#do not even get me started on the whole tea ritual scene just before this. do not

[montecrizto]

this is such an insane moment

[jomiddlemarch]

To be with you in hell

“You know, normal people watch dress up to watch Rocky Horror,” Alina commented, leaning back against the steel wall of the freight elevator. “I have fishnets and a pleather corset, I could’ve gotten dressed in like five minutes and we would have been on time.”

“While that conjures a truly delightful image, milaya, we cannot go against tradition,” Aleksander said. The tawny fur collar of his overcoat just brushed against the angle of his jaw, the line of his shoulder and sleeve almost painfully elegant. He’d had the whole kit ready and waiting, unlike Alina, who’d had to scour the local thrift shops for the past six weeks and even go to Jersey (Jersey!) to pick up the jade green high heels that were shockingly on point for the character.

“You’ve been doing this for how long again?” she asked.

“The past ten years,” he said. “It was Fedya’s idea.”

“That scans,” she said. She hadn’t realized when she and Aleksander quite how much time they would end up spending with his group of friends, all Russian immigrants or the first-gen children thereof, nor how much vodka she’d be offered when they hung out when she really just wanted a spritz or a rum and coke. Aleksander’s father had died when he was very little and he had what Alina called a challenging relationship with his mother and he referred to as an estrangement, so Ivan and Fedyor, David, Genya and Nikolai were not only his friends but his family. After the first group get-together Alesksander brought her to, during which she had been obviously (and in Ivan’s case, suspiciously) vetted by them, Alina had been welcomed to the fold as warmly and thoroughly as if she herself had grown up slurping borscht on the banks of the Volga. She had a particular friendship with Genya, who treated her like a sister, sharing clothes and scathing remarks about Nikolai’s latest girlfriend, and who rejoiced when Alina’s contribution to the pot-luck was budaatai khurga with plenty of cumin. It wouldn’t be on the menu tonight, when the meal was as carefully curated by Fedya and Ivan as the soundtrack leading up to the viewing. She’d been told they went all out and the caviar was imported, not domestic lumpfish roe, and they brought out the full silver tea service, polished within an inch of its life.

“You don’t really mind, do you?” Aleksander said. He suddenly sounded uncertain, young, almost shy, a complete contrast from his usual effortless confidence. “I can see how it might seem silly, childish, all this dressing up, the rituals—”

“You mean how you take turns and recite the lines along with the scenes and David plays his handmade domra and you always take Goncharov’s big soliloquy in the cathedral? How they buy a new batch of goldfish every year and then Fedya brings them to his classroom afterward because Ivan is, and I quote, ‘not cut out to own pets?’” Alina said, smiling as she spoke. Genya and Nikolai had filled her in separately, both of them starting by saying that Aleksander probably wouldn’t tell her everything she needed to know and also that he’d never admit it but he loved the whole thing, especially that monologue which always brought out his accent. Also that he’d never brought another woman to the watch-party, make of that what she would, Nikolai adding some roguish winking and Genya tapping her left ring finger before segueing onto a discussion of man-made diamond versus vintage stones.

“Yeah,” he said, mumbled really, which was unlike him and thus utterly adorable.

“I don’t mind,” she said, reaching up to touch the knot of his tie as if it needed straightening. “I love it, I love that I’m included in the traditional Goncharov watch and that I get to be Sofia and free up Genya from having to be Katya and Sofia, even if these shoes are killing me.”

“You can take them off,” he said. “Fedya will understand. They’re not canon and I can see Sofia walking around in her stocking feet.”

“It’s okay, it’s worth a little pain to pull off the look,” she said. “Authenticity is worth suffering for.”

“I believe a foot massage will be in order later tonight,” he said, all that shy diffidence gone and a wonderfully filthy gleam back in his dark eyes. “If you aren’t too stuffed with cannolis.”

“I hardly think that’ll be a problem,” she retorted. “I have it on good authority you eat most of those.”

“Fedya ratted me out,” he grinned.

“Worse. David,” Alina said and then the elevator doors finally, creakily, parted and they were in Ivan and Fedya’s enormous loft apartment which was somehow so much like winter in Naples Alina thought she could hear a church-bell tolling, the clock-tower struck, the bitter cold wind whipping through the alleys like ghosts seeking companionship, promising ice, not snow.

[ohtendril]

If you’re still doing the fic trope prompt, accidental eavesdropping + everybody knows/mistaken for a couple for Ted and Rebecca?

It had become Rebecca’s little Sunday ritual to walk to the Richmond Green in the morning, early enough so that she could sit on a bench or a blanket without anyone recognizing her, but late enough for the sun to warm her skin. That day she’d brought a book, and a tea with chocolate croissant she’d grabbed from a small bakery she walked past every day.

She made her way to one of the benches, took out her book and put on a Taylor Swift album that Keeley (and Ted, to her surprise) was so insistent she should give a try. Just as she was getting into the plot of the book, her phone started blowing up with texts from Keeley.

That Friday Keeley came to her, all excitement, talking about organizing a birthday surprise for Sam. She'd become invested in the planning, not because Sam was her favorite, as some people might have pointed out, but because she was enjoying watching the team come together and be a unit even outside the club. And though Keeley held the reins, she lent a hand whenever she could.

Now it seemed that there was a last minute birthday cake crisis (something about mixed dates? She could keep up with the speed of messages coming in).

Why don't you bake it? She sent, obviously joking. She knew Roy could bake mean scones, but she saw Keeley’s reaction to the “fold in the cheese” scene on Schitts Creek and wasn't so sure she should be allowed near an oven with no supervision.

Are you mad???

WAIT

COULD TED DO IT?

Omg

Can you ask him?

Why me?

You just have a way with him 😏

What does that even mean?

He has literally never said no to you

Rebecca took a second to actually think about it. And, well. He did agree to that interview when she wanted the Independent to do a profile on him. He did agree to a photo shoot (although she did arrange for him to wear Tom Ford so that might not count). And he did try the tea she’d made for him after she'd told him he'd just been drinking it wrong (it was more sweetened tea-tinted milk but still). And the list grew.

Okay.

She replied simply before dialing his number, the music in her headphones stopping.

"Top of the mornin', boss!" he greeted cheerily.

"Hi Ted."

"What can I do you for, boss?"

She breathed a small sigh and raised her eyes when an older lady pointed to the empty space next to her. She smiled encouragingly for her to go ahead.

"There's been a hitch in the plan for Sam's birthday. We-" she paused and thought back to Keeley's message. She might as well, "I might need you to bake the cake."

"Oh? What happened?"

"Not entirely sure, to be quite honest, but Keeley's freaking out about it."

“Okay,” he fell silent for a second and it was enough to make her regret asking him in the first place, when he added, “I’ll do it.”

“Are you sure? You don’t mind?” guilt making itself comfortable in her mind. “I don’t want you to feel like,” like I’m using you, “like you have to. We could still-”

“Poppycock!” he interrupted her and she had to control the snort that threatened to escape at how ridiculous that word sounded in his mouth.

“Poppycock?” this time the chuckle was out before she caught it.

“Yeah, fiddlesticks. Humbug. A bunch of hooey. Balderdash!”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile on her face betrayed her amusement. “I get it, Ted,” she said, stopping his nonsense (quite literally).

“You know I always have my baking game on! Besides, I made his birthday cake last year too. Now it’s a tradition.”

“You did?” she remembered the green slice of heaven she’d enjoyed once Higgins had left her office that evening. She should’ve known.

“I might have to do something different this time. Chocolate sponge maybe? You think he likes chocolate?” he asked without waiting for an answer. “I’m sure he does. Who doesn’t like chocolate? Okay lemme see,” she heard him rummaging around in his kitchen, imagined him opening his fridge and pantry, looking for ingredients. “I got eggs and butter and flour. Oh, yep, there she is. We’re in business, cocoa powder. Chocolate sponge is a go.”

She continued to listen to his rambling about frosting and fondant and how one time he wanted to impress Michelle’s parents and baked a banana bread with peanut butter swirls. “It was delicious. Too bad her mum was allergic to bananas.” And she laughed out loud.

She only realised she'd smiled through their whole conversation when she’d hung up, seeing her own reflection in the screen of her phone, laughter lines etched in her cheeks.

“How long have you two been married?”

She jolted a little at the gentle voice of the older lady she didn’t realise was still sitting next to her. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, I’m sorry dear, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. But you and the lad sound like a lovely couple.” The lady started getting up, hooking her bag on her arm. “I hope your son has a lovely birthday.”

[talldarkandroguesome]

3rd of Sun’s Dawn, Turdas

I cannot say that this has been the most fruitful nameday.

I treated myself with a cart ride from Rellenthil to Shimmerene. I was exhausted from my late arrival to the former. I drank overly sweet wine and listened to a pair of self-important minor nobles talk about why they felt justified to have treated their servants so poorly. One talked about how the poor girl just never seemed to get the tea quite hot enough and over steeped it every time. The other suggested a beating was going easy on her and she deserved worst. The other said that his servant was far worse, was supposed to have his clothing always properly pressed by the time breakfast was done and never seemed to have the job finished on time. Worst yet, he continued, when his clothing was finally laid out, it was often not free of wrinkles and often was the wrong garment. His companion asked what punishment was dolled out. He said he had burned the man’s hand with the same iron.

It was hard to sit there and listen to them talking about handing out tortures as if it were a discussion about the weather, casual, matter-of-fact, without remorse.

Knowing that it was my usual ritual to make offerings to my Prince on my name day, I decided that this pair was more than perfect for such an offering.

Besides, I was a Widow now and it was important for me to conduct myself accordingly. Ensuring my Prince was given proper offerings was a part of that. 

I thought about the various tools I had on me. How would I do this? What would I use?

The thought of Leythen’s dagger came to me. It was the Widow’s blade, sharp and thirsty. These were the sorts of unredeemable nobles that abused their power to the detriment of all, I was performing a service.

Even still, I was aware that the killing of people of notoriety is always a dangerous undertaking. Particularly nobility. People would be aware of them, expecting them.

I would need to stage the scene when I was done. To ensure no questions were asked, it would need to look like an argument gone wrong.

It was not a worry. I felt confident. I would be disappearing from the area through the portal soon enough and there was little evidence to be able to link things back to me as it was.

I pretended to be tinkering with a hair ornament, looking as though perhaps I were a craftsmer fixing it. I waited until the two nobles were busy looking out at the scenery and a curve approached.

With a well practiced exageration of movement, I feigned that I had not been prepared for the curve and simply bumped into the one man, dropping a pinch of a slow acting poison into his cup.

I immediately apologized, called myself clumsy and caught up in my work, and excused myself back to my tinkering. 

They sneered and told me to be grateful that I did not work for them or I would lose more than just my job.

I continued to act as though I were very sorry and prostrated myself before them.

They laughed coldly and spoke of my lack of intelligence and how dark and ugly I was, as though I were not there. It only hardened my resolve. I knew one of them was going to start to suffer symptoms within an hour and already the shape of the city was fast approaching in the distance.

When we arrived in Shimmerene, I made as though I were headed in the opposite direction of my targets, calling thanks to the driver for having been so generous. It was important that the driver give me no thought if he were ever asked a question.

I slipped around a corner and drew my invisibility, hurrying to follow the nobles. The one was beginning to complain about dizziness and having some trouble breathing. The other jested with their companion about having had too much to drink.

It was only a few more minutes before the poison was really starting to take effect. They had to walk together and made their way to an inn.

The whole thing was rather by the book. They got a room. I needed only to wrap a fine cloak around myself and pretended to be delivering water for them and entered, hood over my face, making myself seem as a servant. When the one who was not ill turned to me, I drove the Widow’s blade into their chest several times in quick succession. They were not random strikes, though they would seem so. I went for the places where it would do the most internal damage, make them fall the fastest. They had only enough time to scream and cry out how dare I do  such a thing to them, before I slipped around behind them and held them above their friend who lay coughing in the bed.

I pulled the small knife they had from their belt and drew it across their own throat, the blood coating the poisoned man. Then dropped the body onto him.

The man on the bed screamed and threw his friend backwards onto the floor. He asked if I had done something to him. I whispered poison. He screamed at me to give him the antidote or else he would see me killed.

I agreed and pulled a small bottle from my satchel. The lettering clearly marked for a curative.

He eagerly snatched it from me and drank it down.

It is a shame that he did not have the decency to actually find remorse before the poison caused him to claw at his own throat, his strangled scream unintelligible. 

There was no way around it, it had to be done. I do hate using that poison on the truly terrible, it takes so little time. His body seized up and his heart and lungs soon would follow.

I tucked the knife into his hand, then let it fall to the ground naturally.

I burned the blood off my body as I whispered my prayers at the offerings. I heard Farayn besides me and turned to see her watching me curiously.

With a smile I gave her a little pet and then asked if she could inform Zethith I had made an offering to our Prince.

Farayn teleported away and I dealt with my clothing and leaving the inn.

I made my way to the agreed upon spot with Nettle and found that he ahd left me a message. He and Nabine had been captured by cultists, but the both of them, and the children as well, had managed to escape unharmed.

My heart was soothed to know that they were alive, at least whent he message was left. According to the innkeeper, it was likely only a few days after I had left.

The note mentioned that they would be heading northwest on my trail and that they hoped to meet me at the College of Sapiarchs. I kicked myself for not having checked in Lilandril first. But at least I had this much.

I got a room, a couple bottles of wine, and a decent meal.

Now I must decide the best way to get back to Lilandril.

I could teleport to the Cathedral of Webs. At least that way I would be able to spend the remainder of my nameday somewhere more hospitable. Or I can try to indulge in some enjoyable activities in the city here first.

I do not wish to take the cart back to the city. I cannot stand the idea of spending hours besides any more Altmer nobles.

My Prince, I thank you for your blessings on this day. Please enjoy these blackened souls I have sent you.

[chalkrevelations]

Episode 33 of Word of Honor, and someone is sleeping on the couch tonight.

(Spoilers, so scroll past and come back later, if you want to watch unspoiled.)

Yes, show, I knew it, but Zhou Zishu and I (and apparently Mo Huaiyang) would still like an explanation as to how. Also, Zhang Zehan’s face, y’all, I cannot. He doesn’t even need any dialogue, his expression says everything ZZS is thinking, clear as words. That bit starting at 19:25 when the moment of realization hits and then the understanding starts sinking in – he’s so hurt and lost that it hurts me to look at him. Completely different vibe from the previous ep, when he showed up and gave WKX that brilliant smile like the sun rising and then turned to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with his zhiji against the world. And later, when WKX asks for his sword: You want to use my sword? I will stab you with this sword, how about that? And then he goes and stands with his back to WKX. Wen Kexing, my dude, I don’t know that calling him shixiong is actually enough to get you out of this one, and you know what? It shouldn’t. You deserve to be stabbed a little bit. I’m not entirely clear what’s going to happen from here r/t those Seven Nails, but it’s maybe not good, given ZZS disposed of his worldly possessions disciples beforehand and then did whatever he did alone (rather than with the second master that WKX told A-Xiang would need to be there) and while shitfaced and drowning in grief. I mean, the voiceover from Wu Xi says that the elixir effects are only temporary, but I don’t see why he couldn’t get more, so maybe he was just planning to wander off and die alone and drunk in the gutter, like he was before he met WKX, but he didn’t have anything then, and giving up his responsibility for Four Seasons Manor now …

Anyway, I do think the show unfortunately already bled off some of the emotional impact of WKX’s parts of this showdown, because this is the umpteenth time we’ve heard the “You killed my father, jianghu! Prepare to die!” speech, and the infodump and Awful Yifu’s continued weaseling and the actual combat between WKX and Zhao Jing is all a little bit interminable, but the bits that show ZZS’s face journey help carry it, so yet again, congratulations on and thanks for your gorgeous and gorgeously expressive face, Zhang Zhehan. Also, I do love Shen Shen finally losing his shit at Zhao Jing. That’s an explosion that seems to have been building up for a couple of eps now. When did Da-Shixiong of Yueyang Sect show up again, though, because that seems a little bit deus ex machina. (I say, looking back at this whole Rube Goldberg plan that apparently everyone in the entire jianghu except ZZS was somehow involved in.)

And then, OMG, XIE’ER. Ew, ew, ew, ew. That is not how I was hoping you would get over the impact your Awful Yifu’s bs has on you! Speaking of Xie’er, though, let’s just take a minute with the first scene of the ep: Oh, baby, you actually were hoping Awful Yifu wasn’t going to be awful when you sent Liu Qianqiao to test him. I do like the way the scene works as the other bookend to the first scene Xie’er and Qianqiao had together, with the gambling metaphor continuing to be threaded through it. I’m also wondering how much of Du Pusa’s disdain for Liu Qianqiao that we saw particularly in Ep 31 has been driven by jealousy based on an increasing affinity between Xie’er and Qianqiao, this knowledge between the two of them that they both have what seems like an unbreakable bond with a man who doesn’t deserve it? I feel like there’s some actual emotional connection there, given the way he talks about her suffering and says he doesn’t have the heart to stand by and watch. His face, when he smiles at her, breaks my heart. That’s a guy who’s hoping he’s giving someone else the freedom he can’t see himself ever having. Also, I guess that was some foreshadowing for his next move with Awful Yifu, when they had him tell her that he was leaving in her hands whether she cured her loser boyfriend or kept him a slave forever. Interesting also that what Xie’er (and Qianqiao) asks of her loser boyfriend is that he walk away from his sect, essentially walking away from any power and influence, when the excuse that Zhao Jing has constantly given Xie’er for not acknowledging him is that he wasn’t powerful enough YET or influential enough YET – and now, even with all the power and influence in the jianghu, Zhao Jing’s willing to crawl over Xie’er’s dead body for more. Will you choose me? Or will you fail me? They’re both hoping, I guess, that loser boyfriend will give Qianqiao a better answer than Xie’er got. And in contrast to Xie’er, it looks like Qianqiao manages to make a clean break. Props to loser boyfriend, I guess, for being more concerned that Qianqiao is free of servitude than himself, even if he wasn’t willing to die with her. I mean, I suppose that is asking a lot.

Last thing (well, this one is definitely shorter, probably because this ep seems like it was wrapping up a lot of threads from the last couple):

I do love just how done both Xie’er and Shen Shen are with everyone fawning over Zhao Jing during his ritual combat with Mo Hauiyang. If either of them rolls their eyes any harder, they’ll fall out of their respective heads. I also noticed the camerawork again here, with Shen Shen, Chengling and Xie’er in position where they could easily box in Zhao Jing in the initial Hero’s Conference seating, and a shot that lines up the three of them in the camera during the ritual combat, right before ZZS shows up to spill all the tea that (he thinks) WKX now can’t.

[charincharge]

"For some reason I am attracted to you" prompt for nessian 😍💞Your writing is amazing

In honor of their book announcement. Some Post-ACOFAS Illyrian mountains angsty Nessian.

Nesta hated the mountains. She hated the cold winds that burnt her cheeks while she trained. She hated the way the altitude made the air thin in her lungs, making it impossibly harder to breathe. It made her feel like she was always on the verge of drowning, putting her perpetually on edge.

She hated the thick fatty meats stockpiled in her kitchen; apparently the mountains couldn’t grow vegetables. She longed for a salad. But instead, she forced herself to eat the too rich meat broth, unable to chew through animal flesh without gagging on it.

She hated that she was being shadowed by an overprotective fae male, constantly under his winged surveillance. Even when she couldn’t see him, she could always feel him. Creeping in the corners of her consciousness, tugging on that thing between them. She hated that thing most of all.

But there was one thing that wasn’t too terrible. Since arriving in Illyria with Cassian nearly four months ago, she’d made a friend. Emerie ran a small outdoor post on the outskirts of the camps, and it turned out she was just as unpopular as Nesta was – a woman attempting to infringe upon a man’s realm. Nesta thought it was brave that Emerie was able to maintain her father’s shop, despite the camps’ disdain for a female owner.

Nesta wrapped her scarf around her face tighter, attempting to block out the howling winter winds, as she made her weekly walk into town for tea with her only friend. Her worn in boots trudged across the frost laden path as the sky darkened with the threat of an incoming storm. She could feel wetness seep in through the cracks in the old leather, and she walked faster.

Heat prickled against Nesta’s thawing skin as she entered the store. She shed her jacket and scarf, hanging it on the tall coat rack by the door. A fire blazed in the corner of the room, and Nesta hurried toward it to splay her cold hands over it, letting the warmth of the flames lick her frozen fingers.

She heard a tea kettle ringing in the back room and made her way across the floor to assist Emerie with her preparations. Nesta pushed the heavy wooden door, and it creaked loudly. She was startled to see that Emerie was not boiling water alone. Cassian stood beside her at the stove, a relaxed smile across his face. His normally pulled back hair was loose around his reddened cheeks, brushing against the tops of his shoulders. His casual stance was so unfamiliar to Nesta she had to bite her tongue to stop from gasping. He was so tense around her – shoulders taut and corded muscles ready to strike out and attack. And watching him tip his head back and laugh at something Emerie had said, Nesta realized she’d never seen him relaxed.

An icy ripple curled around Nesta’s neck, cold fury choking her at the domestic scene before her. The doorknob beneath her hand grew frigid beneath her touch, turning brittle, and splintered to the ground with a loud thunk. She pulled her hand away quickly, the icy feeling disappearing as quickly as it came on.

The pair whipped toward the door in surprise, and she noted Cassian’s posture straighten uncomfortably as he caught sight of her. She gave him a tight smile, which he returned with a terse nod.

“I’ll fix that,” Nesta apologized, reaching down to grab the piece of metal from the floor. It burned her skin, and she dropped it again. This time, the knob shattered into shards and scattered across the old wooden floors.

Cassian’s hazel eyes narrowed and swept her body from head to toe. Nesta’s heart pounded, unsure of what was happening. She hated being out of control. Not knowing what her body could do.

Emerie removed the still shrieking kettle from the burner and grabbed her broom, dusting the pieces of metal into a small pile in the corner of the room, while Nesta looked on, frozen in shock.

“Nes?” She hadn’t even noticed Cassian had crossed the room to where she stood, suddenly only inches away from her. Infringing upon her space. Her routine. Her ritual. He didn’t belong here.

“What are you doing here?” Nesta hissed, her pulse thrumming wildly as she stared Cassian down.

He picked up a box from the table behind him and held it out to her. “Thought I’d pick up some new boots for you.” He looked down at her holey boots, which had seen much better days. Nesta crossed her foot behind her ankle, trying to hide it from his view.

“I don’t need your charity,” she said, crossing her arms and refusing to take the box from his hands.

Emerie, sensing an incoming argument between her friend and the Commander, smartly poured two mugs of tea and extracted herself from the small back room, heading back out to the store.  

Cassian sighed and ran his hand through his hair, pushing the strands out of his face. “This isn’t charity, sweetheart,” he explained to her, his voice dripping with condescension. “Winter’s just starting, and I need my soldiers with all their toes.”

“Fine,” Nesta acquiesced, taking the box. “You can leave now.”

“Don’t you think we should talk about—” Cassian motioned to the hole in the door, and Nesta practically growled at him.

“No.” She was resolute.

“You’ve only lost control like that before when you’re angry at me,” Cassian said, his voice lowered, unsure of how much Emerie knew about Nesta’s abilities. He lifted his arm and boxed Nesta against the door, trapping her. “If something else is triggering it, I need to know.”

“I’m always angry,” Nesta seethed. His face was much too close to hers now. She could see the shades of green and gold flecked in his hazel eyes, drawing her in. She looked away, under his arm, straight at the stove where he was standing when she walked in.

“Tell me,” he pushed.

Nesta pressed her hand against his chest, trying to get some air. “You. It’s always you.”

Cassian narrowed his eyes in confusion. “Not sure how I’m to blame for making you angry this time, sweetheart. I was just standing over there, minding my own business, helping Emerie make tea…”

Nesta’s fingers tensed against his leathers, curling against the ring of his harness. And she watched in horror as Cassian’s lips curled into a devious smile. He looked over his shoulder and then back at Nesta, who was still rigid below him.

“Were you…” He paused, cocking his head to the side slightly for emphasis. “Jealous?”

Nesta rolled her eyes and pushed against his chest again, but he remained solid, immoveable. “Of course not,” she snipped. “That’s ridiculous.”

Cassian snorted, leaning closer to her. She gulped, hating the tug she felt deep in her stomach, telling her to let him in, to embrace him, to show herself to him.

“No, ridiculous is burning off a doorknob with your ice cube hands,” he snickered and lowered his other hand to her waist.

“Don’t touch me,” she gritted out between her teeth, but she made no motion to leave.

“Just admit you were jealous, and I’ll leave,” Cassian said, eyes alight with amusement.

Nesta’s stomach twisted as she looked up at him. He waited patiently for her reply.

“Fine,” Nesta began. “For some reason, I’m attracted to you.”

“For some reason…?” Cassian stood up straight, shaking his head, no longer leaning over her, and Nesta took a large gulp of air. “Cauldron, Nesta, you’re infuriating. You know the reason.”

