#except now apparently i recognise it from the mug

[ssaalexblake]

i've officially learnt too much about America bc i just ID'd the university henry blake went to by looking at his mug with the logo thingy on it and i'm not sure i like this Unless it will help me in general knowledge quizzes, then i'm cool with it.

[whitedarkmoonflower]

You are good

Pairing: Sihtric x reader (female)

Authors note: I refuse all responsibility for this and blame @foxyanon and this post for planting this idea into my head. I think you will recognise your quotes. 😅

Warnings: SMUT 18+

Word Count: 3,3 K

Tags: @sihtricfedaraaahvicius @hb8301 @zillahvathek @alexagirlie @gemini-mama @verenahx @mysteriouslydeafeningwerewolf @willowbrookesblog @thenameswinter99 @ellabellabus07 @mcbuckyyyy @kirtseinw

If you want to be added to or removed from the tag list - write to me.

Uhtred's tail, you had silently dubbed him. "Yes, lord" and "No, lord" were nearly the only phrases to escape his lips. Most of the time, he seemed to vanish, only to reappear as if conjured by a magic wand at the mere sound of his name, his head tucked into his shoulders, hunched forward, eyes fixed on the ground, avoiding any direct gaze. Horses need to be readied – Sihtric will do that. Not enough wood for the fire – he’s already gone searching. Pretty face and large, alerted eyes. Suspicious eyes.

You didn’t trust him. Uhtred apparently did, but your brother had always had a far too big and soft heart, he tried to hide behind his loud talk about destiny and honour. So, you kept a watchful eye on Sihtric.

You saw him conversing with the horses in hushed, gentle tones, telling them about his day, treating them as if they were his best friends, meticulously brushing their backs. You witnessed him sitting in the darkness, far from the reach of the fire's flickering light, leaning against a tree or a cart, his form curled up, arms wrapped around his legs, chin resting on his knees. He would startle at the sound of raucous, drunken laughter piercing the air. You noticed him shudder when his name was called,  jumping to his feet as if he'd been bitten by a venomous snake, and wince when someone unexpectedly placed a hand on his shoulder.

But you saw other things as well. You observed him reach into his saddlebag, generously distributing all his provisions to the beggars who sat at the city gates as you entered Winchester. You saw him remove the silver ring recently bestowed upon him by Uhtred, gifting it to a small, emaciated boy whom he had caught attempting to steal his pouch just moments earlier. You even saw him step in and kick out a drunkard from the alehouse, who was about to take a swing at the serving girl.

"Here, have a drink," you offered him a mug, settling down beside him. He flinched and looked up at you in surprise. A hesitant smile graced Sihtric's lips as he accepted the drink from you, his eyes filled with warmth and gratitude. That's how it all began – your quiet chats away from the noisy laughter and banter by the fireplaces. You were just plain curious and cautious, or so you kept telling yourself. You wanted to learn more about the reserved and timid warrior in your brother’s service. And with each moment, each story he shared as he gradually opened up to you, revealing bits and pieces from his life, your fascination with him never wavered.

Your own path hadn't been a walk in the park either. You'd lost everything except your brother. You both survived that Danish assault, but life played a cruel trick on you, and you didn't luck out like Uhtred who found a new family. Fate turned you into a warrior, fueled by anger, rage, and an unquenchable thirst for revenge. Sometimes, it felt like your heart stopped beating the day the Danes yanked you from your old life, leaving you with an empty, pitch-black hole in your chest. It changed when you reunited with Uhtred. It was like you finally fit into this world again, and your brother's love warmed your heart. Yet, in the quiet of the night, when you were alone with your thoughts, that dark hole in your chest still haunted you, making you wonder if you were really alive.

And now, you'd crossed paths with someone whose journey had been even more rocky as yours, whose soul seemed like an open, bleeding wound. But within him, there still was a warmth that felt like it could rekindle the spark of life within your own heart too.

—----------------------------------------------------

"What a pretty thing!" the guard sneered, his fingers digging into the flesh of your cheeks as he pulled you closer, his foul breath assaulting your senses. It had been your fault; your recklessness had landed both you and Sihtric in this grimy dungeon. But not a single word of reproach had escaped Sihtric's lips. You had a sense that rescue might be on the horizon, as the boy who had been with you had escaped and was likely delivering the news to Uhtred. However, for the moment, you were stuck here.

"Don't touch her!" Sihtric hissed, his voice quivering with anger as he swatted the guard's hand away from you.

"What the hell! Hold that rat for me," the guard grumbled, turning his attention away from you, while the other two forcibly twisted Sihtric's arms behind his back. You winced as the first blow landed on Sihtric's face, jerking his head to the side, followed by another and another. Not a sound escaped his lips as he stared back at the guard, his eyes burning with pure hatred.

Another punch, this time aimed at Sihtric's abdomen, caused him to double over with a grunt, gasping for air. The guards released him, and Sihtric's knees and hands crumpled to the ground. A heavy leather boot struck his stomach, sending him sprawling. Arms defensively wrapped around his head, Sihtric writhed on the floor, convulsing under the brutal onslaught that was shattering his body.

"I hope this serves as a valuable lesson, you filthy heathen. Next time, think before you open your mouth," one of the guards spat, then turned to leave, motioning for the others to follow suit.

"What was that? Are you out of your mind?" you whispered sharply to Sihtric, rushing to his side and kneeling beside him to assess the damage. His nose was bleeding, and his lip and eyebrow were cut. Gently, you placed his arm around your shoulders, wrapping your arm around his waist as you helped him back on his feet and guided him towards a heap of straw in the corner of the cell. He sank heavily onto it, leaning his back and head against the wall.

"At least they got distracted," he shuddered, shoulders quivering, spitting blood and wiping his chin with his sleeve.

"That was incredibly foolish of you. It seems you don't have any broken ribs, but it could have turned out much worse," you tore the lower edge of your tunic and reached out to clean the blood from Sihtric's face with the makeshift rag.

"It's not too high a price to pay if it keeps their attention off you," Sihtric replied, raising his eyes, and for perhaps the first time, your gazes consciously met. "Besides, I'm used to it," he added, a sad smile playing on his lips.

"I can handle myself," you hissed, but your eyes were brimming with gratitude, while Sihtric merely shrugged his shoulders, wincing when your fingers touched his split lip.

—---------------------------------------

Your blood ran hot, adrenaline surging through your veins, a loud thump of your heart in your ears. Your senses sharpened to an almost painful degree as it seemed you could hear the trampled grass beneath your feet crying out. Your fingers clenched tightly around the shaft of your axe, tracing every line and wrinkle carved into the wood, as you melded seamlessly with your weapon, becoming an extension of your arm. There was no escape from the thick, intoxicating scent of blood that hung in the air, clinging to your clothes, seeping through your skin, intensifying the thrill. You sank to your knees, using the shaft of your axe for support, the taste of iron and ashes lingering in your mouth.

"Are you injured?" you flinched at the touch on your shoulder, raising your head only to see Sihtric quickly retract his hand.

Today was the first time you had witnessed him in battle, his eyes ablaze with excitement, his body a coiled spring of taut muscles, moving with purpose and precision. He resembled a young wolf on the hunt, thrilled by his own strength and agility, seamlessly blending with the chaos around him.

A brief, lingering gaze at the young Dane fighting alongside you had cost you dearly. A sudden swing of an axe caught you off guard, your step back too hurried and unsteady, causing you to lose your balance and tumble, releasing your own weapon. The stench of death filled your nostrils, the axe poised in the air, ready to strike, etching itself into your senses as you desperately fumbled to find something to counter the blow.

Too late, a single thought pierced your mind as you watched the blade descend, moving so agonisingly slow that it felt as if time itself had altered its pace just to mock you. A clank of metal and a scorching splatter of blood across your face brought the world back to its normal tempo, as the lifeless body of a red-faced Dane thudded to the ground beside you. A hand reached out, and you grasped it, allowing it to yank you back onto your feet. You met the piercing gaze of two mismatched eyes, filled with anxiety and something more, something profound and indescribable, yet so intense that it sent shivers down your spine. There was no time for words as you both were drawn back into the intricate dance of life and death surrounding you.

"I'm fine," you growled, breathing heavily, your body trembling as you pushed yourself upright with the aid of the axe's shaft. A deep ache surged through your tired muscles. You seized Sihtric's hand, which hung hesitantly in the air, and pulled him along with you, striding towards the trees at the edge of the clearing. He followed, eyes wide with surprise but offering no resistance.

You plunged into the forest, not stopping until the battlefield's clearing had long vanished from view, leaving behind all its chaotic sounds. Silence, you needed silence—to quiet your racing mind. 

A startled crow fluttered away, its caw echoing through the trees and your ears. Coming to a halt, you turned to face the utterly bewildered gaze of Sihtric. Pushing him against the nearest tree trunk, your fingers frantically fumbled with the laces of his breeches.

"What... what are you doing?" he gasped, as your hand slipped inside his pants.

"Feeling alive," you whispered, a mischievous smile appearing on your lips as you felt his cock hardening under your touch. 

You had grown tired of those lingering glances and deep sighs, of him becoming more like your shadow than even Uhtred's. You had had enough of his trembling fingers and flushed cheeks, his hand brushing against yours when you passed him an ale mug, and the way he held his breath when you sat beside him, your thighs touching. 

You wanted him, and you were aware that he craved for you just as intensely. You could feel his blood running hot at this very moment, just as yours did. You had seen it in his eyes, in that brief, fleeting moment after he helped you back to your feet, and you didn't want to wait any longer. You knew him too well by now to realise he wouldn't make the first move, so you had to be the one.

"I... I can't... we can't... Oh, damn it...," Sihtric stammered, a loud, almost desperate moan escaping his lips as you pulled down his breeches, freeing his already fully hard cock,  wrapping your hand around it and giving it a few slow, teasing strokes. 

“Don’t tell me you haven’t been dreaming about this. I’m not blind. I can see how you look at me,” you purred, biting your lower lip, while your hand kept moving. 

"I... Oh gods, fuck... You're Uhtred's sister, and I... I... He'll kill me if..." The words caught in Sihtric's throat, his breathing quickening and growing more erratic, his hands balling into fists as your fingers moved to the tip of his pulsing shaft, collecting the precum and spreading it along its length.

“You just saved my life,” you murmured, going down on your knees before him and licking your lips at the sight of Sihtric’s long and thick, perfectly formed cock, tip slightly red and dripping, “and I haven’t even thanked you for stepping in that time in the dungeon.” 

Feeling Sihtric's entire body tense, you glanced up at him from beneath your lashes, savouring the sight of him. Head thrown back, eyes closed, breathing shallow and ragged, he leaned heavily against the tree, his arms hanging somewhat awkwardly by his sides. You were surprised that he still hadn't made a move to touch you.

"This isn't your first time, is it?" you suddenly inquired, raising an eyebrow. You smiled as Sihtric vigorously shook his head. "Good. Then you know what to expect, don't you? You know how good it feels," you teased him, pressing your mouth to his upper thigh, trailing a path with your tongue and placing soft, wet kisses on his naked skin. Sihtric exhaled sharply, but didn’t answer.

“Talk to me,” you ordered, giving a teasing, quick lick to the tip of his cock.

“Aaahhh, y-yes,” Sihtric whimpered, gasping for air, pressing both his palms against the tree.

“But you said, we couldn't do this. Have you changed your mind?” you asked, your tone taunting. “Tell me, do you want me to take you in my mouth? Do you want to feel my lips around you?” you circled his tip with your tongue, your hand jerking him, so teasingly slowly. You could tell you were driving him mad by the way, his breathing was picking up with each gentle lap of your wet and hot tongue and each movement of your hand.

You were aware that you were a brat, torturing him, testing his self-control, but you wanted to know how long he could hold back.You had seen his eyes glint with passion and fervour on the battlefield and you wanted to see them glint the same now. You wanted him to lose his composure and fully surrender to the pleasure you were eager to offer. 

"I don't hear you," you pulled back and released your hold on him, causing Sihtric to whine in frustration. 

“Yes, yes… fuck, by the gods… I… I want it … I want you…,” he breathed, a mortified look on his pretty face, his cheeks crimson, “I have wanted you since the first moment I saw you. You are so beautiful and so … so strong, but … fuck, ahhh, please, please touch me,” he whined. 

“Ask me nicely,” you purred, moving your mouth back closer to his throbbing cock.

“Please, just touch me again. Please, I need you …,” Sihtric begged, his voice shaky, a slight desperation creeping in it. He was finally looking down at you as he reached out, cupping your chin with his rough tattooed fingers, his thumb gliding over your lips, eyes darkening with lust and longing. 

You kept your gaze locked with him as you bit your bottom lip and wrapped your fingers around his  length again.

“Good, you are such a good boy. Just relax and enjoy. Can you do that for me, handsome? I want you to feel good,” you purred, a satisfied smile on your lips as you heard Sihtric gasp and whimper at your touch.

Sihtric moaned loudly as your lips closed around the tip of his cock, your tongue lapping at it teasingly, and then you moved up taking him in your mouth almost completely. You sucked gently at first, then harder, relishing the soft whines and moans rolling over Sihtric’s lips as your head started to move up and down his length, your palm firmly around the base, stroking the part that didn’t fit in. 

Sihtric’s hands were in your hair, not pulling or tugging, just holding on to you, gently and carefully, his trembling fingers caressing you, brushing your hair out of your face. He looked so sweet trying to keep his eyes on you, trying to keep still. You moaned, feeling his grip in your hair tensing, as you fastened your movements, wrapping your lips even tighter around his cock, watching him lose his uneven struggle. It didn’t take long for him to become a whimpering, moaning mess, his hips thrusting forward, eyes half lid, breath heavy and panting as he finally lost himself in the pleasure your mouth was giving him.

“It feels so good…,” he moaned, as his hips started to move faster, fucking your mouth harder and deeper, his eyes rolling in the back of his head as he chased his release, the grip of his fingers in your hair tightening, “I’m close… aaahhh, I can’t take it much longer! Slow down… stop … please, let me … ” he whined through his panting breath, looking down at you questioningly, but you kept sucking him like your life would depend on it, tears bursting into the corners of your eyes, moaning lewdly your mouth stuffed with his cock as your core throbbed in burning need for him. 

You loved the desperate, wanton sounds rolling over his lips, the sight of him falling apart, all shaky and whiny, his limbs starting to tremble, because you made him feel so good, because you had this power over him. You and only you!  You didn’t let go of him, didn’t allow him to pull out and after a few more sloppy thrusts, his cock twitched in your mouth, his head snapped back and with a loud moan Sihtric was spilling down your throat, cursing under his breath.

“Oh gods… fuck…,”  Sihtric looked down at you, breathing heavily and slumping his back against the tree. You let him come down from his high, sucking gently and letting your tongue slide over his sensitive tip, making him moan and twitch a few more times. 

Breath panting, Sihtric reached out to you, pulling you off your knees into his embrace as he buried his nose in the crook of your neck, his fingers gently brushing through your hair.

"I...," he began.

"Shh, don't speak," you interrupted him, leaning into his embrace and listening to his racing heartbeat beneath your ear. "Can you hear it?" you asked, placing your hand on his chest. "It's beating; you are alive. Isn't it wonderful to be alive?"

A deep sigh escaped Sihtric as he continued to hold you to his chest, his body quivering slightly. "Why are you so good to me?" he finally asked, cupping your face with his hands and lifting it to meet his questioning gaze.

"Because you are good, