each other. I use it as a world-filling background ship a lot because it's just so... obvious to me? And wholesome, don't forget wholesome. It's sweet, it's positive, it's healthy. I don't have a strong grasp on either character which is why I haven't written it, and I don't feel passionately about it, but I do support it.

Blueshipping was the very first ship I ever wrote in my very first fanfic ever, and while I do support the ship, I haven't written it since then. There is implied past Mizushipping in Rock Bottom, but Kisara still dies like canon, so tragic ending and Seth is rekt. Like Peachshipping, this one is a no-brainer for me, it just only exists when Kisara gets to live/come back, because otherwise it's pure angst and tragedy.

Trustshipping is in the future for a current unfinished fic but I haven't actually written it otherwise. Currently working on a one-shot wip with my husband for it though. This is one that I do feel quite passionately about because I think Ishizu is one of the few people that even has a chance at getting close to Kaiba, in terms of purely canonical characterizations. And in terms of non-pure canonical characterizations (aka the fun stuff), there's even more potential for passion and romance. I think they've both had to grow up too fast, take care of their little brothers, deal with abusive fathers, make difficult decisions, and be forced into a role that they didn't ask for/weren't ready for. There will be understanding, patience, and compassion there, mostly just from Ishizu but you get the idea. The dragon doesn't want to be tamed but gradually realizes the benefits of the arrangement. She's strong-spirited in a quiet way and she won't let Kaiba treat her poorly. People might think she's Kaiba's trophy wife at first, being exotic and beautiful, but I think she can absolutely hold her own with poise, class, and wit. Whenever she has to go to a snobby social event with him, people will gradually realize that he didn't tame her, she tamed him. Ishizu the dragon-tamer. He is her dragon, she is his queen. She's not a trophy wife, she's not a gold-digger. Neither of them are a prize to be won. This is a partnership, and if you ever disrespect one of them in front of the other, you will be flayed with their words. She will also absolutely have her own career in Egyptology/Archaeology which helps to discourage the conception that she married him for any reason besides her love for him.

Polarshipping is another one that I think I've only written once, and it was in the context of Ettushipping, but I stan it quite hard. I won't shut up about it anytime Mai and Joey are in a scene together when I watch Yugioh with my husband. ("Omg look at the way he smiles at her! And look at the way she looks at him! And OMG he would die for her, this boy is too pure!!") I think I've used it as a background ship before a couple times maybe? But I love their canon storyline together and their dynamic (and I can even appreciate what happens for them in Season Four, even though that season kinda ruins Mai and does her all kinds of dirty, Joey's determination to help her despite her turning on them, despite Tristan saying "you're better off letting her go because I don't want to see you get hurt again", is one of the sweetest things and Joey is such a puppy and once they finally get together, I hope Mai understands what a Good Boy she has and absolutely spoils him). I do feel strongly about them and I want to write them at least one-shot at some point.

[handmeyourheart]

Hello! I like your work and I was wondering if you could do a one-shot idea for either Macaque or MK with a gender-neutral reader. The prompt idea is that the reader has a scar on their arm somewhere and the other person accidentally grabs on that part of the arm, causing the reader to shove them away and look startled/scared for a moment. But after a second they calm down and acts that it never happened and if asked by them they get unnaturally cold towards them and continue to say it didn't happen. (Sorry if the format is confusing/awkward I'm not used to typing online)

Imagines

Pairing: Six-eared Macaque and Romantic/Platonic Reader. MK and Romantic/Platonic Reader. (Separate).

Summary: Reader has unresolved trauma and the boys have questions.

Warnings: Maybe a bit ooc for Macaque, but otherwise no spoilers this time. I changed it from a Oneshot to Imagines because I was compelled to do both like you asked, so I apologise if it’s not what you hoped for but you’re free to request more!!

Notes: I really love angst— yes, feed me, indulge me in my bad habits. Gender neutral reader. It’s mainly platonic but you can infer romantic feelings if you’d like!! Non-specific. Haha Macaque's one doesn’t end the happiest, but it’s okay. Also I’m sorry in advance baha.

Words: 1.2k for Macaque, unfinished MK, there’s an explanation I swear.

Also gentle reminder my requests are open! Feel free to leave an ask!! It would be greatly appreciated. See my pinned post for more details!!

Macaque / Liu’er Mihou!

You and Macaque are something along the lines of partners, he’s one of your only friends and you’re one of the very small few he tolerates beyond his average scale. Work colleagues at least and very close at best, you help him out with his work because unlike some people you’re remarkably capable in your line of business, and he admires your achievements— there’s no mess he could leave behind that you can’t clean up. You’re something of an assistant to him, helping him organise his deals and collect his due when necessary, but on occasion you might lend an experienced hand in aid as an accomplice, your abilities are nothing to scoff at, after all, how else could you call yourself a friend of the six-eared simian if you went at least up to his own standard. Though you weren’t as competent as Macaque himself, you can hold your ground if need be, at least, which makes you suitable if not ideal for him to work with.

Though a lot of your background story is shrouded in mystery, he doesn’t really know what your deal is, but since you don’t ask him personal questions about his dramatic past, he respects you in kind and doesn’t ask anything beyond his bounds, he knows where you limit him. All he does know is that you’ve been in the industry for much longer than he has, whether it’s a cause for concern is yet unknown to him, but it’s not strange for folks like yourself and him to wind up in this kind of work. It had just simply been by matter of circumstance that you’d come to work together, whatever made it easier to earn more, you’d suppose.

Tonight however despite the careful, intricate planning considered beforehand, the job had been a total bust thanks to a crude but admittedly unintentional mistake you had made. You’d managed to escape outside through the crossfire and under the cloak of night, fleeing without a trace, they weren’t able to follow after you—

but Macaque would not be pleased with these results especially since your slip up meant he had to scuffle with the clientele himself because of it. You weren’t sure what impression to expect when you next regrouped, but you tried to keep your hopes low and pleaded with whatever god of luck may be lurking to pity you some and alleviate his anger, if only partially.

Fortunately enough though you were just glad you both came out unscathed by the ordeal, but tensions were high between you and your partner over it. With your back to the wall and head hanging loosely between your knees from where you sat positioned on the floor, you assessed any damage that might’ve occurred without your potential awareness, ignoring the sharp gaze of the monkey who's back turned to you, dismissing his mood as you surveyed your legs in concern.

“What was that?” He spoke, seeing how you weren’t going to indulge him with an answer to the night's prior events. With his back still facing you in an arrogant disposition that teased at his agitation, you didn’t really feel the most inclined to humour him, unwilling to put up with his attitude. In response to your silence he sends a dreaded, sharp glare toward you and you relent, shoulders falling in defeat. Maybe you could be an easy foe, but it’s been a long night, plus it’s Macaque. It's fine, be quiet.

“What was what?” You feign ignorance, swallowing dryly as his stare remains cold, exhaling through your nostrils forcefully in a strained sigh. “It was an accident, alright? Don’t get your tail in a twist, it wasn’t something we anticipated.” You dismiss, rising to your feet at his disapproval. It was a truly silly mistake, your cover was blown and the whole espionage went up in smoke and sirens, but it was fine, he just had to realise that. You just wished he’d suck it up for once, he’d made mistakes before too, maybe not as disastrous as today but it wasn’t fair for him to lash out on you for one failure when your track record with him was as solid as it is. “Are you alright, though? I would’ve stayed to help but I thought it would’ve only inconvenienced you further, I didn't want to anger you more by burdening you with my presence during a large scale fight like that.” You hesitantly approached him at that, the aftermath hadn’t been the prettiest and he had to get quite involved in order to escape the whole ordeal, so your concern did stem from a place of genuinity.

In return for your concern he shoots you a look, grabbing the arm that reached for him with a stern and increasingly tight grip. “Do you know how much money we lost—“

He was quickly cut off by your cry of distress, yelping at the sudden force against a very large, very personal scar that resided up the length of your inner arm. It was something mostly hidden from view, hanging at your sides with your arms in resting and wearing long sleeves can make the antique wound seem oh so unnoticeable. But the grief it had caused you over many years was triumphant and the potent memory of how it was received is still fresh in your mind, tender and as pulsating as the scar under his vice hold. You quickly lashed at him until you were freed, cowering back a few steps and wincing at the ripe sensation. It had never healed, and you assumed it never would no matter the amount of remedies you tried. Macaque had attempted to release his hold earlier upon your initial reaction, it was unlike you to flinch if at all and now you’d instinctively retreated away from him, a sullen but sure gaze of hurt in your eyes that shocked him.

You’d always been one to hold yourself to a high regard, you were admirable and courageous, and he had been sure to withhold his strength to a lesser extent— it definitely was not him that’d hurt you, right?

Seeing his surprise, you took a brief moment to recollect your composure, gently returning your arm to rest once more idly by your side with a disgruntled sigh. He seemed to sit in a silent anticipation, as if expectantly waiting for an explanation out of you, but you’d be damned if he were ever to receive one after he’d snapped at you, returning back with a smooth, even tone. “Whatever we lost I can compensate again later, even if it means taking on some of my own jobs to reimburse you for your damages if it’s just so important to you.” You’d note, dusting yourself off and brushing past him like the entire altercation hadn’t happened at all. He seemed rather perturbed, following your figure closely before he tugged on the fabric of your top to halt your exit.

“What was that?” He repeated, as if only an echo of the former anger when he’d asked the question earlier.

“What was what?” You’d parrot, forming a thin line with your mouth and turning away, leaving the monkey to welt in a small pool of guilt. He’d have to apologise, even if he was a little confused by the situation.

MK / Qi Xiaotan!

You’d been a rather long time friend of the newly named Monkie Kid, though you couldn’t hold a candle to the extensive history of he and Mei, but you’d met the two some time after they’d become besties and you were pretty much, without so much as a word of complaint, adopted into the now trio of hero hooligans. A mostly unwilling, low key thrilled to be included participant of their many shenanigans and various escapades. Of course you and Mei were close as could be, but if you had to understand a scale of reference you’d consider yourself maybe closer to MK, you’re often the one who convinces him to console in you when he needs someone to talk to and you’re willing to hear him out until the end.

Nobody really knew where you came from, though. One day you’d just up and appeared and you were great! So no questions were really ever asked, especially when there wasn’t a need to, they’d known you long enough even before MK had been crowned the official successor of the monkey king, you weren’t a suspicious person.

OK SO UM SORRY FOR THE SUDDEN CUT OFF LMAO I have a notice haha…

Well anyways I apologise for the cut off, I will update this when I can when I finish this but well, my house flooded a little while ago and it caused mold to grow under the floorboards so we’ve had to fix the plumbing and then organise for the floors to be stripped and replaced so the mold can be dealt with yikes, so I’ve been struggling with writing lol, but the show must go on so I’m posting this preemptively.

I hope this doesn’t sadden you too much, I will still be working on this and I won’t move on to another request until it’s done but please be patient with me. I posted pretty consecutively but my schedule will probably fall into a weekly/biweekly routine for updates at best!! Not sure when I’ll get it finished, but check back regularly and you’ll know. Love YALL, stay safe, don’t get your house flooded! xx

[cilil]

New Year & Resolutions

So... 2023. As with many of us, it wasn't a great year for me. Lots of stress and struggling irl, family members getting severely ill, some tragic accidents... and with some of these situations being ongoing and big scary exams coming up, 2024 isn't looking much brighter for me in that regard.

However!

I still have my stories, my blorbos and my friends - and that means you guys - to keep me company and brighten my day. I don't know what I would do without you and all of the fun things we do together and for that, I'm endlessly grateful.

In late 2022, I (re)entered the Silmarillion fandom (as in, I was never interacting before that, but I was there), and in 2023 I joined and participated in a whole bunch of events and met so many great people - many new, but also a few I remember from back in the day. It felt great to finally, after all these years, have the courage to reach out and let you know that I love your works. Let's hope for another year of creativity and community, and I'm very much looking forward to what everyone has in store...

... which brings us to my new year's resolutions.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ I've started working on expanding my character pool, as some of you may have noticed in the more recent events and challenges I shared on my blog, and I want to continue doing that. Comfort is a fickle thing and I'm always worried I don't get it right, but I try to take it as an opportunity for creative growth either way.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ Related to the previous point: I want to continue using the drabble and ficlet events specifically to give gifts to friends, mutuals and followers alike, so once again: If you have brainrot or fun ship ideas or anything of this sort, let me know, hit me up, let's chat. I love hearing new ideas. And if it's ever something I don't feel like I can write or talk about at that time I'll let you know, so no worries at all.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ I want to continue being present for events, but I need to find some time for my personal projects as well, which I haven't really managed this past year. There are several ideas for bigger projects I have lying around and collecting dust (both Angbang and otherwise) and I also have old fics from back in the day that I want to rewrite and share. It won't be easy, especially with the aforementioned exams and all, but I want to at least try.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ That also includes requests I have yet to fulfill and unfinished events. My apologies to all those who have waited longer for something than they should have - I assure you, I didn't forget about it. I'm just a bit of a bumbling fool who gets too excited about her hobby and then proceeds to bury herself in too much work.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ On the other hand, I did manage to make some progress in regards to being more motivated, being more productive and taking better care of myself and I want to continue improving in that regard, be it when it comes to fandom or otherwise. I also want to say thank you to all those who supported me during difficult times - you know who you are. Thank you. I appreciate you more than you will ever know.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ As generic as it sounds, I also want to continue improving my craft, both writing and, dare I hope, art. I had several moments over the year where I felt like I improved or I learned or understood a new thing, but there's always room for more and I'm someone who enjoys learning.

I might have forgotten something so there may be edits, but that's it for now.

I wish all of you a happy new year and all the best for 2024, even if things aren't looking too bright for you either. Despite everything, I'm confident that we can get through this together, and if nothing else just know that I'm here for you, trying to share the things that make my life better and hopefully bring others a bit of joy too.

By which I mean hot angel porn -

Bye~

[duckapus]

Episode Idea: The Curious Case of Dr. Weegee and Mr. L

When Mario's latest antics go a bit too far, Luigi snaps, laying into him for both that and all the other crap he's gone through, before storming off to E. Gadd's lab to see if his on-and-off mentor needs anything done, since he feels the need to do something productive while he cools off. Unfortunately, angry plumbers and mad science don't mix, and he gets hit by a stray blast from the invention he's helping put the finishing touches on.

The next time anyone sees him, he's acting uncharacteristically cold and bitter, especially towards Mario, his eating and sleeping habits have taken a nosedive, he's wearing a bandana for some reason, and no-one can find E. Gadd anywhere despite Luigi more-or-less moving into his lab for a while. Everyone's walking on eggshells around him, apart from Mario who's trying to make things right and getting burned badly in the process.

On top of that, a new technology-based villain called the Green Thunder has popped up, committing targeted, thematically appropriate crimes against specific individuals who have seemingly no connection. At least, they don't until the crew gathers enough clues to realize that this villain is Luigi, and that something must have happened that night in the lab. They find the Professor locked in a storage closet, and he reveals that the invention they'd been working on was actually meant for him. It was supposed to fix his tendency to create things that go rogue and cause chaos by suppressing the mad part of his mad scientist persona. Unfortunately in its unfinished state it did the opposite, bringing all of Luigi's unexpressed rage, pride and self-loathing to the surface while pushing down the Luigi he prefers to be, along with his moral compas.

They confront him at the site of his next big plan, where he decides that now that they know who-and what-he is, he'll adopt the name Mr. L, Luigi's old villainous alter ego, since technically that's who he was already. The crew distracts him by appealing to the usual Luigi-who's been fighting for control the whole time and managed to leave a few of the clues the crew followed-and then uses a modified version of the invention that started this to get him back to normal.

In the end, the Mario Bros decide to start going to relationship counseling, since clearly things have been Real Bad between them for a long time now(though admittedly have been getting a bit better, especially ever since they met their current friend group) and they need professional help. Meanwhile, something, or rather someone, lurks in the dark alleys of New Donk City, wearing a green bandana and a twisted grin...