He took another step back and leaned against the table in the middle of the room. He crossed his arms, his body suddenly withdrawn, though his eyes burned with fire.

Nesta stepped away from the door and smoothed her thick sweater.

“Did you ever stop to think that if you accepted the bond, your powers wouldn’t be trying to spew out of you every time I got on your nerves?” he asked, agitated.

Nesta had, in fact, thought of that. It’s what irked her daily about their connection. That she knew it was connected to her powers. Connected to the Cauldron. To everything she hated.

“Why won’t you accept it?” The fire was dimmed in his eyes, dialed down to a low simmer as he stared her down. But she couldn’t give him the answer he wanted.  

“Thank you for the boots, Cassian,” she said, reaching around him for the box. He grabbed her arm, and she let him for a second. His thumb caressed the inside of her wrist, and she shuddered under his touch.

Emerie knocked softly at the door, wiping her hands on her apron. “Tea’s ready, Nesta,” she said, and Nesta silently thanked her friend with a small nod. “Will you be joining us, Cassian?”

Cassian pushed himself off the table and shook his head. “Thank you, but I have business to attend to.”

He pulled on his gloves, his siphons glimmering with the reflection of the flickering fire. He looked at Nesta again and his lips tightened as he took a deep breath. “Don’t stay too late. There’s a storm coming in tonight.”

He didn’t bother waiting for Nesta’s answer as he extended his wings and took off as soon as he exited the small store.

But as Nesta sipped her tea, she could feel him hovering nearby. After telling Emerie she would return again next week, she wrapped herself back in her thin coat and scarf and headed out into the wet winds. The outline of wings created a shadow on the ground, surrounding her the whole way home. Nesta never looked up once.

tags:

@df3ndyr @hizqueen4life @maastrash @justgiu12 @aknymph @bamchickawowow 

(sorry if you’ve told me you want to be on my everything tag list and i missed you...please just tell me again!! i’m trying to get my lists up to date)

[ryqoshay]

OTP Ask Meme (Impatient Edition) YohaRiko

Again, I know the point of these things is to wait for followers to Ask questions from the list, but reading though this one got me thinking too much. About all of my flagships. And I wanted to answer all of the questions. And not wait for a handful to maybe be asked.

Anyway, credit again goes to @lonelypond​ for this version coming across my dash. Reblog that version if you want to do this thing correctly.

Also, just because I’ve already answered these here, I’ve expanded on some for various reasons and left others short if I believe the reasons are obvious. So if you still want to do the whole interactive thing, you can still ask for clarification or whatever.

And finally, there will be spoilers ahead for Happy Life, and to a lesser degree the AU, both for scenes I’ve written and posted, as well as some that remain in my Notes and WIP Warehouse. I’ll try to remember to link to the chapters mentioned.

1. Who wakes up first?

Riko. Yohane is very much not a morning person, especially after a late night of streaming.

2. Who wants to stay in bed just a little longer?

Yohane. See above. However, if she doesn’t have time commitments for the day, Riko may occasionally want to stay in bed for some activities other than sleeping.

3. Who takes longer getting ready?

Either, though they are fond of getting ready together and helping one another, so in these cases, they’re done at the same time.

4. When they can’t sleep, what do they do?

Yohane has many rituals for inducing sleep involving all manner of meditation, incense, herbal tea, topical rubs, nightmare wards and more. Whether or not they work is up to debate, but Riko is comforted by the sentiment, as portrayed in Dream Warden. Yohane herself takes comfort from being near those she loves, particularly Riko, while she sleeps.

5. Who falls asleep while watching a movie?

Yohane, though it depends on the type of movie.

6. Who falls asleep last, watching the other with a small affectionate smile?

More often Riko, though Yohane does enjoy watching a sleeping Riko from time to time.

7. Who comes up with the cheesy pick-up lines?

Yohane. 100% Yohane. And she is well aware of how cheesy they are. And she knows how much Riko loves them.

8. Who gets extremely competitive playing Mario Kart?

Yohane gets competitive over games in general.

9. Who accidentally pushes a door instead of pulling?

Yohane is more likely to do so, though Riko can be absentminded on occasion.

10. Who sets the other’s ringtone to something loud and obnoxious behind their back?

Yohane.

11. Who rearranges the bookshelf/DVD shelf in alphabetical order?

Both have their reasons for their particularness in displaying their shelving; Riko likes to be able to quickly locate her favorite doujin while Yohane is considerate of the background for her ritual streams.

12. Who does the hands-over-the-eyes “Guess Who” thing?

Yohane. With as many different attempts at different voices and accents as she can.

13. Who points out a dog when they see one?

Early on, both, though for different reasons; Yohane out of excitement and Riko out of fear. Later, Yohane retains her excitement while Riko becomes more lax in her reactions.

14. Who’s prone to road rage?

Yohane.

15. Who’s prone to wearing socks indoor (or to sleep)?

Either

16. Who reminds the other to put on sunscreen before going to the beach (or pool)?

Yohane knows she burns easily and is pretty good at remembering, though Riko is mindful that her girlfriend can be careless at times.

17. Who carries all the important documents while traveling?

Riko.

18. Who gets the window seat?

Probably Yohane. Likely accompanied by some statement about missing being able to fly under her own power.

19. Who puts their cold hands/feet on the other?

Yohane.

20. What do they argue about the most?

Early after moving in together, Yohane had a bad habit of bringing home stray pets, despite it being against the policy of the apartment complex, as depicted in Hibagon. These arguments subsided once the policy was changed, as depicted in Phobetor.

21. Who’s clumsier?

Yohane, though Riko certainly has her moments.

22. Who texts more often?

Yohane.

23. Who is better with kids?

Yohane is better at keeping kids entertained with her antics while Riko is better at tending to their care, be it feeding them, calming them down when they’re upset or applying first aid; Yohane is pretty good with first aid as well, having had far too much practice on herself.

24. Who’s the better cook?

Debatable. As I mentioned in the Notes for A Roost for Weary Wings, Yohane is capable of producing higher quality results, but also fails more spectacularly. Riko may lack the skills and confidence to produce highly extravagant meals, but she is far more consistent in producing edible food.

25. Who mistakes salt for sugar?

Riko. Despite what one may assume from my prior answer. Yohane will still eat it, not only because she has a strange sense of taste, but also because her beloved Riri made it for her and she will be damned before letting it go to waste.

26. Who puts the fork in the microwave?

Possibly Yohane.

27. Who cooks at 2 in the morning?

Yohane.

28. Who lets the microwave play the loud beeping sound at 1 a.m.?

Definitely Yohane.

29. Who licks the spoon when they’re baking brownies?

Yohane. She’ll even bring her own spoon, as depicted in Valentine’s Taste Test.

30. Who likes doing the dishes?

Riko doesn’t mind it. Yohane dislikes it but is willing to balance the workload after Riko cooked.

31. Who has bigger cravings? What are they?

For food, especially exotic or exceptionally spicy food? Yohane. Although she does have a bit of a sweet tooth, as her favorites would imply. For enacting scenes from her favorite doujinshi with her girlfriend? Riko.

32. Who remembers what the other one always orders at a restaurant?

Both, though for slightly different reasons. Riko believes it is romantic to know certain things about one’s partner. Yohane believes it is the duty of a fallen angel to know such things about their little demons… or fellow angels?

33. How do they eat ice cream? What’s their favorite flavors?

Yohane will often eat too fast and give herself a headache. Her favorite flavors are those of her favorite foods, chocolate and strawberry. Riko eats slower, more often out of a sundae dish than a cone, in part because a dish is better for eating at her pace, but also because it’s easier for Yohane to “steal” a bite or two. She enjoys Yohane’s favorites, but is also fond of mint and vanilla.

34. Do they go on dates? What are they like?

Absolutely. Riko prefers going to museums or orchestra performances, though she has dragged Yohane to several doujin stores over the years. Yohane prefers higher energy environments like amusement parks, though she has dragged Riko to several gothic Lolita clothing stores and occult shops over the years. Both girls look forward to events like Comiket.

35. What do they smell when they smell Amortentia?

Riko smells the slightly sulfuric scent of boiling eggs her parents made often while she was growing up, the clean, salty air of Uchiura, and a spicy, sweet and earthy scent to which she cannot match a specific memory. Yohane smells sweet black lilies, the lingering smoke from a myriad of incense that always permeates occult shops, and a spicy, sweet and earthy scent to which she cannot match a specific memory.

The last scent for both is an idea I had while Googling random stuff for this question. It’s basically how one website describe the smell of Dragon’s Blood resin when burned as incense. I want to bring it up in a scene or two in both HL and HL(AU), though there will be a difference between the kinds found here on Earth and up in Heaven, which may end up as a minor connecting plot point.

I realize this leaves Riko without something that she knows is directly related to Yohane, but I was trying to avoid using incense too much, as it already had three entries between them. Also, it technically is related to Yohane, she just doesn’t realize it right away. I’m hoping whatever I write someday will make that connection for her. Not that she’ll ever smell Amortentia in HL, but…

36. Which one is the secret snuggler?

It’s no secret that Yohane loves her snuggles. Riko is quieter about her desires, but can be quite insistent, nonetheless.

37. Which one offers their jacket to the other when they complain they feel cold?

Riko. Yohane is far more vocal about her discomfort, especially when it comes to temperature.

38. Who reaches for the other one’s hand while driving?

Riko is more likely to do so, though Yohane might as well. That said, I don’t believe I have them owning a vehicle in HL, so this probably won’t come into play anytime soon in my works.

39. Who leaves little notes in the other one’s lunch?

Riko, as the more consistent cook of the pair, she is more likely to make their lunch bentos for the day. (Bonus: What does it say?) Casual reminders of her love for her Yocchan.

40. Who is the most affectionate?

Both are quite affectionate, though Yohane is far more likely to initiate, especially in public though even in private.

41. Who is the big spoon/little spoon?

Riko is most often the big spoon. Though Yohane might try to have one believe elsewise.

42. What is their favorite feature of their partner?

Riko loves Yohane’s smile when she is passionate about something, be it her streams or games or whatever. Yohane loves the way Riko’s fingers dance across the keyboard.

43. What is the first thing that changes when they realize they have feelings for the other?

Yohane becomes increasingly aware of Riko’s behavior and attitude toward Chika and has to make a conscious effort to avoid holding anything against the idol group’s leader; she likes Chika as a friend, after all, and is thankful that she brought her into the group in the first place. Riko starts to include Yohane in her fantasies.

44. What are their nicknames for each other?

Yocchan and Riri

45. Who worries the most? Over what?

Riko is constantly concerned that Yohane’s abysmal luck will eventually cause her actual harm, as in more than just catching a cold or getting a scrape or small cut. Yohane also fears that her abysmal luck will adversely affect Riko.

46. Who initiates kisses?

Yohane all the time, in public and in private. Riko, in private.

47. Who says I love you first? How did it happen?

Yohane said it first in Revelations.

48. Who tells their friends/family about their relationship first?

That’s actually a good question. I haven’t decided yet for this ship. I mean I have plans for revealing that the blonde Mari knows, but as for the couple actually telling people… hrm… Off the top of my head, I’d be more likely to say Yohane.

49. What do they do when they’re away from each other?

Both are quite capable of entertaining themselves without the other. Riko can play the piano and Yohane can play her games until their fingers cramp if they are not actively doing something together. And they have Phobetor and Prelude to pet and take on walks and play with. It’s not until bedtime that they become more aware of the other’s absence.

50. Who gets overwhelmed by small acts of kindness?

Depends. Yohane is more the emotional rollercoaster and could easily be overwhelmed by kindness from the girl for whom she held a one-sided crush for far too long. Riko is also likely to moved, though more through something that fits into some trope she loves in her doujin; good thing Yohane can be quite genre-savvy when she wants.

[rjhpandapaws]

Director’s Cut

Ch 1: On Set Chemistry

The hardest parts of working with Daniel were keeping things a secret, and not breaking character in the event they had any scenes together. They’ve been together for going on five years, and Silas was honestly surprised no one had found them out yet. It probably had something to do with the fact that they both belonged to a set of identical twins. Silas got mistaken for Connor often enough that he had to assume the same thing probably happened to Daniel. Officially speaking, they didn’t live together. That would have definitely given them away, but he was over at Daniel’s often enough that they may as well have. This morning he was in the kitchen waiting for the water for his tea to boil when he got a text from Connor. The chime of his phone in the still silence of the kitchen scared him half to death. He picked his phone up from the counter to find an article from his twin. It was boasting about their being a limited run television series in the making for Detroit: Become Human. Silas was over the moon, he planned to keep his ear to the ground on this one. If this was actually real he wanted to be the first to know.

He and Connor were a lot alike, even once you set aside their being identical twins. They both enjoyed the early hours of the morning just before dawn. It was a moment they could just be before everything in the world picked up again. Connor had the luxury of living alone though, he didn’t run the risk of waking anyone up if he happened to close a cabinet too loud on accident. Silas took the kettle off the stove at the very start of the whistle and poured the water into his waiting mug. He cradled the mug in his hands and made his way out onto the balcony to watch the sun rise. It would be where Daniel found him once he woke up, but for now it was just Silas and the last moments of a sleeping city. He heard the balcony door open about an hour later and he was met with the smell of strong coffee that marked Daniel’s presence. He received a kiss to the top of his head as Daniel made his way to the other chair on the balcony. It would be a while yet until he was awake enough for conversation. While he was a great many things, a morning person was not among them. Silas didn’t mind though, his quiet company was more than enough. He reached his free hand out and Daniel intertwined their fingers.

This was their morning ritual. It might change in small ways depending on the circumstances and who’s house they were at, but they always spent their mornings together. It had become one of Silas’s favorite things. In these moments they didn’t have to worry about anyone else. They could just exist together and he loved it. “How was the sunrise?” Daniel asked after a long while. “Beautiful.” Silas responded, “Lots of reds today, it almost looked like the sky was on fire.” “That sounds like it was quite the sight.” He said around a yawn. “You’re still tired. Do you want to go back to sleep?” Silas offered and gave Daniel’s hand a gentle squeeze, “We don’t have anything we need to do today.” He shook his head, “I’ve already finished my coffee so it wouldn’t be a good sleep.” “That’s fair.” Silas agreed, “Connor sent me a pretty interesting article if you feel awake enough to give reading a go.” Daniel was quiet enough before he replied that Silas thought he might have fallen asleep again, “I think I can handle it if it’s short enough.” He yawned again, “It’s still too early to be a fully functional human.”

Silas laughed at that and opened the article on his phone before he handed it off to Daniel. They had different ideas on what qualified as a short article usually, but Silas figured this one would meet Daniel’s mark. When he finished Daniel handed the phone back to him. “That is a tall order to fill.” Daniel remarked, “But I can’t say that I’m not excited.” “Right?” Silas grinned, “It would be nice to get to tell that story again.” They pass the rest of their day off with ideas and speculations about the show. Neither of them played major characters comparatively speaking, but it was still fun to guess the routes the show might take with each of them. Sixty was oddly loved by the internet for reasons Silas didn’t understand but appreciated nonetheless. Daniel on the other hand was a mixed bag, some people loved his character, some pitied him, and others outright hated him. Silas wondered how the show would be received. Some fans held some very strict views on how each character needed to be interpreted. It was a pretty big part of why he and Connor had both largely stopped interacting with the fanbase as a whole.

As more speculation articles cropped up in the next few months Silas waited for the hammer to come down saying it was all false. The last thing he had expected was to get a call about playing Sixty for the show. It was real, that unsourced article all those months ago had been right. He listened to Daniel get the same call and when it ended they looked at each other and laughed. It was exciting to see them pay such close attention to the details. Down to the point that they called the actors for characters that very commonly got killed off. It was a good sign for the whole of the project. “You know we’re going to have to keep our distance while we’re on set right.” Daniel said, “The press is going to be crawling all over such a big project.” Silas gave an overdramatic groan, “I know, I know. You didn’t even let me have a moment of joy did you?” Daniel just laughed, “If I let you have the moment the next thing you will do is start plotting. If I have to read or listen to another bit about our work chemistry I am going to lose it.” “I feel that.” Silas agreed, “I’ll behave I promise.” “That is a lie and you know it.” He replied with no heat to his voice.

When the start date came Silas decided to drive to the location with Connor. To put timing distance between himself and Daniel and to provide moral support for Connor. This would be his first time seeing his ex since their messy public split. All of the potential drama aside, he found himself looking forward to the start of a new project and going back to a role he had loved.

[maria-de-salinas]

Snapetober Day 12 - Panic Attack

Cross-posted to AO3

The common room was still dark but Severus' sore neck woke him up. He'd fallen asleep in one of the chairs near the common room fire, his head resting on his forearm, and the pain wouldn't go away even after he'd sat up and rolled his head around a bit.

He couldn't really remember why he'd fallen asleep there. Maybe he'd stayed up too late inventing spells or something.

The door to the boys' dormitories opened but Severus paid no attention to them until Mulciber opened his mouth.

"Have you been here all night?" Severus was staring into the fire but he could picture the cold amusement in his eyes, like everything was a joke and he was the only one in on it.

"Leave him," said Rosier. "He's in one of his anti-social moods again."

They vanished into the stone wall and Severus crossed his arms over his chest as though he could deflect the blow. He wasn't about to get up and run after them, but he thought they might change their minds and wait for him.

He supposed he could skip breakfast, go straight to his dormitory and read awhile before his first class. But his arms and legs were already weak and he knew he'd never be able to concentrate, and anyway, he hated going hungry, he'd had to do it enough over the summer. Lily never spoke to him, never brought him any extra food the way she used to do.

He wouldn't have been able to face them all, all those fucking ordinary people who'd laughed as he was reduced to nothing, if it hadn't been for Avery and Rosier and Mulciber walking alongside him, swaggering with a confidence he wished he could feel, wands at the ready, powerful in their magic, the dark curses they whispered in abandoned classrooms waiting on the edge of their tongues. They could take on anyone.

Severus knew more curses than any of them, but without them he might as well know nothing at all. He could see his arms and legs out of the corner of his eye, heavy and stiff like wood, jerking and twitching like a marionette. Could see strands of hair hanging over his eyes, so lank and oily it made his scalp itch.

He could hear the voices echoing off the stone walls before he reached the top of the dungeon steps. There must've been a thousand of them, at least. Were they always so fucking loud?

His chest was so tight he couldn't breathe right. He was getting dizzy. He gasped for breath. The air wouldn't go in. His heart slammed against his chest and the base of his neck hurt.

He'd seen a man collapse in the middle of the street in Cokeworth, just walking home from the mill. He clutched his chest and the metal lunchbox he was holding fell to the ground and burst open. But Severus was too young for that.

He sucked in a breath again, but nothing would go in and now his head was dizzy and he was going to pass out, right there in the Entrance Hall, and no one would see him, no one would stop to help, but then he wasn't sure he wanted them to.

He didn't know how he ended up in the bathroom. Maybe he thought there'd be someone there. But there wasn't and he paced the floor, every heartbeat pounding in his head, knowing any one of them might be the last he ever felt, and he didn’t want to go like this, with the chipped sinks and the piss-smelling stones...

"Severus?"

I can't breathe.

"Severus! Is everything alright?"

Someone was there but he didn't see who.

"It's alright. You're alright."

I can't, I can't...

“Just breathe in. Through your nose.”

Severus gasped for air.

“Good. Now...erm...hold it for a few seconds. Then breathe out.”

Severus let out a breath. So he was still breathing.

“That’s it...so, can you remember how to make Polyjuice Potion?"

Severus clutched his head.

"Add three measures of knotweed, right?...two bundles of knotgrass, stir three times..."

"Four times," said Severus, and he realized then that he could talk, that he was still breathing.

"Right. Four times...and then what?"

"And then...and then you let it brew," said Severus. "And then you add four leeches." His breathing was slowing some. He put his thumb to his wrist and felt his pulse. Still too fast, but not as much as before.

"And then...a scoop of lacewing flies?"

Severus knew that voice. Lupin.

He narrowed his eyes at him. "Two scoops. With brains like yours it's no wonder you didn't make it to N.E.W.T level."

The corners of Lupin's mouth twitched in smile that he might have thought self-deprecating if he'd been anyone else. "Well, I can see you're feeling a bit more like yourself."

Severus didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it before. The whole thing was a trap, it had to be. His heart pounded harder and he stepped towards Lupin, voice breaking, slipping into his wretched Black Country twang. "Wha' the fuck you doin' here?"

Lupin lowered his eyes. "I saw you in the Entrance Hall. I thought you looked...unwell, so I followed you here."

Severus glanced under the stalls for shoes, listened for breathing, fingers groping for his wand. "Where are they?"

Lupin raised his eyebrows slightly. "Sorry?"

"Don't play dumb with me Lupin. Where are Potter and Black?"

Lupin's eyes widened too quickly to be put on, but he still didn't believe it. "It's just me."

Severus listened. There was no sound apart from distant footsteps and the trickle of a leaking faucet.

So he was telling the truth. But he still didn't understand. He stepped towards the werewolf, so close he could smell the coffee on his breath. "If you tell anyone about this you will pay, d'you understand me?"

Lupin twitched as though to shrink back, but stood his ground, eyes wide and earnest."Of course. I won't tell a soul."

Severus sneered as though to say he doubted it, but he backed away.

Lupin shot him a furtive glance that was hard to read and made for the door, but when he'd reached it he stopped and ran his fingers through his hair, looking from the floor to Severus. "It happens to me too. And people give me shit about it, believe me."

Severus didn't know what to say to this, but Lupin didn't seem to expect him to. "Well," he said, turning back to the door. "I'll see you around."

Severus hated that he believed him.

* Severus flattened himself against a wall and waited for the Bloody Baron to pass by before climbing up the steps to the Astronomy tower. He slumped against the castle wall and pulled out a twenty-pack of Woodbines he'd bought at the corner store just before the start of term, pushing the lid open and counting how many he had left. Just four. Shit. There were still five weeks to go before Christmas holidays and he knew his friends wouldn't have any, just the useless high-class pipe tobacco they smoked sometimes during one of their pretentious dinner parties. Ah well. He would savour them, anyway.

He pulled a book of matches out of his pocket and his muscles relaxed. He smoked fags for comfort, the way some people clutched hot cups of tea. He had a ritual. Pull it out of the box, bring it to his lips, strike the match, light the fag, breathe in. Peace.

The footsteps were heavy, shuffling, like someone running. Severus breathed out and stood up, ready to Disillusion himself if need be, but he didn't think it was a teacher.

Whoever it was ran right to the edge, stopping short at the railing as though only vaguely aware it was there. Severus stepped closer.

Lupin. He was clutching his chest and gasping for breath.

Severus took another drag and watched him, feet pivoted away as though he were going to turn around, but they wouldn't move.

Lupin made a strange keening noise and Severus stepped over to the railing.

"The fall constellations," he said. "Do you remember them?"

Lupin just kept breathing hard.

"Andromeda, Aquarius..."

"Aquarius," repeated Lupin vaguely. "And...Lyra?"

"That's summer, you prat. Try again."

"Erm...Pegasus?"

"What else?"

"I don't...I can't remember..."

Severus raised an eyebrow. "And they gave you an O.W.L in Astronomy?"

"I got an Outstanding," said Lupin, his voice stronger, clearer.

"Really?" said Severus, voice inflected to suggest his disbelief.

"Yes, really. Now let's see...right. Capricornus and Pisces."

Lupin took a deep breath and stared at Severus as though just realizing he was there. This time he didn't look down. "Thank you."

Severus shrugged and threw his fag on the ground, stamping it out with his boot. Somehow he couldn't bring himself to tell Lupin to fuck off. Which was good as telling him he could stay, and Lupin knew it.

He looked up, hands in his pockets. "Nice night for stargazing."

Severus made a noncommittal noise. He was more interested in what was on the ground.

Lupin nodded towards the wall. "Want to sit down?"

Severus followed him, pretending he didn't know why, that he didn't care. That he hadn't been aching for someone to sit down next to him like an ordinary person.

Lupin drew his knees up to his chest and ran his hand along the folds of his robes. "Listen. I'm really sorry. About everything."

Severus had played this scene over and over in his mind, and Lupin was always on his knees grovelling, cowering before his clenched fists. Severus clenched and unclenched his fingers and the heat rose in his chest and his heart beat faster but he knew he couldn’t do it. Knew Lupin meant it. 

Lupin must’ve known it too, because the corners of his mouth lifted just a second before he glanced away again, serious, and looked up at the stars. “Do you ever feel like...I don’t know, like a stranger? Like you were just dropped on this planet to observe everyone but never really fit in?”

Severus was unnerved. He only felt like that every bloody day of his life.

“Sometimes.”

“I feel like that all the time.”

Severus made a disparaging noise. “You think you don’t fit in? When you spend all your time hanging round with Potter and Black?”

Lupin ran his hands along his robes again. “I dunno...sometimes I think they’ve got more in common with each other. Like I’m just along for the ride, you know?”

Severus didn’t say anything to this. But he knew exactly how Lupin felt.

Lupin glanced at him and looked back down, opened his mouth and closed it. “Actually,” he said after awhile. “I’m sort of glad you were here.”

He stared down at his lap again and even in the low light Severus could’ve sworn he was blushing. 

“Yeah,” he said, because he couldn’t really bring himself to say what he really thought. That he sort of was too. Even if Lupin was a prat.

[k-s-morgan]

You got me into sebaciel FUCK. I started bingeing black butler last night and now I can’t stop. I am curious tho — what partially drew me to start watching it is because I love ships with possessive behavior, which is one of the popular tags of sebaciel. Are there any key parts that you recall in the series where obsession/possessiveness is very apparent? (I’m too early in but I’m assuming it’s directed from Sebastian towards Ciel.) thank youuu ❤️

Oh wow, I'm so happy to hear this! :D I love these two so much, and it always thrills me to have more people join in. Obsession and possessiveness are my two weaknesses, I always seek fiction with them. Your questions are very interesting, but I'm afraid I won't be able to reply without huge spoilers! If you don't mind, keep reading, if you do, better save it for later))

Possessiveness. It's demonstrated both subtly and strongly, and it applies to all areas at once. I will describe just some moments that immediately come to my mind because it's been a while since my complete re-watch.

In E9, Ciel is in danger. Finnie is one second from saving him - he's running toward him and is almost there. Instead of letting him save Ciel, Sebastian carelessly and violently pushes him away and covers Ciel himself (before pulling him closer and staring at him as if he's about to kiss him). He wants to be the one to save him, he sees this as his unique right. A part of it comes from the contract, but in this situation, it's not about it - the "why" will be seen later.

In E10, Abberline rushes after Ciel and reaches out to touch his shoulder because he has a question. Sebastian slaps his hand away and asks him not to touch Ciel. There is really no need for it, Abberline is harmless, so it's about possessiveness.

In Book of Circus, when Ciel is having a panic attack (the moment is also known as asthma scene), Sebastian leans closer to him with a blissed out look on his face and asks him to call him by his name. He loves hearing it from Ciel’s lips (and he loves his agony but that’s another discussion).

The next thing that stands out in my memory is Book of Murder, and the way Sebastian was all weird about Ciel liking Doyle's stories. Granted, several interpretations are possible here. However, Sebastian then makes Ciel undress (case reasons) and wear his coat, and he looks very smug about it. Ciel even asks why he insisted on it and Sebastian just says something like, "Isn't it fortunate how it can cover you whole?" He clearly enjoys Ciel wearing his clothes.

Then there are the last episodes of S1. Sebastian's dislike for Abberline has grown since Abberline bonded with  Ciel a bit. So when Ciel is in danger and Abberline dives to protect him, Sebastian doesn't push him away, like he did with Finnie, and he ignores the contract. Instead, he lets Abberline sustain a mortal blow on Ciel's behalf and die, and then he even gets an ugly grimace and spits that Abberline was a fool. Again, there are several reasons for it, but possessiveness is a big part of it, in my eyes.

The whole S2, Sebastian's possessiveness becomes very textual. For instance, he tells Claude, the other demon, that the mere thought of him touching Ciel makes him (Sebastian)  sick. He repeats how he won't let him touch him. Alois, Claude's master, notes that Sebastian is infatuated with Ciel. Then we have absolutely beautiful moments in E10 of S2, where Claude dresses Ciel and compliments him and  Sebastian is so violently livid that he destroys the entire forest around the house, breaking trees with every touch Claude administers.  When he sees Hannah touching Ciel, he also becomes livid and even gains his demonic form before going and straight-punching  Claude in the face :D

I'm sure there are more tinier things, but I don't recall them right now)

Obsessiveness. Obsession is basically there every episode. It's in how fervently Sebastian treats his duties, the care he takes in dressing Ciel (which is a huge contrast with Claude, who's a more typical demon not interested in his master beyond his soul). How he's genuinely terrified when Ciel is in danger and it doesn't look like his soul is the only thing he worries about. The way he stares at Ciel sometimes - so intense, so admiring, so fond.

From more textual examples: I liked how Sebastian tore into Prince Soma for basically not being Ciel. How he ridiculed his every trait that goes against the traits Ciel possesses.

In E18, when Ciel falls into Sebastian's arms after choosing revenge over freedom, Sebastian is so, so reverent about him, his voice is so tender:

Sebastian: How reckless you are... You always exceed my expectations. As expected from my soul... No, as expected from my Young Master.

When Angela was torturing Sebastian, she was visibly disturbed at the level of his devotion to Ciel. This is a bit of the conversation they have:

Sebastian: Even so, my Young Master is still going. Even if all the game pieces are taken away, the King is left. He'll never admit defeat. My master is that type of a person.

Angela: One day, the real Doomsday will come. On that morning, you'll have as many souls as you want. Just give up that boy.

Sebastian: I refuse. I'm tired of my previous life, only knowing to eat. I only want my Young Master. I don't want anything else besides him.

When Ciel comes close to breaking the contract, Sebastian doesn't attack him like he tried to do in the Book of Atlantic flashback. Instead, he leaves, but he also keeps following him, going as far as secretly leading him to where Ciel wants to go. He then watches Ciel obsessively from the roof. Angela is talking to him, making offers, trying to engage him, but Sebastian just throws a distasteful glance at her and immediately gets back to staring at Ciel.

There are way more moments like this in S1, but this is getting so long that I'll get to S2 now. The entire season is about obsession. Sebastian doesn't kill Ciel just because he doesn't want to. He comes up with stupid excuses that fall under even superficial scrutiny. He plans to help Ciel achieve his revenge for the second time because Ciel lost his memories. Claude calls him out on being utterly obsessed, and Sebastian states how special Ciel is and how he's worth it. Also, Alois' entire wish revolved around hurting Sebastian, and to achieve this, Claude decided to steal Ciel from him.

Sebastian is so upset that Ciel remembers few things that even the entire E2 is called "The Lonely Demon". He's so angry about Claude touching and keeping him that he tries to use Grell as Ciel-substitute a bit, serving and making them tea. At the very end, Sebastian once again finds himself unable to kill Ciel even though he loses every reason to serve him. Technically, the contract still binds them, but we saw that demons can easily kill their masters if they want. Instead, Sebastian is so lost about his own feelings (along with Ciel) that he tries to follow the same rituals, such as pretending he's making tea for Ciel when in fact the cup is empty. He ends up carrying him to Hell with him, even though again, he has every reason to kill him.

There are lots of other nuances and great details. Their relationship is so complex and beautiful, and so much is left in the subtext that I just can't get enough of it. I hope you keep enjoying watching it!

Added: I completely forgot about a few points! When Ciel’s soul is gone and his unconscious body remains, Sebastian keeps putting him in bed, making tea for him, talking to him about his plans, and even reading him books. This is just... amazing, considering who he is))

[1dffchallenges]

Boundless As the Sea

Written By: @wokeuptired​

Characters: Niall/Bea

Summary: There's nothing Beatrix Madison finds as silly as Romeo and Juliet, but Niall Horan's a sucker for a love story—even though his own has gone off the rails. When he finds a letter from Bea's grandmother dated half a century ago in the wall below Juliet's balcony, he has to write back. He doesn't expect anything to come of it, and he certainly doesn't expect to find himself going head to head with Bea. 

Author's note: The title is from Act 2, scene 2, when Juliet, on her balcony, says to Romeo, "My bounty is as boundless as the sea, / My love as deep. The more I give to thee, / The more I have, for both are infinite." 

Warnings: enough f words to earn an R rating

One - Bea

For as long as she could remember, Beatrix Madison’s grandmother had never taken lunch without a glass of wine. White, red, sparkling, it didn’t matter, so long as it was alcoholic and complimented the dish. So when Bea arrives for lunch today and sits down at a table devoid of wine glasses, she knows instantly that something is up.

There’s water waiting for her, and a cup of tea that Gran always orders for Bea even though Bea never drinks it. That’s their weekly ritual: lunch every Thursday at Gran’s favorite restaurant, the same meals every time, same table, same waitstaff, and same cup of tea that Bea will never, ever, drink.

The only thing out of place today is the missing wineglass that always sits beside Gran’s plate. Nothing seems amiss about Gran herself: her gray hair is piled primly on top of her head, her lips are touched with a pale mauve, and her cardigan is neatly buttoned all the way up. She’s Gran as always. Except for the wine.

“Is everything all right?” Bea asks, sliding her phone underneath her thigh so that she can give her grandmother her full attention. That’s another one of Gran’s things: she hates cell phones at the table as much as she loves wine. She hates them so much that she didn’t even have one, instead relying on a landline that she often fails to answer.

“Of course, dear,” her grandmother answers. Though she’s coming up on her 75th birthday, Gran certainly doesn’t look it. Nothing has slowed her down, not even taking on the responsibility of raising Bea from the time she was 9, after her parents’ death in a car accident. Gran was in her mid-fifties at the time, looking forward to retiring and traveling and a life free of responsibility, and then life saddled her with Bea.

Now, coming up on 80, she seems to be thriving, which is something that Bea does her best not to be too upset about. It wasn’t her fault her parents died, leaving her grandmother to raise her, but Bea feels guilty about it nonetheless, even now that she’s 25 and hasn’t been a burden to Gran for several years.

“Eat your salad,” Gran says just as a waiter appears and sets it down in front of her.

Bea picks up her fork and stabs at a tomato, misses, and spends another ten seconds chasing it around her plate before she catches it. When she puts it in her mouth and looks up, her grandmother is watching her.

“Are you sure everything’s alright, Gran?” Bea asks again. Her heart clenches, thinking of the worst. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

“Of course not,” her grandmother says, smiling. Bea can’t remember the last time she saw her grandmother smile this much. Something is definitely going on. Maybe Gran has mastered a new banana bread recipe or purchased a new piece of art for the hallway and she’s eager to show it off. Yes, that’s probably it. “There’s absolutely nothing wrong. Tell me about your date on Friday. Did it go as expected?”

Bea grimaces. It was much, much worse than expected. “Not at all. He was twenty minutes late and then spent another twenty minutes talking about his ex. And he was wearing far too much cologne.”

Gran laughs. “You’re far too picky, Bea Bug. Maybe that’s your problem.”

“No, I don’t think that’s it,” Bea says. “He really was awful, Gran. You’re lucky you’ll never have to meet him.”

“Mmm.” Gran’s eyes twitch to the side, where Bea notices an envelope sitting on the table. She also notices that her grandmother has barely touched her own salad, dressing on the side, just how she always orders it. “Speaking of love…”

“Speaking of love?”

Gran touches the envelope and slides it across the table towards Bea. “Fancy a trip to Italy?”

“Italy?” Bea turns the envelope over. It’s addressed to Gran at her estate just outside London, which, if you’re old and snooty, is what’s known as “the family seat.” It’s the house that Bea will begrudgingly inherit someday (hopefully not someday soon), along with all the accrued debt that will come with it. She slips her finger under the flap, which has already been unsealed, and finds a folded letter and another, smaller envelope inside.

“Juliet” is written on the outside of the envelope. Bea opens it and takes out the letter it contains.

Verona, 1965

Juliet, I don’t know what to do. I’m meant to leave tomorrow to return to London, where Robert is waiting for me. We’ve been betrothed since we were teenagers, and he is my destiny, the one I’ve always known about.

But now there is Alessandro, whose dark hair shines under the moonlight when I sneak out after dark to meet him. I feel like a teenager again, not like a university student months away from graduation and marriage. Alessandro makes me feel invincible. He makes me feel like I am worth the world.

Oh, Juliet, what would you do? I know what you’d do. You’d pack up your suitcase and run away with Alessandro tonight. You’d leave behind your destined life in England and choose a new destiny for yourself.

But what if, Juliet, what if I’m not brave enough?

Yours,

Carolyn

Bea reads the letter through a second time, her mind spinning. Finally, she raises her eyes from the wrinkled piece of paper and meets her Gran’s gaze. “Gran, did you write this?”

Her Gran smiles, nods. “Years ago, yes. Now you must read the other letter.”

Oh, God. What could it possibly be? Is it from Alessandro, writing to Gran after all these years, asking her to return to Verona and marry him? Did he find out that Gramps passed away ages ago and is regretting all the years he spent away from Gran?

And then another thought pops up, this one worse than all the rest. Gramps died just before Bea’s parents, which meant Gran was a free agent… until she had to take over caring for Bea.

Oh, God, Bea thinks.

Did I keep Gran away from her true love for 25 years?

Bea shakes off the question, for the moment, at least, and unfolds the remaining letter, keenly aware that it is about to turn her life upside down.

   Two - Niall

It’s a strange thing, how you can go from being engaged one moment to being completely unengaged the next. Engaged, and then you’re not. Your whole life planned out, and then—nothing. Blissful, empty, beautiful nothing. 

Rhiannon had gone from Niall’s favorite person on earth to his least favorite overnight. Or maybe it wasn’t overnight: he didn’t wake up, feel the sun breaking through the blinds, and realize that he needed to break off his engagement. But it only took a second for Rhiannon to react to the suggestion that maybe getting married wasn’t the best idea, and Niall knew he’d made the right choice. 

“Oh, thank God,” she’d said. They were having dinner at their favorite restaurant in Seven Dials, which was to say, Rhiannon’s favorite restaurant and a place that Niall had neither particularly negative or positive feelings about. She’d started telling people it was their favorite restaurant, and then it became too late to correct her, and now they’d been going there at least once a month since the early days of their relationship. 

Niall didn’t intend to initiate the breakup there, at their so-called favorite restaurant, but he was watching Rhiannon peruse the menu just as he had the month before, and he knew she was only moments away from ordering for him, and in his mind he imagined doing this for the rest of his life, and he knew he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. 

And Rhiannon had reacted better than expected. She’d always been a bit of a dramatic person, so he’d been prepared for her to throw down her fork and storm out, or at least raise her voice a bit. But instead she thanked him. 

“I’ve been meaning to say something for ages!” she’d said. “But you know how my mum is. Which is why we can’t tell anyone.” 

“I—what?” Niall had been reasonably confused. The whole point of ending their engagement was so they didn’t have to still be engaged. He did not want to pretend. 

“Our Italy trip. My mum’s already paid for it, and if we tell her we broke up, she’ll cancel the whole thing, and you know how much I’ve been looking forward to it.”

Right. Niall knew. She talked about it constantly, was constantly texting him pictures of places she wanted to see and restaurants she wanted to try. He was not looking forward to three weeks of following her around a country where he didn’t speak the language, eating too many carbs. 

But as he’d looked in her eyes that night, the night that should’ve been their last together, he figured he could do her this one last favor. He could stick it out for another month, spend three weeks with her in Italy and then be done with it. 

So that’s how he’d ended up here, sitting on a bench in a square in Verona, staring up at a balcony purported to be the one from Shakespeare’s famous Romeo and Juliet, even though Shakespeare never even traveled to Italy. Rhiannon ditched him this morning, boarding a bus for a wine tour in the countryside that he had absolutely no interest in. Instead, he caught a walking tour and ended up here. 

This bench is apparently his new home, as he’s been here for three hours and, try as he might, he just can’t get himself to move. He’s fascinated by what he is seeing: girl after girl, and even the occasional guy, shoving letters into the loose bricks under the balcony, tears running down their faces. The tour guide had said that people came here from all over the world to leave letters to Juliet, begging her to fix their love woes. 

A while ago, someone had left a notepad on Niall’s bench after finishing their own letter, and someone else had discarded a pen on the ground. Niall had spent half an hour staring at it, feeling as if it was beckoning him. No one needs love advice more than him right now. He’s probably the only one in this country on vacation with their ex-fiancée and zero desire to win her back.

Now, finally, he stills the pen after spending twenty minutes spinning it between his fingers, and he begins to write. 

Dear Juliet,

No offense, but I think your story is a load of bull. Love isn’t real, and it certainly wasn’t real for you and Romeo. You were only 14 years old, and neither of you made it out alive. That certainly isn’t the kind of love I want. 

So what do I want? I’m not sure, but I know it isn’t Rhiannon. I thought I loved her once, but I know better now. I know that I just wanted to be in love. I just wanted someone to spend evenings on the couch with, to go to the cinema with, to introduce to my mates. Rhiannon was all of those things, but she was also annoying and difficult and after a while, not very much fun to be around. She made me forget what I once liked about myself. 

Is that what love is, then? Someone who makes the things you like about yourself shine like neon? Someone who brings out the best in you, like they say in all the films? 

Does such a thing exist? I guess I’ll just have to keep looking. 

-- Niall Horan

London, England

When he finishes, he folds it up before he can think better of it and approaches the wall, looking for a good spot to stick it. It’s nearing sunset, and the wall is bursting with letters shoved here and there, crammed into every visible crack. If he can’t find room for his, how will anyone who came tomorrow find a place for theirs? 

He turns, looking at the other visitors to the wall. A few feet away, a teenager presses a kiss to her envelope before jamming it underneath a loose brick. Further down, a woman takes a letter from the wall and drops it in a basket. Wait—she’s taking a letter from the wall? Niall inches closer.

Yep, that’s definitely what she’s doing. She stretches onto her tiptoes to grab a letter just above her head, and when she can’t quite reach it, Niall steps forward to pluck it from the brick for her. 

“Grazie,” she says, smiling at him and holding out her hand for the letter. “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome,” Niall says. He holds the letter hostage for a second, though. “Are you stealing the letters?” 

The woman laughs. “Stealing? No, of course not. We write back.” 

“You write back?” Niall turns his own letter over in his hand and considers throwing it away. He didn’t realize someone would read it. 

“Yes.” The woman slips her basket over her arm and holds out her hand. “I’m Sonia.” 

“Niall.” She reminds him a bit of his mum, with soft smile lines around her mouth and light eyes. That must be why he returns her handshake.

“Nice to meet you, Niall,” Sonia says. “Would you like to help?”

Would I like to help? Niall repeats the question in his mind. On the one hand, he’s absolutely shit when it comes to love—the letter he’s hiding behind his back right now is proof enough of that—but on the other hand, he doesn’t have anything else to do. 

“Sure,” he says. “I’d love to help.” 

   Three - Bea

Verona is full to the brim with tourists, something Bea should’ve been expecting. She’d deluded herself into thinking that since it wasn’t Florence or Rome or Venice, it’d be quieter, she’d be able to wander the streets and appreciate the cobblestones and worn door knockers without bumping into American tourists, but she was wrong. 

American tourists are everywhere, and Japanese tourists and French tourists and Indian tourists, huge groups of them wearing matching lanyards and giggling as they clog the narrow roads, and Bea regrets this entire trip. 

She’s regretted the decision to come since the word “yes” came out of her mouth, but once she saw Gran's smile, there was no going back. This was something Gran had been waiting years for. 

Not that they’ve talked about that. Bea’s just turned it over and over in her mind, convincing herself that she’s held her Gran back from living a full life with the hot Italian man she loved when she was twenty years old. She can’t begrudge Gran her chance at happiness now. 

“Mi scusi,” Bea mutters, pushing her way through a crowd of American teenagers. She’s just slipped out of lunch with Gran, telling her she was running into a store they’d passed to get a gift for her boss, and her time is limited. Now she’s going to have to do what she intends and duck into a store for a gift in the time it would take to do only the latter. 

The alleyway ahead is crowded, which is a good indication that Bea is approaching her target: the house where the women who respond to Juliet’s letters meet. After reading the letter in the envelope and agreeing to Gran’s insane Italy plan, Bea had done a quick Google search, just to understand what she was dealing with. 

From what she found online, the letter writers seem harmless, for the most part—just middle-aged and older women who like indulging the whims of lovesick teenagers. Teenagers being the key word. Gran isn’t a teenager, though—she’s a grown woman with disposable income and the ability to pick up her life and bloody move to Italy if she so chooses—and Bea needs to let these letter writers know just how much damage they’ve done. 

Particularly N. Nancy? Natalia? Nicola? Bea will waste no time finding out when she arrives. N is the one who answered Gran’s letter, encouraging her to abandon her life and seek out her lost love, potentially setting herself up for heartbreak. Heartbreak again, because her heart was already broken once, 55 years ago, when she returned to England to marry Bea’s grandfather instead of running away with Alessandro. 

What if’s are dangerous things, N had written, suggesting that it was better to avoid them at all, if one could help it. It was better to go after the things you wanted, even if those things might end up disappointing you.

This is not, suffice it to say, Bea’s life philosophy.

Bea passes the courtyard where all the tourists are gathering beneath Juliet’s balcony and makes a left. There is so much potential chaos ahead, so Bea rolls her shoulders back and focuses on the things she can control. First on the list, giving this N a piece of her mind. 

At the end of the alleyway, Bea stops in front of the door that has a knocker shaped like an envelope. She’d read a description of it online, but there weren’t any photos: the letter writers like the anonymity, she gathered, of having a headquarters with no address. Bea smiles, proud of herself for locating it, and knocks. 

A second later, the door opens, revealing a woman with dark hair and pasta sauce on her apron. “Bonjourno?”

“Hello,” Bea says, playing the odds that this woman speaks English. She grabs the letter out of the back pocket of her shorts and holds it up. “I’m looking for the writer of this letter.” 

“Hmm.” The woman frowns and holds her hand out for the letter. 

Bea hesitates. What if the woman doesn’t give it back? What if she destroys it because Bea’s breaking some unspoken rule by coming here? Maybe Bea shouldn’t hand it over. 

“It’s alright,” the woman says, seeming to sense Bea’s reluctance. “I’ll just look at the signature, and then you can have it back.”

Bea nods, handing it over. 

“Ah,” the woman says a second later, returning the letter to Bea. “He’s here today, actually. You’re in luck. Please, come in.”

He? But Bea doesn’t have time to think it through as she follows the woman into the house. They pass through a narrow corridor and emerge into a dining room, where ten people sit around a table covered in letters. Piles of letters, baskets full of letters, letters everywhere. It reminds Bea of that scene in “Harry Potter” when Harry’s letters from Hogwarts burst through the fireplace. It’s complete chaos.

“Niall, she’s here for you,” the woman says. A man with dark hair seated at the far end of the table looks up. 

“For me?” he says, standing up and walking towards her. He has some kind of ridiculous, cartoon character accent.

“You?” Bea stares at him. This is impossible. This entire thing is impossible. It’s a dream, this all has to be a dream, that’s the only reasonable explanation. She clutches the letter in front of her like she’s warding off a demon. “You wrote this letter?”

Niall nods. He’s taller than her and wearing khaki pants, which, she decides, is the strangest thing about him, the whole writing-letters-with-old-Italian-ladies thing notwithstanding. An Irish, khaki pants-wearing, letter-writing, heart-breaking demon.

“I did,” he says. “But I take it you’re not the recipient?” 

“Of course not,” Bea says roughly. “I’m her granddaughter whose life has just been entirely upended because of this letter, because my Gran has dragged me all the way to bloody Italy to try to find this bloke she loved 55 years ago, who might not even still be alive, and it’s your fault!” 

Said bloke, instead of taking responsibility for his actions, smiles at her. He fucking smiles at her. 

“Carolyn is here?” he says. “That’s excellent. Can I meet her?” 

That is so not what Bea was expecting to hear, so it takes her a moment and a bit of sputtering to muster a sensible response. “No, of course not. Absolutely not. That is not happening.” 

“Okay,” Niall says, nodding slowly, his smile lessening slightly. “I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you, then. It was nice to meet you.”

“It wasn’t nice to meet you!” Bea snaps before turning and rushing from the building before she can say anything else. 

Jesus H. Christ, she thinks as she reenters the alleyway and slides around another group of tourists. Could she have been any more embarrassing? She’d had a whole speech planned out—she was going to tell the letter writer, who, yes, she’d assumed would be a woman, how irresponsible it was to respond to a letter from 55 years ago, knowing it was possible and even likely that she’d be upsetting the balance of someone’s life. She was going to lay it out simply and with such biting and intelligent language that the letter writer would be begging at her feet for forgiveness by the end of it. 

Instead, she’d responded with a comeback worthy of a ten year old on a playground and run away in shame. 

Best not dwell on it. Next mission: buy the first tacky gift she sees and get back to lunch. 

Seven minutes later, snow globe bagged in her hand, Bea slides back into the chair across from her grandmother. 

“Sorry about that,” she says, over-exaggerating her breathing to make it seem like she’d hurried back. “The line was crazy! This was the perfect gift, though, so I couldn’t let it get away.” 

“Of course, dear,” Gran says. “I ordered dessert while you were gone. I got you tiramisu.” 

“Thanks, Gran.” Bea smiles. Good old Gran, always taking care of her. Even now that she’s a full-grown adult, capable of ordering her own food and embarrassing herself in front of strangers all by herself, her Gran is still helping her along. “After lunch, do you want to—”

“Carolyn?” 

Bea whips her head around and, oh, crud, he’s followed her. He strides up to their table like he’s been invited and extends a hand to Gran. 

“I’m Niall,” he says. “I wrote the letter.”

“Oh!” Gran grabs his hand and uses it to pull herself to her feet, though Bea isn’t sure that’s what he intended. “It’s so nice to meet you! Thank you so much for your letter! Please join us.”

“Are you sure?” Niall says, putting a hand on the back of the empty chair. He looks at Bea, an eyebrow raised. “Bea invited me, but I really don’t want to intrude.” 

Bea raises an eyebrow right back. The nerve of him, this Irish bloke with bright blue eyes and the audacity to upend her grandmother’s life and butt in on their lunch. How rude. How inconvenient. How inconvenient and rude. 

“You’re not intruding. Please, sit!”

“Thank you!” He sits down right next to Bea as Gran flags over the waitress and orders three cups of hot tea. Niall will probably drink his, the bastard. 

   Four - Niall

An hour later, Niall has the full story and plans for at least the next two days. Caro, as she likes to be called, invites him to join her and her granddaughter on their Alessandro hunt, and who is Niall to refuse? Especially when it seems to be driving Caro’s granddaughter—Bea is her name—so crazy. 

It’s been a long time since Niall’s had the pleasure of annoying a beautiful woman, and he’s not about to pass up an opportunity to continue doing so. 

“You’re sure you don’t have other plans?” Bea asks for the third time, her voice so high-pitched that Niall wonders if she’s stopped breathing. 

“No, definitely not,” Niall says, taking a sip of the tea that Caro ordered for him. Very polite, she is. “My, um, fiancée is off on a wine tour for the next few days, so I’m free.” 

“You’re in Italy with your fiancée and you want to spend your vacation going on a snipe hunt with us across the whole countryside?” 

Caro laughs. “You’re so dramatic, Bea Bug. It’s hardly the whole countryside, just one region. And a snipe hunt, what nonsense!” 

Niall grins. He likes Caro; she has a pleasant voice and speaks warmly, as if it’s a pleasure to be listened to. “I’d love to join, if you’ll both have me.” 

“I don’t think—”

Caro cuts Bea off. “Of course we will. It will be our pleasure.” 

“It will be my pleasure,” Niall says. Bea scoffs. 

Back at his hotel room that evening, Niall waits for Rhiannon to return from today’s food tour with a ball of anxiety swirling around his stomach. This is something he probably should’ve discussed with her before he agreed to it, right? Or maybe not. Now that they’re no longer engaged, they don’t have to clear things with each other anymore. Niall can do what he wants, when he wants. He can make decisions for himself without considering how they’ll impact anyone else.

So it’s a force of habit, then, that has him sitting in the armchair next to their bed—the bed they’re sharing, though it feels more like sleeping next to a friend than an ex-lover—and picking at his cuticles. He keeps glancing at the door, waiting for the moment Rhiannon is going to burst through. She’ll have acquired at least two bottles of wine on her bus tour, a slight sunburn on the tip of her nose, and, he’d bet 10 quid, plans for dinner with a new American friend.

Twenty minutes later, there she is, red-faced and smiling, exactly as he expected.

“Oh, Niall, you weren’t waiting for me, would you?” she says, setting her bags down on the bed. “I’ve got plans with my new American mate for dinner. We’re absolutely dying to try this place near the Piazza delle Erbe. I hope that’s alright? You can come with us, if you’d like.” 

“That’s okay,” Niall says. “Actually, Rhi, there was something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Sure.” Rhiannon flips open her suitcase and begins digging through it, throwing a pair of shoes on the floor, and then another. She’s looking for a particular dress, he expects, one that will show her new American friend just how London cool she is. “What’s up?”

Niall contemplates how to explain. Best to keep things as simple as possible, he reckons. “I met some people today and they invited me to travel with them for a couple of days.”

“Hmm?” Rhiannon finds the dress she was searching for and smiles at it triumphantly before picking up her makeup bag. “A few days? That sounds nice. Travel where?” 

“Around Verona, to some of the vineyards and smaller towns.” That sounds truthful enough, doesn’t it? There’s no need to mention Caro or the letter or Juliet’s balcony, and there especially isn’t any need to mention Bea, the granddaughter whose sass and long legs make Niall’s blood boil. 

“Sounds like fun,” Rhiannon says. She looks up from her makeup bag, a tube of mascara in her hand, and smiles at him. Crazy how that smile used to make him smile in return, and now it does nothing to him. “Teresa, that’s my new American mate, wants to take the train out to Venice for a day or two. Should we touch base in a few days?”

“Oh,” Niall says, feeling strangely hurt by this information. He’d expected Rhiannon to be upset, or at least slightly inconvenienced by the plans he’d made that did not involve her, and instead, here she is, with Niall-less plans of her own. Would she have even told him about her plans if he hadn’t brought up his first? He doubts it. 

As soon as they’d landed in Italy, Rhiannon had taken off her engagement ring, sealing it into the inner pocket of her makeup bag. 

“I’ll give it back to you when we have our staged breakup, when we get back home,” she’d told him. 

Some bit of Niall, some deep, ego-driven bit of his soul, had been hoping that Rhiannon was using this trip as a ruse to win him back. She didn’t want to break up, not really, so she conned him into coming on the trip with her so she could prance around in skimpy summer wear and lure him into loving her again. 

He didn’t want to love her again, of course, but part of him, that ugly, prideful part, wanted her to want him to lover her again.

It didn’t make any sense, he knew that, and it wasn’t until Rhiannon took off her ring that he realized he was being tremendously silly. But part of him still aches, even now, a week later. 

A breakup is a rejection, even a mutual breakup. As Niall was rejecting Rhiannon, she was rejecting him right back, and part of him, though he’s loath to admit it, is hurt by that. This conversation has just reinforced those feelings.

“Sure,” Niall says, attempting to shake off the emotion welling in the back of his throat. “We’ll touch base in a few days. I’m leaving in the morning, so you can check out of the hotel whenever you’d like.” 

Rhiannon smiles. “Thanks for being so understanding about all this, Ni,” she says. “Coming on the trip and everything. You really didn’t have to do all this for me.” 

Niall shrugs. “I’d be crazy to turn down a free trip to Italy.”

   Five - Bea

“He should be here any minute, dear.”

Bea looks up from her phone and resists the urge to roll her eyes. “Great,” she says. “I’m eager to get on the road.” 

Eager is a bit of an exaggeration. Bea knows she would’ve been crazy to pass up a trip to Italy, even a trip with her grandmother, but this is far from ideal. Their travel companion is as far from ideal as one could get. 

But this matters to her grandmother, so Bea will suck it up, put her best face forward, and pretend she likes the Irish bloke. 

Well, she’ll at least pretend to tolerate him. 

As they wait, Bea begins to develop a list of things that she doesn’t like about Niall, just to fill the time. First, he doesn’t care about anyone aside from himself: he didn’t give a thought to how his letter would cause upheaval to Gran’s life (or the lives of those around her) before he wrote it. Second, he hides his evil tendencies under a charming appearance, complete with sweet blue eyes and a homey accent and well-fitted shirts. Gran, bless her heart, will never discover just how disingenuous he really is. 

But Bea knows. And, she decides, it will be her mission on this trip to make sure that Gran realizes it. 

She’ll have to do it subtly, though. Very subtly—no big speeches or yelling, or Gran will realize what Bea’s trying to do, and she will not be pleased. She’ll pull Bea aside and scold her just like she did when Bea was a child on the playground, cutting other little kids in the queue for the swings.

“Oh, there he is!” Gran says now. “Beatrix, look!” Niall is climbing out of a taxi at the end of the hotel’s round driveway. He accepts his bag from the driver in exchange for a couple of folded bills and steps out of the way so the car can leave. 

Bea considers him as he pauses and adjusts the roll of his shirtsleeves—they’re cuffed just above his elbows, which is definitely not attractive in any way—before he grabs his duffle bag off the ground, swings it over his shoulder, and turns towards the building. Even the way he walks is infuriating, all jovial, like he doesn’t have anywhere he’d rather be.

Bea can think of a thousand places she’d rather be.

Gran waves instantly. “Niall! Over here!” 

Bea forces a smile onto her face as he approaches. He’s smiling too, though it dulls significantly when his eyes meet hers. 

Go away, she attempts to communicate through her glare alone.

Over my dead body, she imagines his glare answering.

“Good morning, Caro, Bea,” he says. “Are you two ready to go?” 

“Yes, certainly,” Gran says. “We’re so excited to have you joining us. Bea will drive. Bea, can you help Niall with his bag?” 

“Of course—”

“That’s not—”

Bea and Niall speak at the same time, meeting each other’s eyes in a staring contest of wills that ends when Niall looks away and picks up his bag. 

“Pop the trunk, would you please, Bea?” he asks. 

Bea grits her teeth and complies. This is going to be a long, long few days.

Five minutes later, they’re all in the car, Gran and Niall chatting as Bea tries not to grip the steering wheel too tightly. Driving has never been easy for Bea. She’s always worried about what the other drivers are going to do. Will someone merge into her lane without signaling, leaving her little time to brake or merge out of their way? Will someone run a red and bash into her car? There are so many things that can go wrong, and none of them are in her control. 

Which is why Bea has remained in London, even as so many of her mates moved out to the suburbs. In London, you don’t need to drive. You take the Tube or an Uber or a taxi to get where you want to go, and you never have to worry about having enough petrol or parking illegally by accident and getting a ticket. 

Driving in Verona is nearly as bad, or maybe worse, than driving in London, Bea decides as yet another taxi driver forces his way in front of her car. She grits her teeth again; her dentist is not going to be happy with her. 

“Macbeth is my favorite,” Niall is saying, and, were Bea less focused on the road, she would pipe up to tell him how wrong he is (Hamlet is obviously Shakespeare’s best work), but as it is, there’s nothing she can do. She comes to a stop at a red light and forces herself to take a deep breath, in through her nose and out through her mouth. 

“Make a left at the next signal,” the Apple Maps robot voice chirps from her phone, which is clipped to a vent on the dashboard. 

Fuck you, Bea thinks, gritting her teeth. She can see the next intersection, and a left turn there isn’t going to be easy. Protected lefts do not, apparently, exist in this country. The light changes and Bea eases into the intersection. The car in front of her appears to be looking for a parking space, but the entire block is packed on both sides of the street.

“Gah,” she huffs, letting out a breath. 

“Don’t forget to turn left up ahead, Bea bug,” Gran says.

“Got it, Gran.”

Bea takes another calming breath, but she feels anything but calm.

   Six - Niall

Bea is the most tense driver Niall has ever witnessed, but that shouldn’t surprise him, considering how tense she is as a human being just existing. They’ve only been in the car half an hour, but from the looks she’s sending him in the rearview mirror, he’s sure she’s thought about ways to kill him at least half a dozen times.

Before they got in the car, when he pulled her aside so he could tell her the address of their first Alessandro, she looked at him like she wanted to murder him. Not just murder him, but chop him into tiny pieces and scatter him about the Italian countryside.

If Caro wasn’t in the car as well, he’d probably already be dead. She’d flip the car off the side of the road and land them in a field full of grazing cattle, where, if he by some miracle didn’t die in the crash, he would be licked to death by cows. 

“What was it you studied in uni, dear?” Caro asks him, drawing his attention away from Bea, who absolutely doesn’t care what he studied in uni. 

“Political science,” he says. “But I’m a journalist now.” 

Bea scoffs. “Of course you are,” she says quietly. 

Caro either doesn’t hear or decides to pretend that she didn’t. “That’s wonderful. What do you write?” 

“Human interest, mostly,” Niall says, which is the simplest way of saying, I spent six months shadowing a homeless encampment on the South Bank last year. “My last piece was published in The Guardian, but I freelance.”

“Oh, how freeing!” Caro exclaims. “Bea, you should consider that. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have no boss? No schedule! You could have as many vacation days as you wanted! And no one would shake his finger at you and tell you to work harder.”

Niall tries not to smile as Bea’s grip on the steering wheel tightens.

“Gran,” she says, her annoyance obvious to Niall, but Caro keeps on smiling. “I don’t think you can teach primary school from your sitting room.”

“Oh, poo,” Caro says, swatting her hand in Bea’s direction. “I’ve always told you that you can do anything you set your mind to, Bea bug.”

Bea bug? There’s a lot to grab onto in what’s just been said, but Niall’s not an idiot; he knows that teasing Bea about her Gran’s nickname for her would not be the smartest move right now. She is in control of the car, after all. So he goes for the second lowest hanging fruit.

“You teach primary school?” he asks, trying and failing to keep the surprise out of his voice.

Her glare in the rearview mirror nearly burns him alive. “Yes,” she says through gritted teeth. “I’m goddamn delightful.”

Niall can’t hold back his laughter at that. “I’m sure you are.”

“All of the children love her,” Caro says, turning in her seat slightly to look at Niall head-on. She’s apparently missed the hint of sarcasm in his last statement. “She sings the sweetest songs for them. I knew those piano lessons would pay off someday, but I certainly didn’t imagine Bea would use her talents to entertain five year olds.”

“They’re seven, Gran,” Bea corrects.

Caro waves a hand and continues. “You’ve a beautiful voice nonetheless, dear. You really do spoil those children. Perhaps we can convince you do sing for us tonight after dinner.”

Niall looks from the pride on Caro’s face back to Bea, who looks more annoyed than she has all afternoon. Her grandmother goes on and on about how all the parents positively adore her and how Caro knew she was destined to be a teacher since she was a child herself, and Bea seethes.

She’s seething. That’s the only way he can think to describe the way she keeps her eyes steady on the road and her grip tight on the steering wheel and a perpetual frown on her mouth. His gaze traces the slope of her sharp nose and the indent of her cheek that suggests, were she to smile, a real smile, she might have a dimple.

Dimples. On this girl. This stubborn, tempestuous, argumentative, always frowning girl. Preposterous.

Dimples, he supposes, would make her almost appealing.

But as of now, she’s nothing but a nuisance. She probably thinks the same of him, though, he supposes. As Caro continues to sing Bea’s praises, much to Bea’s chagrin, Niall reaches into his backpack and pulls out the notebook where he’s made some notes about the mysterious Alessandro Bianchi. Based on Caro’s letter and some details she’s filled in for him, he has determined the following:

1. Alessandro would be about 80 years old now, as he’s a few years older than Caro.

2. He is likely still in the Veneto region of Italy, as when Caro knew him, he was set to inherit the family lands and winery.

3. He rides horses.

4. He is, in Caro’s words, “the handsomest man I’d ever set my eyes on.”

It’s not a lot to go on, and there are some major issues. The Veneto region first of all, is massive: nearly 5 million people live there, and it stretches all the way north to the Austrian border. Niall’s hopeful Alessandro is still in the province of Verona, a much smaller area that only has a million people.

That’s still a million people to sort through, though. From some database searches on his laptop last night, Niall turned up a list of Alessandro Bianchi’s from that million and then narrowed down by age. His smaller list contains 50 names, smaller in comparison but still a huge number when one is driving around the country going door to door.

There has to be some way to narrow the names further. Niall pulls out the list, which he printed in the hotel business center, and, when there’s a lull in the conversation, passes it up to Caro.

“This are the Alessandro Bianchi’s I’ve found,” he says. “I know the list is long, so I’m hoping you know something else that can help us narrow it down.”

Bea glances sideways as Caro examines the list. Niall’s distracted by her mouth, which has morphed from a frown into something sadder, more regretful. Intriguing.

What’s she hiding? he thinks.

But that’s not a question for now.

“Does anything stand out to you?” he asks Caro. She slides her reading glasses up her nose and moves the paper closer to her face. “Anyone look familiar?”

After a moment, she shakes her head. “I don’t suppose this list comes with photos?”

“Unfortunately not,” Niall says. “It’s a combination of property ownership and voter registration, but it’s not one hundred percent reliable, since people move and don’t change the address on their licenses and such.” 

“Of course,” Caro says. She lowers the paper to her lap and pulls her glasses down, allowing them to hang around her neck. “It was rather silly of me to expect this to be easy, wasn’t it?”

“No—” Niall begins, but Bea cuts him off.

“You’re not being silly at all, Gran,” Bea says. She reaches across the center console to take Caro’s hand. “Alessandro is important to you, so we will find him. With or without Niall’s help.”

“Thank you, dear,” Caro says, squeezing Bea’s hand. “But since we’ve got him here with us, we should absolutely take advantage of Niall’s help. He is a journalist, dear, don’t forget.”

Niall is certain that his occupation has done nothing to endear him to her, if the look Bea gives him in the rearview mirror is anything to go by.

“Take the next exit,” the GPS chirps, drawing Bea’s attention away. He misses the fire in her gaze immediately, and that unwelcome realization occupies his mind for several minutes—seriously, what the fuck, brain—until the car turns up a winding dirt road and comes to a stop in front of a cute, if modest, country house.

“This is the first address,” Bea says, voice completely devoid of excitement.

   Seven - Bea

“This is the first address,” Bea says, but what she’s thinking is, this cannot be the first address.

The house is, she supposes, cute enough, but it’s run-down. It hasn’t seen a fresh coat of paint in decades, the steps leading up to the porch are crumbling, and the house’s facade is covered in overgrown vines, the kind that slither in cracks in the plaster and make their way into the pipes and destroy everything.

“Let’s get out, then,” Niall says, already opening his door and climbing out of the backseat. He opens Gran’s door for her and helps her out, so Bea has no choice but to follow. She pockets the car keys and follows them up to the front steps.

“Should we knock?” Gran asks, looking from Bea to Niall and back to Bea. Bea can see a bit of nervousness in her gran’s face, and a hint of timidness. It’s strange, seeing it there; it’s not an emotion Gran normally expresses. Gran is always in control, taking the lead, charging headfirst into battle, Bea trailing behind her. That’s how they ended up in Italy, .

But right now, it seems like Gran needs Bea to take the lead. So she steps forward, planting herself between Niall and Gran, and puts a hand on Gran’s shoulder.

“What do you want to do, Gran?” she says in a tone she hopes is gentle and encouraging. She squeezes Gran’s bony shoulder and tries not to think about how much of Gran’s life she’s spent alone, dreaming of her lost love. “Do you want us to knock?” 

Gran’s hand drifts to her neck, her fingers playing with her necklace. It’s a thin gold chain, gifted to her, Bea knows, by her husband, Bea’s grandfather, who died before Bea’s parents did. She wonders what Gran is thinking. Is she concerned about being unfaithful to her deceased husband? Is she regretting her marriage to someone who wasn’t Alessandro entirely? Or is she simply nervous about the possibility of seeing Alessandro again after so much time has passed?

“Gran,” Bea says again. “We can stay here as long as you need.”

Bea can feel Niall’s eyes on her, but she ignores him. He shouldn’t even be here; he’s intruding on a private family moment, no matter what Gran says to the contrary. But at least he’s smart enough to be keeping his mouth shut right now.

“No, that’s alright,” Gran says, dropping her hand from her necklace and shaking her head. “I’m being silly. We came all this way, and it’s probably not him. We’ll have wasted a trip if we don’t find out for sure.”

Bea looks up, toward the front door, but on the way, her gaze runs into Niall’s. He’s frowning slightly, like he’s confused. She wrinkles her nose at him, and he grins. If he weren’t so annoying, it might be cute. He might be cute.

“Okay, Gran,” Bea says, slipping her hand into Gran’s for a squeeze. “Let’s go, then?”

“Let’s go,” Gran repeats. She takes a step, then hesitates. “Niall, will you do the honors?”

“Me?” Niall meets Bea’s eyes, his eyebrows raised, but she’s just as surprised as he is. Niall is a guest here—and barely that. He’s an interloper. But Gran wants what Gran wants. Bea shrugs.

Bea watches with bated breath as Niall climbs the battered steps to the house and knocks on the door—twice, and then a third time, louder. She counts the seconds, waiting.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

Eleven.

Twelve.

Finally, the door opens.

The man is backlit by the sun as he steps outside, so it takes a minute before she can see him fully. Dark mustache, suspenders over his shoulders, tan shirt, and a face that’s much, much too young. He can’t be Gran’s Alessandro.

Gran asks anyway, though, drawing on her rusty Italian to ask for Alessandro Bianchi. The man shakes his head.

“It’s not him,” Gran says quietly, tugging on Bea’s sleeve. “He says no one with that name has lived here for years. Decades.”

Bea looks back at the man, who is standing on his front porch looking irritated, like the knock on his door has interrupted his entire day.

“Grazie, signore,” she says, allowing Gran to tug her back to the car, Niall following behind.

As she starts up the car and waits for Gran and Niall to decide where they’re headed next, Bea analyzes her feelings. Annoyance, of course, at Niall for being present, and a smidge at Gran for dragging her all the way out here. Frustration at the poor infrastructure of Italy’s backcountry roads. And—wait, is that disappointment?

Yes, Bea admits to herself. It sucks to strike out this early in the game. It sucks that Gran has spent so many years without Alessandro, and now she’ll have to wait even longer to find him. And what if they never find him? How long will they keep looking? How long will Niall follow them around the country, riding in the backseat and running new Google searches to grow their list of possibles?

Bea looks at Gran, who has pulled her gray hair back in a low ponytail at the nape of her neck to get it out of the way while she compares Niall’s list with a paper map. Gran, who has weathered so many storms. Gran, who has carried Bea through the worst of them.

Gran, who has bounced back from this disappointment like it was nothing.

So Bea will do the same. She will put on a brave face and input the next address Niall gives her into the GPS app, and she will force herself to be hopeful that this Alessandro will be the one they’re looking for.

And if that one’s not him, she’ll hope the same for the next Alessandro.

And the one after that.

   Eight - Niall

After they scratch three possible Alessandros off the list, they stop for the night at a boutique winery hotel buried in a valley. It’s dark by the time Bea parks the car, but Niall expects that the surrounding countryside will be beautiful in the morning. Maybe he’ll wake up early and watch the sunrise, notebook and pen in hand, knowing he’ll never have words enough to describe its beauty. Back in college, he took a poetry class and tried his hand at some sonnets, but it was never really his thing.

Maybe now it will be, though. He’s only been in Italy a week and a half, and he’s already done things he never expected to do. Write a letter to a fictional character, for example, and join a girl and her grandmother in the search for a long-lost love.He’s been surprising himself for a while, actually, ever since he made the decision to end his relationship with Rhiannon.

Rhiannon. As Niall unloads the bags from the car, he wonders what she’s doing right now, who she’s spending her time with. Rhiannon has never had trouble making friends, and neither has Niall. That’s one of the reasons they were so good together. At least, that’s what he used to think. He also used to think that any time spent away from Rhiannon was wasted time, but now he knows better.

Today was not wasted, despite three failed attempts to find Caro’s Alessandro. The first man was too young and not named Alessandro anyway, the second man was far too old, and the third was a woman who was completely aghast to find out that she was misnamed and misgendered in the census data. Caro kept in good spirits, always positive in the car, but Niall could tell that her energy was waning. And Bea, meanwhile, was growing more and more annoyed with every grape vine they passed.

Now, as Niall walks the ladies to their rooms, it’s obvious that Bea is ready to be rid of him. Caro hugs both him and Bea goodnight outside her room, whispering, “thank you for being here” in Niall’s ear before she lets him go. Bea takes off down the hall, clearly in disagreement with the sentiment.

“I told you I could carry my own bag,” Bea scoffs when Niall reaches her door. He rolls her suitcase to a stop and chuckles as she grabs the handle, eager to have it back in her possession.

“What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn’t help you with your bags?” Niall asks.

“You’re no kind of gentleman.”

Niall raises an eyebrow. “I can carry your bag back out to the car, if you’d like. Then you can wheel it in yourself.”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Bea huffs. “You’re so infuriating.”

She turns around, sliding her keycard into the door and pushing it open. Niall grabs her suitcase again and passes it to her as she goes into the room. She flips on a lightswitch, illuminating the space behind her, but Niall doesn’t pay any attention. He’s too fixated on Bea’s face.

She has light brown eyes, the color so diluted that he wonders if they might actually be green, or maybe blue. And the sweep of her nose, the pout on her lips as she frowns at him—God, she’s beautiful. She’s the kind of beautiful where it’s not the first thing you notice about her, but once you notice it, you can never stop seeing it. From now on, she’ll be beautiful every time Niall looks at her, every minute he thinks about her, every second he spends looking at her from the backseat of the rental car.

“Thanks for the help, I guess,” she says to him now, one hand on the door handle.

“You’re welcome,” he says. He steps forward without thinking, needing to be closer to her. “I can let you handle your own suitcase next time, though.”

“Thanks for that, too. But I meant, thanks for being here, for helping with Gran. This is really important to her, and I’m grateful to you for taking her seriously and respecting what she wants.”

“Of course,” Niall says. “She’s wonderful. And this is such a great story. Why wouldn’t I want to help her find Alessandro?”

“I don’t know. Because I’m not sure I do, maybe.” Bea looks over his shoulder, not meeting his gaze. This is hard for her to talk about, and it’s probably even harder for her to talk to him about it. “She loved my granddad, I know she did. If she finds Alessandro again, will her love for him cancel out her love for my granddad? And where does that leave me?”

“The same place you’ve always been.”

Bea’s eyes meet his; she’s startled, surprised that he answered her questions. Or maybe surprised that she was speaking out loud in the first place.

“Your gran loves you the same no matter what,” Niall continues. “I can see that every time she looks at you. That’s not going to change, no matter what happens with Alessandro. And her love for Alessandro won’t change how she loved your granddad. Someone can have two great loves in their life, don’t you think?”

It takes Bea a few seconds to respond, like she’s catching up with what he just said. “I don’t know. If that’s true, then what are all the stories and poems about? What’s Romeo and Juliet about?”

Niall asked himself that question days ago, looking up at Juliet’s balcony just like Romeo, except in his reality there was no beautiful young girl standing there, ready to throw away her life of privilege to be with him. Now, looking at Bea, he feels differently.

“That is what it’s about,” he says. “Those questions. How do you know when someone loves you? How do you know you’re worthy of their love, or that their love is going to last? How do you know when to risk your heart?

“Hmm.” Bea’s eyes drop to her shoes. “Sometimes I think it’s better not to try. Too much risk.”

“You know what they say. No risk, no reward.”

Bea goes quiet, and Niall doesn’t know what to say next. So he waits, waits for her to fill the silence. He finds himself reluctant to remove himself from her doorstep, reluctant to go to end this conversation and go to his room and be alone with his thoughts when he could be here, sharing them with her.

“Right,” Bea says abruptly. “As nice as it was talking to you, Niall”—he can tell from her tone that she doesn’t think it was nice at all—“I think it’s time for me to go to bed. We’ve got an early start in the morning.”

“Right.”

“Goodnight, then,” she says.

“Goodnight.”

It’s baffling, really, how quickly his feelings toward her changed, Niall thinks as he looks at her looking at him. Maybe it happened this afternoon, as Bea comforted her disappointed grandmother over and over again. Or maybe it happened even earlier, on their way out of Verona this morning, when she cursed at a taxi driver under her breath.

She’s beautiful, still. Beautiful, again. Beautiful, always.

Damn, this is not what he thought would happen when he agreed to help an old woman track down the man she loved half a century ago.

“Goodnight, Niall,” Bea repeats, staring at him.

“Goodnight,” he says again, but he doesn’t move. His eyes are glued to her face, and he can’t look away. It’s probably starting to get a little bit creepy, but she’s a mystery, and maybe if he looks long enough, he’ll be able to discern some tiny clue.

“You’re blocking my door,” she says, looking, as per usual, less than pleased with him.

Niall practically jumps backwards in an attempt to make space for her. “Right, of course! Sorry about that.”

There’s enough clearance to close the door now, but Bea freezes for a moment, hand on the doorknob, eyes locked on Niall’s.

“Bea?”

“What?” Bea shakes her head, blinking, as if coming out of a daze. “Right. Sorry. Goodnight, Niall.”

Then she shuts the door, leaving Niall standing there, wondering if he’ll ever have words enough to describe her beauty. And how utterly confused she leaves him.

   Nine - Bea

In the morning, Bea wakes up itchy. At first she thinks it’s bedbugs, because that’s what every traveler thinks when they wake up itchy, but this hotel that Gran is paying for is much too nice for bedbugs. They left chocolate on her pillow last night and there are enough towels in the bathroom tokeep her in baths for years to come. Too bad they’re only staying two nights.

Maybe it’s a sunburn, she thinks, trudging to the bathroom and craning her neck to examine her back in the mirror. It’s a bit pink, but certainly not burnt enough to cause the kind of itching she’s feeling. The straps of the tank top she wore yesterday aren’t even outlined.

Something else, then. Maybe she ate something that triggered an allergy. Bea muses on that thought as she brushes her teeth with one hand and scratches her thigh with the other. What’d she eat yesterday? Spaghetti, gelato, a panini, and lots and lots of bread. Nothing too out of the ordinary, no shellfish or undercooked meat or questionable cheese.

Maybe it’s a rogue clothing tag. She slides her pajama shorts off and turns them inside out, hunting for a tiny piece of plastic that might’ve been left behind when she snipped off the price tag. Nothing. There isn’t even a tag with laundry instructions. There’s absolutely nothing there that could be causing that infernal crawling sensation Bea’s feeling all over both legs.

And her back, not to mention her back, where a million tiny spiders are tap-dancing in flip flops, tickling all of her nerve endings and driving her batty.

Bea tosses her toothbrush on the counter and moves to turn on the shower, imagining all of the spiders washing away down the drain. What a way to wake up: in a beautiful hotel room in the beautiful countryside of Italy, itching all over. She hasn’t been itchy like this in years, not since she told her best mate, Theresa, that the boy she liked didn’t like her back, even though he did. Bea liked him too and didn’t want to watch him date her best friend. Rosie saw straight through her lie, as best mates often do, and turned all of their friends against Bea. That was the last time Bea ever got involved in someone else’s romantic life.

Oh, crud. The only thing that makes Bea itchy like this is romance. And, well, lying.

But, lying. She hasn’t told any lies lately, has she? She hasn’t tricked Gran or tried to lure her away from the Alessandro hunt. And she hasn’t lied to Niall about how much she dislikes him or—

Oh, crud. She doesn’t dislike him, does she?

Last night, when Niall walked her to her door and stood there for what felt like hours, staring at her with his piercing blue eyes, there had been a moment, the briefest of seconds, when Bea wondered if he was going to kiss her, and thought that she might like him to. She’d stood there in the open doorway of her hotel room and considered that it might be nice to kiss the cute Irishman who’d given up his vacation to help her gran search for her lost love. In that moment, that brief, endless moment, he’d seemed sweet, genuine, likable, handsome, and exactly the kind of person whom one enjoys kissing.

But then the moment had passed, Bea had shaken herself out of it, and she closed the door on him and his tempting lips and intriguing eyes. Niall is engaged, and, regardless, he’s not the kind of person one has those thoughts about.

Bea’s brain still seems confused about that, though, as it wonders, will his lips look as tempting and his eyes as intriguing at breakfast this morning?

Oh, crud. Bea scratches at her elbow.

The itchiness abates during her shower but then comes back full-force when she meets Gran and Niall at breakfast. She sees them before they see her so she takes a moment to observe before she approaches. They’re seated at a table on the terrace outside the hotel’s restaurant, and Gran’s laughing at something Niall said, her head thrown back and joy clear on her face. Bea longs to hear the joke herself, longs to know this side of Niall, when his humor’s not at her expense, when he’s not teasing her or sending her funny looks via the rearview mirror.

Jesus H. Christ, Bea thinks, shaking herself out of it and approaching the table. Grams barely has time to look up before a waiter appears and pours her a cup of coffee.

“Good morning, Beatrix,” Gran says. Bea doesn’t miss Gran’s raised eyebrow over the rim of her own mug. Earl Grey for Gran in the mornings, always.

“Morning, Gran,” Bea says once she’s gulped down a mouthful of coffee. It’s scalding hot and not particularly good, which is a disappointment, but not one worth dwelling on when one is as itchy as Bea is. “Morning, Niall.”

“Bea,” he says, nodding at her. There’s a slight twinkle in his eye and Bea imagines it saying, I know you wanted me to kiss you last night. It makes her right knee itch. The fact that that’s the closest knee to Niall is of no consequence.

She looks away from him and grabs a menu, flipping it open. The entire thing is in Italian, which is fine for a dinner menu but a lot more complicated for breakfast. “I think I’d like an omelette today. Do they have omelettes in Italy? What’s the Italian word for egg?”

Neither Niall nor Gran answer right away, so Bea keeps on. “Pane, that’s bread, right? I know that word. What’s the Italian for bacon?”

“It’s bacon,” Niall says. When Bea meets his gaze, he’s smiling at her, a hint of a laugh lingering on the corner of his mouth. Gran is smiling, too.

“What?” Bea asks, looking from one to the other. “Do I have toothpaste on my face?”

Niall drops his eyes to his plate, but Gran doesn’t look away, so Bea narrows in on her. Gran has never been able to keep anything from her—except Alessandro, of course, but Bea doesn’t want to think about that right now—so Bea knows that if she stares long enough, Gran will buckle.

It doesn’t seem to work this time though, as Gran drops the smile into a concerned frown. “No, dear,” she says. “But I’m glad to hear you brushed your teeth.”

Niall snickers, and suddenly Bea hates him again, but her right wrist won’t stop itching.

Why was it that she liked him? All the reasons have disappeared as she finishes her breakfast and listens as Gran and Niall go over their agenda for the day. There are four Alessandros on today’s list and a short lunch break scheduled for the afternoon.

In the car, Bea takes the wheel again, Gran in the passenger’s seat and Niall in the back. Once they’re out on the main road, Alessandro’s address plugged into Apple Maps, Niall pulls out his notebook and begins scribbling away.

The back of Bea’s neck itches as she wonders what he’s writing. Is it a personal journal entry in which he’s describing how he almost kissed her last night? Or is it a draft of a novel, the story of lovers separated by centuries only to find themselves together again? If it’s the latter, she’s not sure how Gran would feel about becoming the heroine of a novel. Niall definitely should’ve asked first.

She’s still annoyed at him over that possibility when she finally asks, several ,minutes later, “What are you writing?”

It takes a minute for Niall to look up and meet her gaze in the rearview mirror. “It’s not done yet,” he says with a shrug.

“Okay, but what’s it about?” Bea presses. “Is it nonfiction? Fiction? Are you writing poetry?”

There’s a gleam in Niall’s eyes as he mimes zipping his lips and throwing an invisible key over his shoulder.

Bea huffs and turns her focus back to the road. On either side of the road are endless vineyards stretching as far as the eye can see. Every once in a while, there’s a barn or a house or a man on horseback, a copse of trees, a hill, but it’s mostly vine after vine after vine. Finally, finally, they turn onto a side road and head toward the residence of the first Alessandro.

Let this one be him, Bea prays. Let this one be him, and let him be married, so I can go back to my life as it was and forget any of this ever happened.

But then, what about Gran? Bea considers the ideal outcome for Gran. Maybe Alessandro is a widower, living alone on his vineyards, waiting for his lost love to return to him. He and Gran will marry and she’ll stay in Italy forever, leaving Bea to take care of her big house in London. Or maybe Alessandro will be dead. That’s preferable, Bea thinks, to him being married to another woman.

At least that’s what Bea thinks, until the man who answers the door proclaims himself to be Alessandro’s son.

“My father died last year,” he says, and Bea hears Gran gasp behind her. She tightens her grip on Gran’s hand. “I’m sorry, you say you knew him?”

Bea can’t see Gran’s face, but she can imagine the look on it. When her parents died, she felt as though the floor had dropped out from underneath her and she was clinging to the edge by her nails, waiting for someone to pull her back up. It had been Gran who had come to her aid.

That’s not something Bea likes to think about very often, but now, just for a moment, she’s glad she experienced it. Maybe now she can be here for Gran, as Gran was for her. She’s never had the opportunity to step up in that way before now.

Niall looks at Bea for a second before answering the man’s question. “No, I didn’t. This is Caro. Carolyn. She knew him, years ago. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Bea thinks she should echo the expression, but she can’t find her voice. This is too much of a shock: they came all this way for Alessandro, and though Bea had considered the possibility that he might be dead, she really didn’t expect it to be the case. What kind of ending is this?

The man, Alessandro’s son, looks at each of their faces, at their expressions. “And I, for yours. Would you like to come in?”

“Let’s go,” Gran whispers, tugging on Bea’s hand, pulling her back toward the car, but Bea steps forward. Maybe she can help Gran get the closure she needs. She clears her throat.

“Yes, please. We’d love to.”

The man nods, opening the door wider and allowing the three of them to follow him inside and into a small sitting room. Niall introduces Bea and himself, but she’s too distracted to be polite. The man’s house is small but well-kept. The tile floors are swept, books fill the shelves in the sitting room, and there is a piano with a row of picture frames on the top. Bea wanders over, looking at the photos and imagining this other life Gran might have lived.

In the first, their host, aged 9 or 10, stands with his parents in front of, what else, a vineyard. He wears overalls and his mother squints at the camera. The photo is in black and white even though it was taken, Bea guesses, sometime in the late 70s. There are balloons in the background, evidence of a party.

“Are these your parents?” Bea asks, carrying the frame over to the man. The man nods, taking it from her hands. “When was this photo taken?”

“I was 10 years old, if I remember correctly,” the man says. He lifts a pair of eyeglasses from his neck and slides them on. “My father had just returned from the army, his last tour. We were celebrating his retirement.”

“Alessandro was in the army?” Bea turns to Gran, who has settled on the couch, Niall standing awkwardly by her side, looking down on her as if worried she’s going to faint.

The man nods. “Yes, for many years. He enlisted as soon as he was old enough, in 1963, and was only home for a short time in 1968, when he met and married my mother. They had a whirlwind courtship, as you say.”

“1963,” Bea repeats. Something doesn’t fit, but she’s not sure what.

Niall is, though. “Caro met Alessandro in 1965,” he says. “Where was your father in 1965?”

The man scratches his head and takes so long to answer that Bea wants to grab him by the shoulders and give him a good shake.

“Somewhere abroad,” he says finally. “North Africa, possibly.”

Bea’s face mirrors the look of shock on Niall’s. She takes the frame from the man and walks it to the couch. “Is this him, Gran? Is this your Alessandro?”

Gran leans forward, looking at the picture for an endless minute. “No,” she says quietly, fingers playing with the gold chain around her neck. “No, that’s not him.”

Bea feels a wave of emotion crash over her, pushing her down onto the couch next to Gran. “That’s not him,” she repeats.

“That’s not him,” Niall echoes.

Bea sits quietly as Niall makes their excuses, apologizing for the intrusion and giving their condolences. He ushers them out the door and back towards the car, where he grabs Bea’s arm before she can open the driver’s side door.

“Do you want me to drive?” he says quietly. “You seem shaky.”

Bea rolls her shoulders back. She’s not shaky, she’s fine. So what if Alessandro was dead and then alive again in the span of five minutes? She’s fine.

“I’m fine,” she snaps. “Don’t you want to journal about this?”

Niall steps away from her, hands up, and gets in the car before she can apologize for being rude.

It’s just as well, she supposes. It’s not as if she likes him anyway.

   Ten - Niall

The next day is much like the prior one, with visits to multiple Alessandro’s who may or may not be Gran’s lost love. At least none of them are dead. Yesterday’s first stop was so rough that Niall considered proposing to the ladies that they cut their losses and head back to the hotel, but Bea looked determined to press on.

This morning, though, her energy level seems lower, so on the way to the car, he offers to drive.

“Are you sure?” Bea asks, raising an eyebrow. “Have you ever driven in a foreign country?”

Niall raises an eyebrow in return, which makes Bea blush. He ignores the way his stomach flips at the redness in her cheeks. “Yes,” he says. “I’ve even driven in foreign cities. Like Verona.”

She blushes even darker as she no doubt recalls her terrible driving as they left the city a few days ago. “All right, then,” she says, passing over the keys. “But don’t kill us. My Gran is precious cargo.”

Niall nods. He doesn’t need to be told. Caro is one of the most wonderful people he’s ever met, aside from his own grandmother, who is back home in Ireland and whom he never gets to see. Growing up, his parents were always traveling for business, working late, making him feel forgotten, and it was his grandmother who remembered him. She took him on day trips to carnivals and national parks, attended all of his school plays, and helped him with his homework when he struggled. Leaving her behind to move to London was one of the hardest things he’s ever done, so it’s nice to spend time with Caro. She’s an excellent listener, and she gives even better advice.

Yesterday morning over breakfast, before Bea had shown up, Caro had asked him about his life, about what brought him to Italy, and he talked about Rhiannon in a way that he never had before.

“I thought I loved her once,” he’d said, stirring cream into coffee that he knew he wouldn’t drink.“But I know now that I didn’t. I just wanted to be in love so badly that I settled for her.”

Caro had nodded like she understood. “Or maybe you wanted to be loved. It’s okay to want that.” Then she’d paused, taken a sip of her tea, swallowed. “You like my granddaughter.”

She said it bluntly, like it was a fact, and Niall had been surprised, in that moment, to hear something he’d only felt sound so permanent, so real. But it was true, so he nodded.

“I do,” he said, and he had imagined, for the briefest of seconds, being loved by someone who stood her ground and said what she want, someone who cared about her family enough to drive through endless wine country with them, someone like Bea—and then he forced the thought out and away. It wasn’t an appropriate thing to be thinking while conversing with Bea’s grandmother.

But now that it’s a day later and he’s driving the car and Bea’s asleep in the backseat, mouth slack as she rests her head on her hand, elbow propped against the window, he has free reign to think whatever he wants. Which, try as he might to want something else, is Bea. Bea and her reluctant laugh. Bea and the fire in her eyes.

“Stubborn, isn’t she?” Caro says after a while, her voice so quiet that Niall wonders if he imagined it. Wonders if she was reading his mind. “My granddaughter. Stubborn as her gran.”

“Hmm.” Niall smiles softly at her, unsure what to say in response.

“I raised her, you know,” Caro says, glancing sideways at him before looking back at the road. “Her parents died when she was young, and ever since, she’s been this wild thing, but stubborn, practical. Always looking for evidence, for proof. But for some things, there is no proof.”

“What things?” Niall asks.

“Love, the most obvious. Faith. Hope. Dreams, especially dreams. Bea has rarely allowed herself dreams. Only when she’s asleep does she dream.”

Niall pictures her asleep, pictures her in bed beside him, rising from a nightmare and seeking his comfort. The image warms him. Now he has something else to think about: Bea and her forgotten dreams—for she must’ve had them, once.

“I dream enough for the both of us, don’t I?” Caro continues. Her voice turns serious. “We haven’t discussed this, but I know we can’t search for Alessandro forever.”

“I’ve got nothing but time,” Niall says, but it isn’t exactly true. He has to go back to London at some point. He wishes he didn’t, though. He wishes he could stay here forever, traveling the countryside with Caro and Bea.

“Your time is better spent on other endeavors,” Caro says, looking over her shoulder at Bea, who’s still asleep. Then she looks pointedly back to Niall. “You should tell her how you feel.”

Niall doesn’t answer. Bea is hot and cold—two nights ago, they’d almost kissed outside her door, but since then she’s barely spoken to him, barely looked at him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he finally says. Even if she likes him, even if she’d kiss him back—it doesn’t matter. “Like you said, we can’t search for Alessandro forever.”

“We can’t, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter.” She pauses. Then: “Another day or two, I think. These old bones grow wary of sitting in cars.”

“Maybe we’ll find him today,” Niall says, offering her a smile.

They don’t, though. They visit two Alessandro’s before lunch, one too old and one two young, and in the afternoon, travel to an address that doesn’t exist. Before dinner, they check into another hotel just outside Sienna, all three of them exhausted. Niall can feel his bones creaking at all the joints, a physical manifestation of his mental exhaustion.

As he waits in the lobby for the ladies to come down for dinner, he scratches off several Alessandro’s from his list. There are a lot left, but, as Caro said this morning, she isn’t willing to search forever. Another day or two, she’d said. So he looks at the list now and tries to derive, as if by magic, which ones are most likely to be the one they’re searching for. It’s no use, but he stares at the page anyway, stares so long that “Alessandro” no longer looks like a word, just a random arrangement of letters.

Energy levels remains low at dinner, and not even gelato can seem to cheer anyone up. Niall bids Caro and Bea goodnight and goes to his room, where he pulls out his notebook and stares at a blank page before finally giving up and going to sleep.

Tomorrow will be a better day, he thinks as he drifts off.

   Eleven - Bea

The next morning, Niall knocks on Bea’s door before she’s had a chance to leave for breakfast. She’s braiding her hair over her shoulder when she pulls open the door and greets him.

“Hi?” she says.

“Good morning,” he says. He looks good this morning, dressed in shorts and a short sleeve button up. His sneakers are bright white. She wonders if he bleaches them.

“Good morning,” she says. “What’s going on? Is Gran alright?”

“She’s fine,” he says. “Bit tired. She said she wants to take the day off from driving today and hang about the pool. You could join her if you want, or…”

“Or?” She notices the backpack swung over his shoulder. “Are you going somewhere?”

He nods. “Sienna. I figured, since we’re here, I’d like to see it. And maybe you’d like to come.”

Her first instinct is to say no, because this is Niall and she absolutely does not like him, but then she changes her mind. What if she’s never in Italy again? What if they find Alessandro tomorrow and she’s on an immediate flight back home? What if this is her only chance to see Sienna?

“Okay,” she says. “I’d like to come.”

Ten minutes later, they’re in the car and she’s looking at his hands on the steering wheel. When he’d offered to drive, she’d accepted without hesitation, eager to spend the drive looking out the windows. As endless as the vines seem, they’re beautiful, and a bit otherworldly, as if England is more than a few hours’ flight away.

“Have you ever been to Italy before?” she asks Niall.

“No,” he says, glancing sideways at her. He’s an excellent driver, so careful, and she’s never felt safer in a car—a feat for her, because her parents died in one. “I’ve never made much time for travel. I regret that, I think. There are so many places to see that I haven’t seen.”

“There’s so much future for that,” Bea says. “So much forever. You can fill all of it with travel.”

“Maybe. Where would you like to go?”

Bea smiles, softly. She never lets her think about these things, about all the things she can’t have or will never do, but she indulges herself for a second. “Prague. Tokyo. Rio de Janeiro. New York City.”

“I’ve been to New York City,” Niall interjects. “It’s loud.”

“London is loud.”

“New York is louder.”

“Fine,” Bea rolls her eyes. “Where would you go?”

Niall shrugs, the fabric of his shirt rustling against the leather of the car seat. “Prague, Tokyo, Rio. I want to go everywhere.”

Bea doesn’t respond, and they fall into a surprisingly comfortable silence, during which they drive into Sienna and she thinks about how big Niall’s hands look on the steering wheel and how small hers feel resting on her thighs. She feels safe with Niall, not just when he’s driving, but maybe that’s not real. Maybe she’s transferring her feelings about his driving skills to the rest of him.

Or maybe, she considers, that she really does like Niall, just as she was thinking a few mornings ago, before the disaster with the undead Alessandro and the following day filled with disappointments. She scratches her knee.

“Bug bite?”

“Huh?” She looks over at Niall, who’s grinning at her. “Oh, yeah, I guess.”

“That’s rough,” he says.

“Yeah,” she says, but looking at Niall, nothing feels rough. Everything feels easy, smooth sailing, like she could sit beside him in a car forever.

Oh, crud.

In Sienna, Niall parallel parks easily near the city center and they wander through the streets, in and out of a museum, around and around the cathedral. Inside, Bea stands transfixed by the height of the ceilings and the intricacy of the design, horizontal lines spiraling around her, making her dizzy.

“This is the ugliest church I’ve ever seen,” Niall says quietly into her ear, making her laugh. She covers it up with a cough—it’s rude to laugh in a church, she’s pretty sure—before she responds.

“You can’t say that,” she whispers. “God can hear you.”

“God didn’t build it,” Niall whispers back. “And I’m sure he’s well aware.”

At lunch, they talk easily about their lives back in London, their favorite places to visit and their favorite places to avoid. They both hate Covent Garden and both love the South Bank despite the crowds of tourists outside the Globe.

“I can’t believe I’ve never seen you there,” Niall says.

“London’s a huge city,” Bea says. “Over 8 million people live there.”

“Maybe. But only one Beatrix Mason.”

That makes her blush, and the awareness that she’s blushing makes her blush more. He grins at her, and she smiles back, and if she could make a snow globe out of any moment, it would be this one. This perfect day in Sienna with a perfect man whose beautiful eyes look into her own like they can see all her secrets and aren’t judging her for them.

She thinks of Juliet then, of her decision to marry Romeo after only knowing him for a few days, and in that moment, it doesn’t seem crazy. It seems like the most sensible thing in the world.

In the late afternoon, they drive back to the hotel to meet Gran for dinner, but she’s already eaten, so they get a table in the hotel restaurant without her. Niall smiles and Bea smiles and something’s changed, she thinks. Today he cracked open a little bit and made a little bit more sense, and she wants to keep digging, she thinks.

He’s engaged, she knows that—he’s engaged, but tomorrow will be their last day together, and she can have one more day, can’t she? One more day with Niall, and then she’ll let him go.

“Come for a walk with me,” she says when they’re done eating.

They wander into the hills around the hotel, climbing to the top of one to look at the stars.

“Do you know the names?” Niall asks.

“No,” Bea says, which is a lie, but she’s hoping he’ll impress her. She’s hoping he wants to impress her.

“Me either,” he says. She laughs.

They lie on the ground like that for a while, watching stars shoot across the sky. Niall’s hand finds hers in the grass and holds on tight. The air tingles between them. A summer night, alive.

When he leans over and kisses her, it’s surprising at first and then the most natural thing in the world. She kisses him back, enjoying the weight of him over her, the brush of his hair in his eyes, the softness of his lips. And then she remembers.

She pushes him back, and it takes a second before he goes. He smiles at her, but she doesn’t smile back.

“Bea,” he says, reaching a hand down to brush some hair out of her face. It’s too much, and almost enough to get her to kiss him again. But he’s engaged.

She rolls away from him and springs to her feet. “I’m sorry,” she stammers. “That shouldn’t have happened.”

Niall follows, going after her as she crosses the lawn. “Why not?”

Bea looks over her shoulder. “You’re engaged. Aren’t you engaged?”

Niall shakes his head, but doesn’t respond. He looks like he’s fed up with her, which is just as well, because she’s fed up with him too. Why is he like this, hot one second, confusing the next? Why is she like this, attracted to such a man?

“It doesn’t matter,” he says. “Bea, I like you, and—”

“How can you say it doesn’t matter? Your fiancée doesn’t matter?”

“No, that’s not what I meant. I—”

“Look, we’re almost through the list,” Bea says, taking another step away from him. He needs to stop looking at her like that, with those glowing blue eyes, or she can’t be held responsible for her actions. The more space she can put between them now, the better. “If we don’t find Alessandro tomorrow, that’s it. Gran and I are going home, and you’re going back to your fiancée, and we can pretend that none of this ever happened.”

Niall steps closer to her, into the space she put between them. “I don’t want to pretend that none of this ever happened.”

“But you’re engaged,” she reminds him again. Why can’t he seem to remember that? “To someone else. To someone who I’m sure is very kind and very much in love with you and would not be pleased to find out that you’ve been kissing another girl on a hillside in the country.”

The corner of Niall’s mouth lifts, almost like—is he laughing? He’s definitely laughing. “I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

“What?” Bea’s jaw drops open. “That’s an awful thing to say. You’re disgusting. I can’t believe I just kissed you.” And I can’t believe I want to do it again.

Now he’s frowning. “Bea—”

She shakes her head. “No, I don’t want to hear it. I’m going to bed, and we’re going to forget this ever happened, and we’re never going to talk about it again.”

Niall looks like he wants to say something, but he holds it back. Good.

“Goodnight,” she says, turning on her heel and marching away from him.

She can’t resist turning back, though, where he’s still standing on the hill, hand raised to his mouth, gazing after her. She spins away before he can catch her looking.

   Twelve - Niall

In the car the next morning, they don’t speak of the kiss. Bea won’t even look at him, and Niall supposes he deserves it. She thought he was engaged, after all. But he isn’t. He isn’t engaged, and the only thing he wants is to kiss Bea again, and again, and again.

That doesn’t seem likely to happen, though, at least not if this morning is an indication.They sit silently in the car, all three of them off in their own worlds. Bea had said last night that today would be their last day—if they don’t find Alessandro today, this is it. They’ll return to their lives, story unfinished.

Niall wouldn’t put money on that, though. He’s a writer, and he knows that a story’s not a story if it doesn’t have an ending. And this one, the story of Alessandro Bianchi and Carolyn Mason—it’s going to have a marvelous ending.

Hopefully the story of Niall Horan and Beatrix Mason will have a marvelous ending, too. He won’t leave Italy without one.

The morning’s Alessandro is a bust, and after a roadside picnic, they hit the road again, driving east to the next one on the list. Niall picked today’s names, perhaps the final ones, at random, and he both hopes and doesn’t hope that one of them is the one.

They’re a few minutes out from the turn indicated on the map when Caro gasps in the passenger’s seat. Niall leans forward to see if she’s okay, meeting Bea’s eyes for a precious second before she looks away, refocusing her attention on her grandmother.

“Pull over,” Caro says, her hand already reaching for the door.

“What?” Bea says. “Are you okay?”

“Pull over,” Caro repeats, so Bea does, flipping on the turn signal and guiding the car off the road. Caro gets out and steps toward the road, staring across at a man standing in the vineyard. Bea follows, and so does Niall.

“Gran? What is it?” Bea asks.

Caro raises her arm and points. “That’s him. That’s Alessandro.”

Niall squints at the man across the road. He’s young, much too young to be Alessandro—he’s not much older than Bea. But Caro seems so sure, her gaze fixed, so Niall crosses the road to ask.

“Niall, wait,” Bea calls after him, and though it’s the first time she’s acknowledged him all day, he doesn’t turn around.

“Scusi,” he says to the man. “We’re looking for Alessandro Bianchi.”

“That’s me,” the man says. “I am Alessandro Bianchi. And my father, he is Alessandro Bianchi as well.”

“Your father,” Niall repeats. “Your father, where is he?”

“Out for a ride,” the man says, his gaze drifting across the road, where Bea and Caro still stand. “He will be back soon. I can take you up to the house, if you’d like.”

Niall nods. “Let me get my friends.”

He crosses the road back to Caro and Bea, who are staring at him with wide eyes. “It’s him,” Niall says. “Well, not him, but Alessandro is his father and he’s just out for a ride and he’ll be back soon.”

“He’ll be back soon,” Bea repeats, processing. Then, more eagerly: “Gran, he’ll be back soon!” 

“Oh,” Caro says, looking off into the distance. “Maybe it’s not really him. We ought to go before he comes.”

“Nonsense, Gran,” Bea says. She tucks a lock of Caro’s hair behind her ear. “You look beautiful, just as you did 55 years ago. He’s going to be so excited to see you.”

Caro sighs. “I don’t know, Bea bug. It’s been so long, so many years. Maybe this box is best left shut.”

“Gran—” Bea starts, but the sound of a galloping horse interrupts her. The three of them turn as a horse emerges from the vineyards across the road, coming to a stop beside Alessandro Jr. They watch with bated breath as he converses with his son, both of them looking across the road, and then, still on his horse, he crosses.

“Carolina,” he says, drawing his horse to a stop a few feet from them. He climbs down and drops the reins, the horse forgotten as he approaches. “My Carolina, is that you?”

Caro steps forward. “Alessandro. It’s me.”

“After so many years,” he says. “Impossible.”

“Not impossible,” she says. 

Niall can’t believe it. He truly can’t believe it, but it’s true. It’s him, after all this time, after all the places they’ve stopped, after all the ways he’s twisted himself into knots over Bea—there he is. Alessandro. Caro’s Alessandro.

Niall drifts backwards as they embrace, coming to stand behind Bea. She looks uncomfortable as well, her gaze drifting off into the endless rows of grapevines beside the road.

Niall puts a hand lightly on her back. “Should we—”

“I think—”

Niall laughs, which makes Bea blush his favorite blush. “You go ahead,” he says.

She bites her lip, and he can tell she’s trying not to smile. After everything, she doesn’t want to smile at him, but this moment, it’s special. “I was going to say, I think we should give them a few minutes.”

“I was going to say the same thing.” Niall grins. He can’t help it. They found Alessandro—they found Alessandro!—and he’s here, with Bea. There’s nothing better than this, nowhere he’d rather be.

“Let’s go,” Bea says, leading him through the vineyard.

They walk in step silently for a while, Bea ignoring him and Niall wondering what he should say.The vineyards wrap around them, pushing them closer together, but Bea avoids bumping shoulders with him. He can tell that she wanted to give her gran privacy, but, unlike him, she’d rather be anywhere than here with him.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he says, breaking the silence.

“Good,” she says. “You should be.”

Niall doesn’t know what to say to that, so he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know how to explain to her what she means to him—how, in such a short time, she’s come to mean everything. He thinks, hopes, prays, that maybe she feels the same way.

“I think you should leave.”

“What?” he says. She doesn’t feel the same way, and it hits him like a brick to his gut. After everything.

“We found Alessandro, so there’s no reason for you to stay. You should leave now, go back to Verona, back to your fiancée and your life. I’ll find someone to drive you to the train station. I’m sure Alessandro’s son Alessandro would be willing.”

“You won’t drive me yourself?” he asks, annoyed now, frustrated, exhausted. What an emotional roller coaster this week has been.

“No, Niall,” she says, looking at him now, meeting his gaze, and in it he can see every emotion he’s feeling too—exhaustion and confusion and excitement and sadness and loneliness. But that clarifies nothing. “I won’t drive you, and I don’t want to see you again. This week was nice, but it was just that—a week. It’s over now, and we are too.”

She turns her back on him, walking away, so she doesn’t hear what he says to her retreating form:

“We barely began.”

   Thirteen - Bea

Gran has never looked so happy as she does at dinner with Alessandro and all of his family—children and grandchildren and even a great-grandchild or two. This is the massive family gathering that Gran never got, everyone who loves each other gathered in one place, smiling, laughing. It’s bliss.

Except it’s not, because seated to Bea’s right is Niall. Niall, who’s engaged and kissed her anyway. Niall, who she can’t stop thinking about, who she won’t stop thinking about even when he’s gone. Niall, who she can barely look at. Niall, who she’s sending away.

It’s the right thing to do, she knows, but it feels so wrong, and she hasn’t even done it yet.

She barely pays attention to Alessandro’s relatives as they riddle her with questions, some of which Niall answers for her—making her feel safe even when she doesn’t want him to. Making her feel cared for, even though she asked him not to.

After dinner, Bea approaches Gran and Alessandro beside the table, where they are surrounded by a cluster of Alessandro’s grandkids and great-grands. Niall follows behind—Bea can feel him there, but she doesn’t turn around to look. Looking at him hurts.

She can’t believe that 24 hours ago she thought she’d be able to spend just these days with him and then let him go, and be okay with it. This isn’t okay. This isn’t okay at all.

Best to rip off the band-aid. Bea puts a hand on Gran’s arm.

“Niall is leaving,” she says when Gran turns to face her.

Gran looks at Niall. “Oh, no, please, Niall, you don’t have to.”

Alessandro echoes the sentiment. “Please, stay. You are welcome here.”

Niall looks at her then, looks for some kind of confirmation that he can stay, that she wants him here, but Bea doesn’t give it to him. She looks at the ground and doesn’t meet his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his eyes burning a hole in Bea’s cheek. “I have to be getting back to Verona.”

Bea feels more eyes on her—Gran, this time. She meets her eyes and gives a quick nod, as if to say, I want him gone. Gran frowns, but doesn’t object.

“My son will drive you to the station,” Alessandro says, waving his son over.

Five minutes later, Bea stands back as Gran says goodbye to Niall at the car, hugs him and kisses his cheek and makes him promise to call. He won’t, though, Bea knows that. When Niall leaves, she will never see him again. She hurt him when she told him to go as they stood in the vineyards, surrounded by unborn wine. She hurt him, and there’s no taking that back.

He looks at her through the window as the car drives away, his face expressionless, his eyes bright blue even through the glass. He looks at her until he’s too far away to keep looking.

The moment the car turns at the end of the drive, disappearing from view, Bea can feel in her stomach that she made a mistake. It feels like a storm is broiling, rolling and twisting and throwing her dinner around like it’s lawn furniture. But it’s too late.

“Oh, Beatrix,” Gran says from behind her. “Why did you do that? Don’t you have feelings for him?”

“He’s engaged,” Bea says without turning around. Maybe if she keeps her eyes locked on the setting sun, she’ll be able to disappear alongside it. “It doesn’t matter what I feel.”

“Pish posh,” Gran says. She slips her hand into Bea’s and squeezes. “That boy is not engaged. He and his fiancée broke up months ago.”

What? He’s not engaged?

“That can’t be right,” Bea says. “Why didn’t he tell me?”

“I don’t know,” Gran says. “And you’ll never find out, if you let him go like that.”

Bea shakes her head. “It’s too late,” she says. “He’s gone, and I made him leave. It’s too late.”

“It’s never too late,” Gran says. “I found Alessandro after all these years, did I not? How many Nialls do you think are on this planet? Don’t wait 55 years like I did.”

Bea looks at her grandmother now, looks at the wrinkles by her bright eyes, brighter than they’ve been in a long time. Alessandro has brought the light back to her gran’s eyes.

“Thank you for helping me find Alessandro,” Gran says. “Now, go find Niall.”

She presses the car keys into Bea’s palm.

“I—” Bea begins.

“Go,” Gran instructs.

So she does.

   Fourteen - Niall

“Niall!”

Niall turns at the sound of his name, but he can’t see who’s yelling at him, so he keeps going, cutting through the crowd with his bag pulled tight against his side.

“Niall, you jerk! Stop right there!”

Is that—it can’t be. He comes to a stop and turns, and there she is.

“Bea? What are you doing here?”

She’s wearing cutoff shorts and running shoes and her purse bounces on her hip. She stops in front of him, a few feet away, and glares.

God, he missed that glare. It’s only been a few hours since he saw it last, but damn, he missed it. He missed the fire in her eyes and the sharpness of her nose and the way she looks at him like he’s the only thing worth looking at.

“I’m here because you’re awful,” she says, breathing hard. “I had to tell you.”

“You ran after me in the train station to tell me I’m awful?” he repeats, confused. “I’m leaving, just like you asked, Bea. You didn’t need to come here and make things worse.”

“No, you idiot,” she says, taking a step closer to him. “That’s not what I want.”

“Then what do you want?” he asks.

He knows what he wants. He wants to pull her tight against his chest and kiss her for at least the next five minutes and then for the rest of time. He wants to run through vineyards with her and stomp buckets of grapes and get wine drunk under hot the Italian sun. He wants to rub aloe on her sunburn and kiss it as it heals. And he wants to know what she wants.

But she ignores the question.

“My Gran, she said that you’re not really engaged,” Bea says, lunging forward to punch him in the shoulder. It barely hurts, but he rubs at the spot anyway. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

“I thought I did,” Niall says, running through their previous conversations in his mind. Hadn’t he, the other night just after their kiss? “I swear I did.”

Bea’s fist comes at him again, softer this time. “You didn’t, you idiot. That’s why I made you leave.”

Niall tilts his head. He understands now, why she’s here, what she wants. His heartbeat speeds up. “Because I didn’t tell you I wasn’t engaged?”

“Yes!”

“Why do you care if I’m engaged or not?” Niall asks, even though the answer is obvious. He wants to hear her say it.

Bea huffs. As she grows more frustrated, her cheeks get redder and redder. “Because you can’t go around kissing people when you’re engaged!”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s rude!”

Her fist flies again, but Niall grabs it and opens it in his hand. He weaves his fingers with hers and pulls her forward. “Why?” he asks.

“Because,” she says, cheeks blazing. She’s so close to him now, close enough to kiss, but Niall holds off. He wants to see if she’ll say it. “Because it’s rude!”

“You already said that.” Niall can’t resist the loose strand of hair blowing in front of her eyes; he tucks it safely behind her ear.

Bea’s eyes follow the moment of his hand. “Right. What was the question again?”

“Why is it rude to kiss someone when you’re engaged?”

“Oh, right,” Bea says, her voice so low it’s almost a whisper. “It’s rude because… because you might kiss somebody so well that they want to kiss you again, but they can’t, because you’re engaged!”

“I’m not engaged.”

“You’re not…” Bea repeats, her eyes drifting down and landing on his lips. “You’re not engaged.”

“Right.”

“You’re not engaged,” she says again, the edges of her mouth lifting in a smile She lifts her arms from where he’d trapped them on his chest and wraps them around his neck. “So why aren’t you kissing me right now?”

“That’s a good que—” Niall starts, but Bea cuts him off before he can finish, pressing her lips to his. He runs his fingers along her cheekbone and pulls her close her, feeling her chest press against his, her warmth mingling with his. He can smell her sweat, can feel her bare legs against his.

There’s a fire in this kiss that wasn’t there the other night, an urgency. After a minute, he pulls back, resting his hand on her cheek. “What’s with the hurry?”

Bea blinks up at him, eyelashes batting at her cheeks. “I don’t want you to leave,” she says. “I had to stop you from leaving.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers against her mouth. “Staying right here.”

When he kisses her again, he hopes she can feel what he does: that he found what he was searching for—not Alessandro, but Bea. The girl with fire in her eyes and a stubborn spirit and the potential, he thinks, to love him forever.

There’s so much forever, Bea had said to him the other day. In the moment, it had sounded terrifying, but now he knows there’s nothing as good as forever when it has Beatrix Madison in it.

   Afterward

Verona, 2020

Dear Juliet,

We both used to think you were a load of nonsense, but that was before we met each other, right here, just below your balcony. We’re not saying we believe in fate now, but it’s not totally off the table.

Love’s not totally off the table anymore, either. Neither of us believed in it before, but now we know a bit better. We know that you can love somebody for the way they blush and how much they love their grandmother and how terrible their driving is. And we know that you can love somebody for their bright blue eyes and the way they tease you and how safely they drive. We know that love, the way it’s supposed to be, makes you happy in all the best ways.

So, thanks, Juliet. We’re sorry you couldn’t get the ending we’re getting.

Love (the real kind),

Niall and Bea

[gracelessfighters]

Dragonfly - Chapter 5

JJ Maybank x female!reader series

Summary: Things are weird between you and JJ for a few days, but all is forgotten when he turns up on your doorstep, covered in bruises again

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: ANGST - mentions of abuse and death, injuries, maybe some swearing I cant remember

A/N: I love writing angst as I can relate to it so much more and it helped my mood today isn’t great but I hope the chapter flows well enough and people like it - and as always feedback is appreciated :) (little flashback in italics)

Catch up: Chapters 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 

You woke up to the sun shining into your room, turning over you were met with empty space, you opened your eyes to see nothing where JJ had been laying the night before. You had agreed to go to John B’s together, why would he leave without telling you?

You sat up, not understanding why you felt so hurt at him leaving, you had helped him, and him you last night, but I guess now he was sober, he didn’t want your help. You couldn’t spend too much time thinking about this though, you needed a shower desperately and then you were still going to head to John B’s, whether JJ was there or not.

Only once you’d got into the shower, did your mind finally focus on the pain you felt in your arms, the one Rafe had grabbed now had a dark purple bruise covering a lot of the forearm, and the hand you had punched him with was also swollen and it ached. This was possibly the worst way you’d woken up in a while, but in all honesty you didn’t want to deal with your injuries or spend anymore time thinking about JJ. So you quickly finished your shower, wrapped a bandage around your hand, took some painkillers and got ready for the day ahead.

John B’s house was quiet when you got to it, most likely John B (and the others if they crashed there) were still asleep, and you didn’t want to wake them, so you made your way to the end of the dock where you sat and looked over at the water, lost in thought.

You had been looking out on a calm water, similar to the marsh you were looking at now, your mum at your side, sitting in silence whilst you both listened to the sounds of nature around you. The birds in the trees chirping their songs like they do every morning, the wind making its way through the trees, rustling the leaves as it went, and the early buzzing of the insects around you. This had been the lake where you’d had your moment with the dragonflies, it truly felt like a magical place to you, as if it was out of a fairy tale.

Your mum and you had spent many mornings like this, enjoying the calm before the day revealed what it had in store for you, it gave you a chance to breathe.

This particular morning, your mum had dragged you out of bed to go here with her, neither of you ever bothered getting your dad to come as he was the opposite of a morning person, and you kind of liked the ritual staying between the two of you.

You had been sat there for around 10 minutes before your mum started speaking, “No matter what happens in life never forget this place or what it means to us.”

You looked at her in confusion, “what?”

“Promise me, please, that you won’t forget this Y/N.” Her eyes seemed pained enough that you didn’t ask her anymore questions and said instead, “Of course I promise.”

At this response your mum had just wrapped her arm around you and kissed the top of your head, not realising you had felt a tear fall onto the same spot a moment later.

-

You were shaken from this memory when you heard someone call your name, their footsteps heading towards you. You cursed yourself for allowing your thoughts to move towards that memory, still not ready to face some of the pain you felt, especially in a place where someone could see, so with the footsteps getting closer you quickly wiped away the couple of tears that had fallen without you realising and turned to see John B approaching you.

You smiled at him, “Morning sunshine, how are you feeling today?”

“Better than expected actually,” he sat down next to you, “how about you? How’s the hand?”

“To be honest it aches a little,” you moved it in front of him, showing him the bandage, “but maybe worth it if Rafe feels worse this morning.”

He laughed, “God let��s hope so, I’m not sure his ego will easily recover from being hit by a girl in front of other people.”

You two fell into an easy silence for a minute or two before John B got up, clapping his hands together, “Right, I think it’s time we tried to wake up the others,” he held out a hand to help you up, “come on.”

You grabbed his hand with your good one and made your way back to the Chateau, falling back slightly when he first went inside, but you took a breath and went in.

The sight you saw made you smile, Pope was in an unnatural position asleep on the pullout with Kiara half off the other side, also sleeping peacefully.

John B was heading to what was probably the spare room, most likely for JJ, when you said to him, your voice hushed, “What’s the best way to wake them up without being killed?”

“No method I’ve ever tried has really worked so do what you want, but good luck and don’t let them kill you.”

You laughed, put your hand to your forehead and saluted him, “Yes sir.”

He was still laughing when he disappeared into the room, you looked down at the pair in front of you, assessing how you could wake them up. In the end you decided to risk their annoyance, as with the awkward way they’d been sleeping, there was room in the middle for you to jump.

You launched yourself onto the bed, falling down between them and jolting the bed enough that Kie fell off in shock and Pope managed to smack himself in the face. The anger on their faces didn’t last long as the cackle you’d let out at the scene you’d just witnessed was just as funny to them, so soon you were all sat there, Kie still on the floor, just laughing together.

“Why the fuck are you all so loud?” You heard JJ from the door, the silence died down, on your part it was from shock at how rough he looked this morning, you’d frozen when you’d seen the number of bruises on his face, and you dreaded to think what his torso looked like under the shirt he was wearing.

You made eye contact with him, before he could do or say anything though, you looked away, instead looking at John B who had given you a thumbs up for your method of waking up Kie and Pope. You gave him a big smile and bowed slightly, causing him to chuckle.

The rest of the day went by quite quickly, at first it was quite calm, the others recovering from the hangovers they had, luckily you’d always managed to avoid hangovers somehow, and then for the rest of the day you were all out on the boat.

Throughout the day you had felt JJ’s eyes on you, probably waiting for you to talk to him, but you avoided his eyes, still not sure you wanted to talk to him, especially with how your emotions had broken through your barriers that morning on the dock. On days that happened you were usually careful in avoiding any sort of emotional situation, and you felt like talking to JJ about why he had left without saying anything could become emotional, so even if it made you look a little bitchy, you did your best to avoid him.

Unfortunately Kie had picked up on how you were acting and pulled you to the side, away from the boys who were chatting at the wheel of the boat.

“Hey, what’s happened between you and JJ?”

“Nothing, I’m just not in the mood for his antics today.”

“Bullshit, you’re actively avoiding him, he has a face of a hurt puppy, the boys haven’t picked up on it cos they’re idiots, but I’m not.” She crossed her arms waiting for your answer.

“I don’t know why he looks like a ‘hurt puppy’ as you say, all I know is I let him stay round mine last night because I didn’t want him walking home in the state he was in, and when I woke up this morning he had already left, not even leaving a note.”

Kie was about to speak but you continued on, “and I’m being truthful when I say nothing happened, I’ve just had a difficult morning, and talking to him might make it worse, so I’m helping myself instead of him today. Okay?”

She gripped your hand, squeezing it slightly, “I can talk to him if you want?”

“No it’s honestly fine, I just don’t want to deal with him much today.”

“Okay then, we will relax together, and have a JJ free day.”

You smiled at her, thankful you’d met someone like her, someone who didn’t push too much and understood your wishes.

The rest of the day played out smoothly, JJ didn’t try and approach you, but the group as a whole had a good day out. Good enough that you were exhausted by the time you got home, quickly saying hi to your dad and avoiding him seeing the bruise on your arm, then heading to bed where you fell into a deep sleep very quickly.

—————

The next few days you were back at work, and you almost never saw anyone from the group, apart from Kie obviously, who you had a couple of shifts with, but you still hadn’t really spoken to JJ since the night of the Kegger. You now wanted to though, and it annoyed you slightly that he hadn’t tried speaking to you, probably thinking you’d still be slightly distant with him - but this whole situation was more due to him than you, you thought.

You decided that as you had a day off tomorrow, and were probably going to see the Pogues, you would try to talk to JJ then - at least try to get things back to how they were before the other night. The plan now made out in your head, you began to relax slightly, no longer feeling the awkward pang in your chest when you thought of him.

The rest of your work day went by without any issue, and by the time you’d had a pizza with your dad for tea, you still weren’t that tired, so instead of laying in your bed for another night in a row, you decided to go surfing.

The beach was quiet when you got there, nobody really out at this time, and you liked it. The night sky was reflected on the water, the sounds of the waves calmed your mind and heart, but it was only when you were about to step into the water that you realised the water might be too calm to surf. You didn’t want to go back home just yet though, so you left your board on the beach, and dove into the waves.

After being under the water for a minute, you resurfaced, treading water and keeping an eye on your position so the currents couldn’t move you too much without you realising; you stayed like this for a while, every now and then going back under water for as long as you could manage. Eventually your body began to tire, and you swam back to shore, grabbing your board from where you left it and got back into your car to head home.

—————

You were unlocking the door to your house when you heard movement behind you, you tried not to react, instead thinking about what you could use to protect yourself if needed, unfortunately all you had were the keys in your hand, so you turned around, ready to see what was behind you.

The sight was not what you expected, it was worse, you were frozen as you looked at JJ, blood running down his face, new bruises already forming over the ones from the other night, he wasn’t putting much weight on one of his legs and he had tears in his eyes.

Quickly shaking yourself out of the shock you had felt, you rushed towards him, “Holy shit JJ, what’s happened? Are you okay?”

His voice was gravelly, as if he’d been shouting, or screaming you thought with a shiver, “I went to your window but you weren’t there, so I waited here - I can go if you want.”

“Absolutely not,” you took his hand, already pulling him in the direction of your house, “I’ll clean you up again, yeah?”

You had turned to see if he was going to answer, but all he did was nod slightly, a tear falling down his cheek. The sight broke your heart and it took all your willpower to not cry as well.

He was silent - silent when you indicated for him to sit on the counter like last time, silent whilst you cleaned out his cuts and put ice on his wounds, silent when you led him into your room and sat him down on your bed. The only noises he ever made were sniffles or a hiss of pain when you cleaned out a bad cut.

You didn’t know what to do, whether you should ask him if he wanted to talk or to leave him alone completely. You crouched down in front of where he was sat, eye level with him, “Hey, will you be alright if I leave you for like five minutes? I’ve been in the sea so I kinda need a shower, but I don’t have to if you want me here with you.”

He looked at you, and shook his head and pointed back to the bathroom, showing he was fine with you leaving. You weren’t used to this quiet version of JJ, it unnerved you and made you want to break down in tears, but you couldn’t, at least not in front of him. So in the few minutes you were in the shower, you allowed a few tears to fall, heartbroken at the sight of him like this, but by the time you were back in your room, there was no sign of the emotions you’d let out, you were just ready to help him in any way you can.

He had settled down into your bed when you got back, the bruises on his chest obvious even in the dim light of your room, you made your way into bed next to him, laying on your side so you were facing him.

“You obviously don’t have to talk about it, but if you do want to I’m here for you.” He looked at you and the hand you’d held out for him to hold if he wanted it.

He put his hand in yours, still not saying anything, so you squeezed it and waited.

After a minute or so, he began speaking, “Um my dad did this to me,” you couldn’t help but let out a gasp at this, “he does it to me quite a lot actually, it’s why I spend so much time at John B’s - tonight it was because I wasn’t in the best of moods and didn’t get him a beer when he asked, so he told me how worthless I am, and that he wished I was dead.”

He sniffled, avoiding looking at you after what he said, completely unaware of the tears that were falling down your face, no longer contained by your resolve.

You squeezed his hand, “I may not have known you for a long time, but I know for a fact you’re not worthless, and the world would be an awful place if you were dead.”

He looked at you, likely still not convinced about what you were saying, so you continued, “You were one of the first people I met when I moved here, and because of my mum’s death, I wasn’t in the best of places, but everyday I have spent with you and the Pogues since have made my life a happier place again, you have especially had a part in that.”

You smiled at him, and to your delight, he smiled back.

You two lay like that for a while, holding hands in a comfortable silence. To your surprise it was JJ who broke the silence, “I’m sorry.”

“What for?” You looked at him confused

“For leaving the other day without telling you, I just panicked because you saw me vulnerable and you were being so nice, I didn’t want you to see me differently or something, so I thought I’d leave.”

Just as you were going to respond, he continued talking, “and then you wouldn’t even look at me the next day and I thought I’d really messed up, and I was going to talk to you, but I don’t know, I just couldn’t bring myself to.”

Before he could continue rambling, and making himself feel worse again you interrupted, “Hey, you hadn’t messed up or anything, yes I was a little annoyed at you leaving without telling me, but I knew you must of had a reason, and I was having other issues that day so I wanted to avoid emotions and stuff if that makes sense.”

“Yeh it does, maybe you can talk to me about that stuff sometime if you’re up for it, and I’m really glad I haven’t messed anything up because I think I might like you Y/N.”

You couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face, “That’s lucky, I think I might like you as well JJ Maybank.”

He pulled you closer, you put your head on his chest, careful not to hurt his bruises too much, and fell asleep like that, happy and content at the idea of being with the person beside you.

Taglist: @jellyfishbeansontoast @tangledinsparkles @k-k0129 @jjsbxtch @outerbankslove @obx-beach @emerald-xcd  @danicarosaline​ @belledutchess @teamnick​ @justcallmesams​ @claryherondaleparker​ 

[aelaer]

Uhh can I ask for BBC Sherlock fic recs? (Preferably friendship and/or familial fics, but romance is okay too)

Ooohh boy are you in for a list. I know you asked this like, at the start of quarantine or at sometime where I decided that I was no longer interested in communicating with the wider world, but hopefully this will still be of interest to you?

Throughout 2018 I did very little writing because I was busy consuming everything offered by the Sherlock fandom produced over 7-8 years. I definitely read well into the millions of words. A lot of them were from specific collections on both ff.net and AO3. I recommend looking in “collections” on ff.net in particular (as I still can’t really figure out how collections work on AO3 and how to find them easily... it’s really easy to find them on ff.net).

To my knowledge, these are all complete.

If there is any romance tagged here, it’s because it’s really, really fucking good as romance is my least favorite genre. I cannot remember all of them, but there’s a lot of angst, definitely humour, and definitely some great canonical bits. Also whumpy ones that are either really really good or a bit ridiculous but there you go.

It’s long, so under a cut. If the cut doesn’t work, I have tagged it as well.

From ff.net (alphabetical order) - NOTE: I did NOT include anything from the authors I recommended because the list was already too freaking long! But be sure to check out the authors, you can sort by “category” on ff.net on their author page and then go down to “Sherlock” to find their works:

Anything by A Wandering Minstrel (sooooo many genres)

Most anything by chappysmom (tons of genres, some are excellent, some I could take or leave, overall good stuff)

Most anything by Dayja (she writes in a ton of genres, so some I *adore* while others aren’t my cup of tea, but overall good stuff)

Anything by Gwen's Blue Box if you want angst up the wazoo.

Anything by ivywatcher for fantastic character studies.

Most anything by Jennistar1 (another multi-genre writer, both friendship and slashfic)

Anything by Radon65 - a mix of stuff. Canon IIRC.

Anything by Richefic for good, canon-friendly gap-fillers

Anything by StillWaters1 for good, canon-friendly gap-fillers

A Brief Account Of Life With Zombies  by Silver Pard Sherlock thinks it's all a bit of a nuisance, John is having the time of his life, and Mycroft is Not Impressed. With anything, but mostly his minions' inability to provide a good cup of tea. Rated: T - English - Humor - Chapters: 1 - Words: 2,384 - Complete

A House is not a Home  by selenityshiroi  This is a prompt fill from the LJ Fic Meme.  John and Sherlock got a flat share because they needed to split the rent.  But when John comes into money, people wonder 'why hasn't he found a place of his own'   The actual prompt is inside the story Rated: T - English - Friendship - Chapters: 1 - Words: 8,190 - John W., Sherlock H. - Complete

Annie's Song  by Berouge She has a second engagement with a man and his violin, in the park, at night. Sherlock's not going for it! ONESHOT! Rated: K - English - Romance - Chapters: 1 - Words: 8,869 - Sherlock H., Molly Hooper - Complete

Basic Training  by chai4anne Summary: A death at a boys' school leads to conflict and revelations among Lestrade's team, Sherlock, and John. Set between "The Hounds of Baskerville" and "The Reichenbach Fall." No slash. Rated: T - English - Mystery/Friendship - Chapters: 1 - Words: 10,851 - Sherlock H., John W., DI Lestrade, Sgt. S. Donavan - Complete

Breaking Point  by Haelia  When Sherlock and Donovan are abducted and Sherlock is grievously wounded, it is up to Donovan to get them both out.  "First things first, Freak.  You do not give me orders.  You are going to do everything I tell you to," Sally said sharply, "because we are getting out of here."  Can they both escape with their lives from the most dangerous gang in London? Rated: T - English - Mystery/Hurt/Comfort - Chapters: 3 - Words: 14,401 - Sgt. S. Donavan, Sherlock H. - Complete

Firestorm  by Dustbunny13 Sherlock returns, but his friendship with John is damaged. Nevertheless, they embark on their final hunt to finish off Moriarty's net, but it ends in a catastrophe: Sherlock is shot and lapses into a coma. As John keeps vigil, he reads Sherlock's diary written during the hiatus. Slowly, he begins to understand and finds himself wishing for another miracle. Completed. Rated: T - English - Hurt/Comfort/Adventure - Chapters: 53 - Words: 133,754 - Complete NOTE: Probably my favorite novel-length multi-chapter you find only on ff.net for this fandom.

How To Accidentally Summon a Demon  by patster223 Sherlock is possessed by a demon. A damned, wicked soul that uses the kitchen table for blood rituals and experiments. John doesn't even notice the difference. Rated: K+ - English - Supernatural/Humor - Chapters: 1 - Words: 1,411 - Sherlock H., John W. - Complete

Kidnapped! A Comedy by scuttlesworth Poor kidnappers. Kidnapping John Watson is like pulling on a thread tied to all sorts of crazy. It's enough to make a bloke get a job and go straight. Rated: T - English - Humor/Friendship - Chapters: 2 - Words: 10,758 - John W. - Complete

Mobile Phones, Rubble and Shock  by prettybirdy979  In the aftermath of the explosion, Lestrade must work to keep Sherlock Holmes alive and make sense of his communications... with only a mobile phone and Sherlock buried under the rubble of the pool. Rated: T - English - Hurt/Comfort/Angst - Chapters: 1 - Words: 2,679 - Sherlock H., DI Lestrade - Complete

Mouth of Babes  by Morgan Stuart  Several weeks after the explosion at the pool following "The Great Game" episode, Lestrade visits the recuperating Sherlock and John at 221B Baker Street. He brings case files and food... and a visitor in tow. Rated: K - English - Friendship - Chapters: 1 - Words: 2,495 - Sherlock H., DI Lestrade - Complete NOTE: This is a whole series. If you like it, look up the rest under the author. It’s super cute.

Of Surgeons and Soldiers  by EmRose92 Being a doctor has its advantages. He knows how to put people back together, and he knows how to take them apart. 221B is forced into a hostage situation, and John seems to be the only one who has the power to get them out of it. Includes BAMF John, protective Sherlock, and several unfortunate criminals who mess with the wrong army doctor. No slash. Rated: K+ - English - Adventure/Family - Chapters: 2 - Words: 9,695 - Sherlock H., John W. - Complete

The Empty Home  by chai4anne Sherlock would always be haunted by memories of one particular case. The first body, its once-so-familiar features blurred by the passing of time and death, moved him more than he would ever have expected. But the worst was the skeleton he uncovered later, bits of hair and clothes still clinging to it—which had no effect on him whatever, until he looked up and saw John's face. Rated: T - English - Mystery/Suspense - Chapters: 28 - Words: 150,773 - Sherlock H., John W. - Complete

The frigid trench  by Nova-chan Sherlock is badly hurt. And alone. And incapacitated. Rated: T - English - Drama/Hurt/Comfort - Chapters: 15 - Words: 13,118 - Sherlock H., John W. - Complete

The Hand You're Dealt  by Lady Sam Mallory Sherlock, John and several others are trapped in a building when an explosion disrupts the crime scene they are working. COMPLETE. Rated: T - English - Hurt/Comfort/Angst - Chapters: 1 - Words: 12,092 - Sherlock H., John W. - Complete

The Secret Identity of John Watson  by scifigrl47  Taken out of context, John Watson leads a terrifying life.  You have to wonder what those poor women he dates thinks of it, especially if John decides to try keeping one away from Sherlock, and Sherlock decides that it'd be best if he could get rid of her Rated: T - English - Humor - Chapters: 3 - Words: 29,251 - John W., Sherlock H. - Complete

This Is What He Does For Fun  by nyssa123   Sherlock and John go to the pub after a long day and Sherlock realizes that the man sitting next to them is a serial killer. He then proceeds to tell everyone how he knows. Written for a prompt on the LJ kinkmeme.

Rated: K+ - English - Humor/Mystery - Chapters: 1 - Words: 1,147 - John W., Sherlock H. - Complete

Totem  by IshkabibbleScribble  Rescuing Sherlock from the clutches of a violent terrorist cell forces John to rely on a long-unused, lethal skill. Rated: T - English - Friendship/Drama - Chapters: 2 - Words: 8,752 - Sherlock H., John W. - Complete

War Wound  by SoulfireInc  Set sometime after Sherlock's return, before John's wedding to Mary Mortsan. An old comrade of John's arrives at 221B Baker St, scared and desperate for the consulting detective's help. Perhaps, had Sherlock known the consequences he and John would suffer as a result of this surprise encounter, he never would have accepted the case ... [Written before season three aired.] Rated: K+ - English - Drama/Friendship - Chapters: 1 - Words: 21,319 - Sherlock H., John W., DI Lestrade, OC - Complete

From AO3 (alphabetical order) - NOTE: Just like the ff.net list, I did NOT include anything from the authors I recommended because these lists are just ginormous.

NOTE: I did *not* include warnings, pairings, etc in these summaries (too many tags to try and organize in the messy copy/pastes). Read the tags if you have any sensitivities/squicks/etc for all links!

Most anything by CaffieneKitty (over 100 shorts, so some I really love, others I can pass. Well worth checking out)

Anything by dragonnan if you want a huge wallop of angst. Also illustrations. Also writes in the MCU.

Anything by Jolie_Black (You thought stories written in script could only be bad? You thought WRONG. Very very canon-compliant goodness).

Anything by sgam76 (another multi-genre writer)

A Freak Adventure   by  dioscureantwins Words:    13,719    Chapters:    1/1    Teen And Up Audiences Sherlock Holmes Sally Donovan John Watson Mrs. Hudson Oh Christ, the Freak will be like a dog with two tails if she turns to him for assistance. Sally can feel her hands curling into fists ready to punch the condescending smirk off his face as she glares at the lift panel, willing the lift to go faster. But this is about Susy, Sally tells herself, not about him or Sally’s abhorrence of the atrocious git. She’s still convinced he gets off on it but he can wank himself into a stupor over Susy’s disappearance for all she cares as long as he finds her.

A Smelly Affair  by  dioscureantwins  Words:    13,756    Chapters:    1/1   General Audiences Sherlock Holmes John Watson Mrs Hudson Greg Lestrade Molly Hooper Anthea Mycroft Holmes Sherlock had published an interesting thesis on the splintering of various woods on his website. As well as an equally fascinating treatise on different types of ropes and knots and the best techniques for securing someone. Obviously, his captors had followed those instructions to the letter; thereby disproving John’s theory nobody took notice of Sherlock’s website. A victory, perhaps, but one Sherlock felt he could have done without. Trust his readership to turn the tables on the author.   Morons.

Constantly      by thesignsofserbia Words:    4,530    Chapters:    1/1    Mature Sherlock Holmes Mycroft Holmes Mycroft and Sherlock have a tenuous relationship at best, but with Sherlock taking down Moriarty's web, they might need each other more than they'd care to admit.

Croatia-Water-Blue      by hollyesque Words:    12,117    Chapters:    1/1 Not Rated Sherlock Holmes John Watson Mycroft Holmes “I…” John licks his lips, twitches his fingers as though he wants to reach out, “I’m here, Sherlock,” he says; “I know I haven’t been, but…but I am now.” Sherlock wrinkles his nose. Haven’t been—? “What on earth do you mean, you haven’t been here?” he asks, “You’ve been living here.”

Getting to Know You      by  Dimity Blue (Arnie) Words:    4,605    Chapters:    1/1   General Audiences Arthur Weasley/Molly Weasley Sherlock Holmes John Watson Mycroft Holmes John picked up the kettle.  "Nothing from Lestrade?"Sherlock flipped himself over on the sofa and presented John with his back; John sometimes felt he was living with a cat.Clicking the switch on the kettle, John grinned to himself and, keeping his tone casual, said, "Maybe you could send him an owl."There was silence for a few seconds, then Sherlock asked, "Why would I send him an owl?"

Landscape With The Fall Of Icarus      by CaitlinFairchild Words:    4,572    Chapters:    1/1   Teen And Up Audiences Sherlock Holmes Mycroft Holmes John Watson Closing his eyes, Sherlock allows himself a brief swell of feeling--let’s not put a name on it, just call it a feeling--for his big brother. He knows that when Mycroft opens that steel door again, every man now inside will be a fresh corpse.The East Wind will take them all, Sherlock thinks fuzzily, before the curtain of sleep descends.

London Orbital   by merripestin Words:    13,642    Chapters:    1/1    General Audiences Greg Lestrade Sally Donovan Sherlock Holmes John Watson "I'm driving first," Sally said.  "Guv can take over after me. If we're all still mad enough to be at this after that,  John can drive third shift.  Then the freak, if we decide we can risk it.""John doesn't drive," said Sherlock."Then what's John along for?" Sally protested. Which Greg reckoned had to be just Sally trying to wind Sherlock up.  She knew better.  All night in a car with Sherlock was bad enough.  All night driving round and round the M25 looking for a killer, with Sherlock deprived of John Watson, sounded like a new circle of hell.   

Official Recruiter by Captain_Author Words:    49,469    Chapters:    21/21   General Audiences  Clint Barton Phil Coulson Sherlock Holmes John Watson Stephen Strange Crimes were so simple before aliens, gods, and supernatural abilities made themselves known. But Sherlock Holmes never enjoyed simple and these inhumans and mutants provided quite a challenge. SHIELD needed someone to find the superpowered. Funny how both their needs can be met.

Rigging screws, size 1 3/8 inch, galvanised  by  AJHall    Words:    15,250    Chapters:    6/6    Teen And Up Audiences Sherlock Holmes John Watson "How's a woman supposed to prove her husband's a murderer, dammit?" On the eve of a planned voyage to Brittany, Marjorie Jameson starts her day with no problems more pressing than forcing a boatyard to do an emergency repair to the family yacht.  A chance encounter at the Cowes hi-speed ferry terminal begins to unravel a web of conspiracy and murder, with her charming, untrustworthy husband Julian right at the centre and Marjorie as the next intended victim.But no-one's going to trust the word of an aging housewife whose complaints of abuse the police have previously dismissed as delusions.

Somewhere in the Dinaric Alps      by  drpepperdiva91 Words:    1,735    Chapters:    1/1    General Audiences Sherlock Holmes John Watson Sherlock is caught off-guard by a flashback to his time in Serbia, just before John arrives home from work. Sweet, but still semi-realistic, hurt/comfort.

The Case of the Missing Bus Ticket      by  Unsentimentalf Words:    10,543    Chapters:    1/1   General Audiences Dirk Gently Sherlock Holmes Richard MacDuff John Watson Mycroft Holmes When Dirk and Richard's new client inexplicably fails to stay alive long enough to pay them, their ailing finances mean that a certain amount of subterfuge is required to get them back to London. The sudden death of their client has, however, attracted the attention of another rather more famous (if less holistic) detective and the stage is set for a long distance bus ride of suspense…

The Green Blade   by  verityburns Words:    72,929    Chapters:    15/15   Teen And Up Audiences Sherlock Holmes John Watson Lestrade (Inspector) Mycroft Holmes Sally Donovan Anderson (Sherlock) Mrs. Hudson As a serial killer hits the headlines, the police are out of their depth and the next victim is out of time. With faith in Sherlock Holmes at an all time low, this is a case which will push loyalties to the limit... WARNING: COMMENTS CONTAIN SPOILERS!

The Holiday    by Scriblit Words:    18,962    Chapters:    9/9    Mature Sherlock Holmes John Watson Mycroft Holmes Mrs. Hudson Greg Lestrade Molly Hooper Mary Morstan ACD Canon Characters A month following an horrific, sadistic attack during a case, Sherlock is still physically incapacitated and emotionally damaged. A holiday is suggested, but even stuck out in the middle of nowhere, he and John happen upon a case that could make Sherlock begin to feel like his old self again - or could kill him.BBC Sherlock Reworking of ACD's Devil's Foot, with Illustrious Client in flashbacks. Scenes of violence and implied "off screen" sexual violence/sexual assault.

The Shallow End      by  hollyesque Words:    6,923    Chapters:    1/1   Teen And Up Audiences Sherlock Holmes John Watson Mycroft Holmes "I told you once that I don't have friends," he says to John's back, "Now you know why."

The Silence of the Bees  by  trappedinathoughtbubble Words:    14,169    Chapters:    7/?    Mature Sherlock Holmes John Watson Mary Morstan Mary Watson Greg Lestrade Mycroft Holmes A kidnapped teenage girl. A political conspiracy. Bees. And somehow in the midst of it all, John learns a few things Sherlock forgot to mention about those two years. Note: Not completed, but the author's around and one of the sweetest people ever if you want to give encouragement to take a look again at this story!

The Triple Bluff    by SarahKnight  Words:    28,331    Chapters:    8/8   Mature Sherlock Holmes Greg Lestrade Mycroft Holmes Sally Donovan Philip Anderson Sherlock annoys his landlord at Montague street, grows to hate Donovan and gets into trouble a lot on a kidnapping case involving a woman who bullied him as a child.The events leading up to A Study In Pink. A case fic that answers questions from the first episode such as why Sherlock had to leave Montague Street and find a new flatmate, why he and Lestrade both quit smoking but didn't know the other had, why there's so much animosity between Sherlock and Donovan, and why Sherlock hates traveling in a police car.

Welcome Home    by   thesignsofserbia Words:    3,435    Chapters:    1/1    Teen And Up Audiences Sherlock Holmes John Watson Mrs. Hudson Mycroft Holmes "All my nightmares escaped my head. Bar the door, please don’t let them in. You were never supposed to leave. Now my head's splitting at the seams."

And of course I have my own Sherlock/Doctor Strange crossover up on AO3 if that tickles your fancy, illustrations and all. :D

But if you haven’t delved deep into the fandom, this should tide you over for some time.

This list is by no means an exhaustive list of recs. I didn’t really include anything that concentrated on a romantic pairing, for instance. I left off anything explicit as well. But yeah, here’s a small amount of the overall goodness produced by the BBC Sherlock fandom over the last 10 years.

[rosepetals-flyingbirds]

These Monsters.

With: Geralt x Reader.

Word Count: 2,436

Another town, another search for a monster so Geralt could gain some coin.

Roach walked slowly and Geralt gazed at the new town, it was dirty and smelled weird. Common.

Sometimes he wonders about Jaskier's questioning of retirement. Geralt chuckled at the thought, where could he possibly live after retirement?

"Oh shit! You bloody bitch!" A man yelled and Geralt searched for the disturbance. "Stop meddling."

"I ain't! I'm asking politely and with coin for the dog!"

"Stop caring so much. You and your damn dogs!"

Geralt got off Roach and walked close to the scene. "Don't curse them! Their lives matter more than yours." You yelled.

The man held your forearm. "Oh you-"

Geralt approached and the man looked up at him, he wasn't short, but Geralt was gigantic. "Do we have a problem?"

The man looked at him up and down. "Don't meddle, Witcher." He spat on the floor and Geralt looked at you.

You knew he wanted an answer so you chuckled. "This man refuges to sell me his dog, even though he is a monster that is selling him for terrible people who will kill him for rituals."

"Rituals my ass. There are using them for magic."

Geralt glanced at the man and then noticed the dog that was being held by a firm rope. "Selling?"

You nodded. "Yes."

"Why won't you sell for her then. Its the same price?"

The man rolled his eyes, not believing the annoying you and a Witcher was bothering him. "Its! But this is about my pride."

You laughed in mockery making the man angrier. "What pride? Your assassin!"

Geralt looked at you with gleam with his eyes, you were short, probably couldn't handle a sword for your life if needed, but there you stood causing chaos to save an animal. Then he looked at the man again and extended his hand to grab the dog's rope. "Give her the dog, it'll be for the best."

The man looked at the Witcher's hand and looked offended. "Don't touch my dog!"

You intertwined quickly making Geralt smirk at your ferocity. "Is not yours! You're selling him to slaughter!"

Geralt looked at the man again and gave him a look of knowing. "Give it to the girl, now."

He looked at you, the scared dog, the Witcher and rolled his eyes he took the coins from your hand and marched to the opposite way mumbling some curses.  

You kneeled on the floor and caressed the baby's head. "Hello girl, we will go home okay?! You will be treated with respect."

Geralt could walk away, he should have, but his feet were glued to the spot. Why did you care for such a small creature? 

Fighting with dumb people to save them.

Realizing the broadening figure that still stood near you, you stood up and held the damned rope. "Thank you, for helping me. Honestly, that asshole wouldn't give in and I was desperate."

He hummed and a small smile broke his lips. "You? Desperate?"

"Yeah, because if I stole him then they would kill me, probably anyway. I have stolen others before and... if I die all of this will be hopeless."

"Why do you care so much?"

"They are alive beings, man's best friend! And they betray them and its disgusting!" You saw the pretty horse in a few steps away and by the black bag that was propped by the horse's side, you connected it to the man with white hair and striking eyes. "Is she yours?"

Looking at Roach he nodded. "How did you know?"

"Well, for one she is well treated, that gives away a lot, and I've never seen you before."

"I'm a Witcher, I'm searching for a job."

"You kill monsters." You thought out loud. He nodded and you looked at the curious people that were going outside their houses just to look at him. "If I had enough coin I would give you to kill these monsters." Geralt knew you meant the people and he found that amusing. "Well, I will go now. Thank you for helping me and if you ever need help or a cup of tea, or ale," You chuckled. "I live deep in the woods, you'll probably hear the dogs if you approach."

Smirking at you, Geralt saw you walking away.

                           …

Nearing your house you held the baby in your arms and opened the door carefully, you allowed your other dogs, or as you call them, children, to smell the new baby and you went to cook something for them.

As you prepared the food your attention went to the Witcher you met in town, how he helped you made you smile. 

Yes, he was very very, painfully so, handsome; But the fact that he helped you when everyone else called you crazy was amazing to you. And how his horse was so well treated made you smile believing he cares for the animals too.

You placed the dogs' food in the table waiting for it to cool off and took the new baby to wash her. "Hello you, you have been through some rough time uh?!" She shaked with the water and you tried to go as quickly as you could so you could dry her up.

In the end, you rubbed a towel in her fur and went back to the kitchen placing the food on the floor and watched the nine rescued dogs eating.

                           …

Geralt found a job, a ghoul. It was stealing dead bodies at the local cemetery, and of course everyone was afraid of the 'demon that is destroying our ancestors' as the blacksmith said.

It wasn't easy, and at the end of the fight, he was embraced in ghoul's gut and a wound in his thigh.

"Fuck." He grunted and threw the body in the floor, he watched the almost opened graves but avoided it, he was paid to kill the monster, not to clean it's mess.

He walked back to town limping a bit, the beast's nail perforated his thigh and he needed to find Roach and take one of the potion elixir that helped his witcher magic heal him faster, the one made with veratrum, stramonium, hawthorn, and spurge.

On the way back to town, where he would rent a room he heard a bark, well, a bunch of. He thought of you along the day, the people he met in town where rough, most of them didn't have their teeth, nor education for the matter.

Yet you shone upon them, not only because of the gentleness with smaller creatures, but also how good you looked. 

As if you ran off a castle. 

You did invite him earlier did you not?

Letting a grunt he tried to decide if he should or shouldn't go visit you.

Following the barks he reached a small house, no dogs outside being locked in chains, he peeked inside and saw by the window a dog with white neat fur. So you let them inside too?

A lot of barks erupted as if the dog in the window told the others that a visitor was approaching their home and they didn't know if Geralt would hurt their human or not.

You approached by the window to call the dogs but realize he was outside.

Quickly you opened the door and looked at him up and down, the smell of guts was strong but the injury in his thigh was prominent by your eyes. Even with the dark cloth of his trousers covering it you could see his blood, then it might be disastrous.

"What happened?"

"I found a case."

"I can see that." You smiled but he could see the fear in your eyes, not because of him, which made him feel comfort. "I, uh, can I help you? Do you wanna bath I think I have some herbs ointment here." Geralt looked at dogs howling at him and you shushed them making them stop. "Come in."

"I, I don't want to get your house dirty with ghoul's guts."

You smiled and shrugged. "I don't know what that is but I don't mind."

As Geralt walked in you spoke with the dogs. "Luna, Ásia let him in, he is a friend."

Geralt looked at them and followed you to what looked like a bathroom. "I don't know your name." He spoke with a grunt and you smiled. 

"I don't know yours either." He hummed and you grabbed a towel for him, and searched for a tunic and trousers big enough to fit him. 

Geralt looked at the water buckets and you told him he could use them. Getting back at the bathroom you placed the clothes in a chair. "I don't know if they will fit but I believe it's better than these ones." You pointed to his clothes. 

"My name is Geralt. Geralt of Rivia."

"Nice to meet you, I'm Y/N, Y/N of... here? I guess." Seeing he used the buckets of water you would use before his arrival you pointed to the sponge and allowed him space to clean up. "I will be outside."

Geralt appreciated the gesture and got out of his clothes slowly to not hurt his thigh further, gladly his healing process was way faster and efficient than humans.

You went to your kitchen to fetch something for him to eat, Geralt was a Witcher, he hunted monsters, killed them and with that he automatically helped people too. Why people hated them? 

You knew the dumb tales, and the stares everyone threw at him earlier on made you upset.

He wouldn't hurt you... would he?

Ruby, the most caring dog you had, patted you in the thigh as if asking what was wrong. "Its okay boy."

                       …

Sometime later Geralt opened the wooden door and you looked at him wearing the loosest clothes you had, but even then they were a bit firm in his body.

"How is your thigh?"

Geralt sat in the chair near the table and you placed a wooden cup with ale for him, and as you have placed the bread, fruits in the table ere you sat to make him company. "Better, it will heal overnight." He drank the whole cup and started to eat the bread.

"How?"

"Magic." He answered simply, not revealing how the magic could help him much less where his magic came from.

"You don't talk much do you?" He smiled and looked at the almost destroyed bread he was eating.

"I'm sorry."

"No it's okay, I'm just curious about you. Magic you say uh?!"

"Yeah."

You saw him looking at the fruits as if something was missing. "I'm sorry but I don't have any type of meat here, I don't hunt nor buy it."

"It is okay, you're very generous."

Geralt felt something touching his feet and looked at the dogs surrounding him.

"They like you."

"How?"

"Well, they are not barking and are asking for bread." You smiled.

"Should I give them?" For a moment you swore you saw a glimpse of worry in his eyes.

"No no, they already ate and bread isn't good for them." He nodded and you served him more ale. "So, where you'll sleep tonight?"

"I will find a room in town."

"You'll leave tomorrow?"

He got silent for a while, deep in thought. "Yes."

In that would be the last time you saw him, or any Witcher to be straightforward. "You'll go home?"

"I don't have one."

"Not even in Rivia?"

"Definitely not in there."

"So you go from town to town? All over the state?" He nodded. "I don't know if I would be able to do that." Geralt smiled at your sincerity, almost everyone he met annoyed him about their lives and how lucky he is for traveling, when it isn't luck, its a curse. He was transformed into a Witcher and didn't have the luck of having a home or a family. "Well, I will wash your clothes. Or you want to take them dirty and all?"

You awaited for the answer and Geralt opened his mouth, but shut it quickly reconsidering his words. "If it won't be an inconvenience I would appreciate it."

"Sure thing." Leaving the kitchen you grabbed the stained clothes in the bathroom and went outside to wash them.

Geralt stood up from the chair and moved at the place, the dogs were looking at him contemplating the weird man in their home, he sat in the couch and propped his back, letting a sigh of relief. He was exhausted, days sleeping in the woods because of the search for a job. So finally feeling a warm house with a comfortable sofa was amazing to him.

Half of an hour later you entered your home again and placed the clothes in a made-up line near the fireplace, it was cold outside so it wouldn't dry them with the same efficiency.

You saw three of the dogs sleeping near the fire, two under the table and then the one you rescued earlier in the sofa, near a very tall Witcher. Geralt was passed out, you studied at him and then at the door, he said he would rent a room in town earlier on, but you wouldn't wake him up when he was so obviously relaxed.

Going to your room and finding the other three dogs near your bed, you petted one of them and grabbed a blanket you had made recently, you placed it in Geralt's body and gazed at him seeking for any sign of discomfort.

Finding none you walked back to your room and closed the door. Putting a small dagger you had under your pillow, you sat in bed and caressed your dog, Ubbe. Geralt wouldn't try something bad, you were sure of it, but to be sure you had to at least be prepared.

And as for Geralt, he slept better than he had in days.

                          …

The night passed and he woke up with a lick on his face. Grunting he opened his eyes and saw the dog he helped you buy the day prior, he smiled at the small creature and sat in the sofa stretching his sore muscles, touching his leg he realized the injury was apparently gone. And looking at his surrounds he smiled at how the sun rays swept in the atmosphere making everything look warmer, brighter, and better. 

And adding the place to the way you treated him with nothing but gentleness he smiled. Yeah, people were shitty but sometimes he was blessed by meeting good souls.

And he will try his best to treat you with nothing but.

                      …

[fandomdancer]

Print list #1 Fluff 32 & 50 with Talia & Sherloque please?

Here is #32, Make a Wish. #50 is coming later!

I haven’t written for Sherloque in well over a year so...sorry if this is awful...

__________________________________________

(c. December 2018, Season 5)

               Tally curled up against the edge of the seating couch in the center of Jitters. She rather loved the cozy addition to the coffee shop, and was grateful for any time she could spend on it. Jitters was quiet right now, the lunch hour just winding down and the baristas scurrying about cleaning up and restocking. The sun poured through the windows, warming the shop, and Tally’s toes tapped unconsciously to the music pumping through her headphones. She took a sip of her pumpkin spice latte and picked up her tablet, ready to start another round of research on Cicada.

               “Bonjour, petit alouette.”

               The distinctive French voice got around her music (as it always did), and Tally’s heart beat a little faster as she looked up to see Sherloque standing before her. As usual, the tall detective wore his brown pants and button up black shirt with the green/navy waistcoat fastened securely around his chest. His grey blazer hung open on his shoulders, and his black fedora hid his brown curls. Tally gave him a little smile. “Bonjour, Sherloque. Que fais-tu?”

               “Ah. I am working.” He gestured to the tablet in his hand.

               Tally raised her tablet. “So am I. Cicada?”

               “Non. A side project. No charge.” A little twinkle glimmered in his eye. “We are all surprised, yes, by the arrival of Miss Nora?”

               Tally nodded, though her stomach still curled at the memory of the sheer hatred in Nora’s voice when she had addressed Tally last. “It’s way cool to see Barry and Iris’s kid, but we don’t really have a good track record with visitors from the future.” If only I could get her to tell me what she thinks I did…maybe I can figure out where this ‘Overdose’ came from…

               Sherloque didn’t say anything and she looked up to see him tilting his head curiously at her, silently urging her to continue. Instead, she found herself staring at him just a little more. There had been a time when a Wells tilting his head would have triggered memories of Ren, harsh enough that she would have to look away. Now…all she could think of was how attractive it made Sherloque look, that detective brain latching on to a curiosity she had unknowingly laid out in front of him.

               “We don’t get a lot of visitors from the future,” she elaborated, “but the ones we have gotten generally don’t bring good news. Thawne, of course. We had a magician last year, Abra Kadabra…full of nothing but arrogance and dislike. He was from the 64th century. And Nora…”

               “Has brought Cicada.” Sherloque sat down on the couch beside her, gently setting down his teacup and saucer on the coffee table in front of them. “And something else too…something personal, dare I ask?”

               Tally shifted position, turning towards him. “She was nice enough at Joe’s place but when we were alone…she called me a name I’ve never heard before, and told me that…that in the future I was responsible for…killing a whole lot of people.” Her eyes slid away as she spoke, anxiety and guilt for something she hadn’t even done still weighing on her shoulders. She absently set down her latte.

               Alarm and concern warred on Sherloque’s face as he leaned towards her. “You believe her?”

               “She’s from the future.”

               “Ah, but is the future set? Or is the timeline…malleable?”

               They had spent much of the previous year working on answering that very question and honestly, Tally still didn’t know what they had found out. Iris had been stabbed but it hadn’t been Iris, and H.R. had pointed a gun at Savitar from the roof, but it hadn’t been H.R.. The scene had played out the way Barry had seen, but the wrong people had died. Was the future set?

               She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

               “This is not something to worry about. You are not a killer. You do not think about killing these people. The idea, it makes you sick. You cannot even smell your coffee.” He gestured to her latte on the coffee table before focusing his eyes on hers again. “What Nora knows, what Nora sees, it is in her time, not this one. You are not a killer, petit alouette.”

               Tally couldn’t help but smile at the nickname, nor could she stop the blush crawling into her cheeks. She knew he would see it, and she dearly hoped he would not comment on it. To try and hide her reddening cheeks, she murmured: “Thanks, Sherloque,” and quickly reached for her drink. In her haste, her hand knocked over the salt shaker on the table, spilling salt. “Oh, crap!”

               “What? It is a spill, we get the napkin here…” Sherloque reached for the napkin dispenser but Tally was already grabbing a pinch of the salt and throwing it over her left shoulder. Sherloque stared at her, clearly surprised and confused, before continuing. “What is this, you throw?” He imitated her tossing the salt over her shoulder.

               “It’s bad luck,” Tally said. “It’s just…” She felt suddenly embarrassed, blushing for a whole other reason now. “You spill salt, it’s bad luck. You cancel it out by throwing some over your left shoulder.”

               “Ah, it is bad luck on this Earth! Well. Let me tell you a secret. On my Earth, it is time to make a wish.”

               Tally blinked. “What?”

               “Make a wish,” Sherloque smiled. He took a pinch of the salt and tossed it out into the room, briefly shutting his eyes before looking back to her. “Your turn.”

               “Like when you lose an eyelash,” Tally said. “You make a wish and blow it away.”

               Sherloque gestured. Tally leaned forward and picked up a pinch of salt, then shut her eyes, her mind spinning through a dozen thoughts before landing on one simple desire. She tossed the salt into the room as well.

               “Now we clean up the salt, but we do not throw it away. It goes outside to help carry our wishes.” Sherloque swept the salt into a pile, moved it into his hand, and then shook some of it into hers. “I will go first so no one takes our seat. That would be bad luck, yes?”

               “This is such a ritual!” Tally laughed.

               “Spilling salt is no simple matter.”

               They took turns dumping the salt out of her hands, earning curious looks from the baristas as they left and reentered the store, and by the time they sat back down Tally had forgotten all about Nora. She leaned against the back of the couch, propping her head up in her hand, and smiled at the detective sipping his tea beside her. When he had finished lingering over the flavor, he settled in the seat and looked at her, his blue eyes vibrant in his tan face and his thin lips stretched in an inviting smile. Her heart rate picked up again as she thought about her wish, and she swallowed.

               “What was your wish, petit alouette?” he asked.

               Was he reading her mind? Was that how he was such a good detective? Tally blinked. “What?”

               “Your wish.”

               “You don’t tell people your wish! That stops it from coming true!”

               He raised an eyebrow. “And how can a wish come true with only one person believing in it?”

               He had a point, but Tally still wasn’t sure how to tell him without setting the room on fire from humiliation. “What was yours, then? You wished first.”

               “You spilled the salt. It is your wish that is important.”

               “Oh, stop trying to trick me.” Tally tried to sound annoyed but the grin on his face was infectious and she could not resist the urge to giggle at the silliness of the whole moment. Had he set all of this up to distract her from Nora, Overdose, and Cicada? Or was this just a quirky setup of life in all its randomosity? “You first.”

               “Very well. I wished…” he trailed off dramatically before winking, “…to see you smile.”

               Oh. Well. Tally ducked her head. “That wasn’t your wish. You’re just being a flirt.”

               “You don’t know if it was my wish or not.”

               “Isn’t it bad luck to lie about a wish?”

               “You hurt me!” He lay a hand on his heart, looking mock-stung, and Tally laughed again.

               “You’re just trying to manipulate me into telling you my wish.”

               “And it is working. You are going to tell me.”

               Tally raised an eyebrow. “Where are you getting that idea?”

               Sherloque looked her over, his eyes dancing and that damning little smile on his lips. Then, to her surprise, he leaned over to her, closing the distance between them considerably. His eyes flicked to her lips as she parted them unconsciously and she swallowed quickly, suddenly aware that she had no desire to move even though everything inside of her thought t would be a very good idea to do so.

               “You want to,” he said, his voice a low, inviting purr, sending shivers through her body and pleasant sensations through her abdomen. No matter what Earth he was from or what name he had, Harrison Wells had a voice that weakened her defenses. Ren had had it too, and she could remember him using it on her to great effect.

               But the face in front of her was…for once…not Ren’s. It belonged to Sherloque Wells. She could look at his face…and not see her dead fiancé.

               “You are curious,” he continued, captivating her. “We are from two different worlds and this is a superstition from mine. You want to because you wonder if it is real even though it is not from your Earth. Come on, petit alouette. Tell me what it is you wished.”

               “For a chance,” Tally breathed. No hesitation, his blue eyes held hers and his voice coaxed the words out of her throat.

               “A chance for what?” he asked, his voice no less enticing but now just as soft.

               “Just a chance.” He could not seduce out of her what was not there. Give me a chance, she had thought, and even as she had blown the salt away she realized she hadn’t quite known what she was asking for. It had been a simple desire, a chance. An option. Give me the option.

               But this close to him, with the warmth of the room and the thick smell of the coffee and the thumping beat of music in the background, she had a feeling she knew exactly what she was asking for. The question was, was he good enough to figure it out?

               The silence between them worked as a magnet, drawing them closer and closer...

               A violent vibration tore through the air as Tally’s cell phone skittered across the coffee table. The two of them jumped, looking down at it, and Tally grabbed it on reflex, hitting the ‘accept’ button. “Y-Yeah? What?”

               “Ah…you okay, gurl?”

               Cisco. Tally exhaled a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. “Yeah, yeah. You started me. I was…reading.”

               A slight pause, then: “Uh-huh. Well. Is Sherlock with you?”

               “Loque!” Sherloque said loudly. Tally did a double take. How did he hear that? Her phone wasn’t on speaker!

               “Ask me if I care!” Cisco shouted back over the phone.

               “Cisco,” Tally complained.

               “Sorry. So. He’s there with you and we need the two of you back at S.T.A.R. Labs. Can you get here fast please?’

               Tally nodded before remembering she wasn’t on video chat. “Yes. We’ll be right there.”

Translations:

Bonjour: hello, good day

Petit alouette: little lark

Que fais-tu?: What are you doing?

Non: No

[aethersmoke-and-ash]

LFRP - Milloux Allard

✦ The Basics ––– –

Age: Late 20′s

Birthday: She remains unsure of the exact date - but celebrates yearly when the Moonfire fireworks begins.

Race: Duskwight Elezen

Gender: Female

Sexuality: bisexual

Server: Balmung

✦ Physical Appearance ––– –

Hair: Long, nearly waist-length hair, naturally a deep aubergine color. Highlights change frequently, often favoring dusty pastels or bold saturated hues. Often pulled back into a high ponytail or loose braid for ease.

Eyes:  A bright – almost unnaturally so – magenta with flecks of paler pinks.

Height: Fairly short for an elezen - just under six fulms. This is likely due, in part, to stress and malnourishment during her formative years.

Build: Fit, but softer. Her features have lost some sharpness over the past few years; maturity, regular meals and a lifestyle resembling some form of stability has caused her to fill out a little.

Distinguishing Marks: A faded scar bisecting the bridge of her nose - from forehead to just under the corner of her right eye. A full sleeve of tattoos on each arm, depicting floral motif, mythical creatures, and protective sigils.(When not glamoured away for the sake of propriety- which is frequently the case these days) Freckled cheeks and shoulders - a consequence of ashen-colored skin being exposed to more sunlight than is probably advised for a duskwight.  A series of four jagged parallel scars on her right side/hip; all very old and faded.

Common Accessories: Various hoops and other ear adornments - often sporting a pair of silver ear cuffs. Will accessorize with various bits and baubles, but seems largely unconcerned with excessive adornment.

✦ Personality ––– –

At once earnest and enigmatic, Milloux can be difficult to pin down, and seems to prefer it that way. Her voice, low and pleasant enough, carries the distinct cadence of Limsan salt, though practice seems to have softened it a great deal. Make no mistake, she can still weave a tapestry of profanity fine enough to make a sailor blush... at least in the right company. Those that take the time to get to know her find there is a tempest of emotion underneath the wry humor and composure. A woman fiercely protective of those she has come to call her own and those she seeks to aid, and yet undeniably fragile - someone that has built up high walls to keep the soft parts of her psyche and heart safe from harm.

✦ Personal ––– –

Profession: Former freelance mark-hunter and bodyguard. Absolutely not seeking to help others in a more proactive sense, securing wayward & harmful artifacts, or hunting down dangerous individuals.

Hobbies: This is something she’s still figuring out! Free time has never been something she’s had a surfeit of, though she’s taken to teaching herself how to play the guitar…and knitting. (The latter will be denied vehemently or claim is solely to help her focus and meditate)

Languages: Common

Residence: A rambling ramshackle manor she is slowly restoring on Vylbrand’s coast or her quarters at the Mercier Estate in Ishgard.

Birthplace: A long collapsed cave-network deep in the Shroud that may or may not have had access into Gelmorra.

Religion: She remembers little of the religion of her birth - ancient rituals forgotten by most.  Loosely follows the Navigator, asking occasionally for her fair winds and favor, more recently looking towards the Fury for guidance, after initial hesitance for the halonic faith.

Patron Deity: Nophica

Fears: Abandonment, loss of control, suffocation, being restrained or confined, paralysis.

✦ Relationships ––– -

Spouse: None currently – Divorced.

Children: None.

Parents: Sidoni (mother; presumed deceased, surname unknown) , Toussaint Allard* (father; whereabouts unknown.) *Allard is an assumed name. Both Milloux and her older brother are unaware that their father made this change upon relocation to Gridania, and are unaware of their true surname.

Siblings: Jordain Allard (older brother)

Other Relatives: Unknown; very likely to have relatives still living among various isolated settlements and caves in the Shroud.

Pets: Matilda; a tiny sphynx kitten.

✦ RP Hooks ––– –

Crossroads - Milloux has found herself  staring down uncertainty and an unknown path after the sudden closure of the Ashen Enclave and the seizure of the Clinic by Ul'dahn interest and authority after a series of unexplained aetheric anomalies on the grounds.   She is still reeling from the ordeal, the carefully composed mask of Advocate and Lady peeled away enough to reveal someone unsure of her next steps, of redefining herself after turns of devoting herself wholly to helping others; burying herself within her role, and the responsibilities she's shouldered.  That she was perhaps drowning under the weight of it all, even before then, is something she has been slow to acknowledge. Where there has always been a quiet melancholy about her, there's now a morose edge, tangled within fatalist and reckless inclinations -- no longer tempered by her need to be responsible for the sake of the Enclave, and those who looked to her for guidance. What she seeks now, she isn't certain. A new purpose, distractions, people to help...or even a greater sense of self underneath all of the personas she has attempted to wear and define herself by for the sake of others.  Maybe she just needs trouble, a strong drink, and a sparring partner. It's difficult to say, really.

✧   A full list of hooks & more info about Milloux can be found at:  http://milloux.carrd.co ✧

✦ What I’m looking for ––––

Connections of all sorts! Plots to jump into and help with!

Milloux has worn many masks over the course of her relatively short life, and has likely made as many friends as enemies. I imagine an entire rogue’s gallery in her past - with room for all sorts of characters and interactions - the drama of such characters coming back into her life would be a lot of fun - both as ally or adversary! Maybe both... If your character needs help with a problem, or a drinking buddy from their past with seemingly deep pockets and what appears to be an uncanny influx of good luck, she might be your gal. 

I am looking, in particular, for those with knowledge of thaumaturgy and black magic. Milloux has some connections to the darker arts, and I have been looking for colleagues, rivals, and adversaries in this vein.  Folks to research, delve into mysteries, poke at dangerous artifacts...

If Mill isn’t your cup of tea, I have a whole bunch of other characters as well! (I’ll be making individual posts for them soon)

✦ OOC info ––––

Hi! I’m Dani~ I’ve been RPing for a really long time now! As in, started back on AOL, long time ago. I’m a really laid back and patient RP partner, and I prefer the folks I write with to be the same. I’m a tired lady in her 30′s with a trio of cats.

Due to work obligations, evenings (EST) work best for me for in-game RP!  I do enjoy Discord RP as well, especially for more personal and character-focused scenes.

Darker plots are as welcome as slice-of-life scenes. I value communication with those I am writing with, in order to make sure we stay on the same page and nothing gets thrown at me entirely out of the blue. Please know that, in general, while I’m not opposed to spicier rp or romantic plots, I don’t like to set out with just those aims in mind, and prefer things to develop organically, and then only after I’ve gotten comfortable with an RP partner.

✦ Contact Information  ––– –

Ingame - ‘Milloux Allard’ , Discord: snarksonomy#1313

@balmungrp​ , @crystalxivrp​, @mooglemeet​, @ffxiv-crystal-rp​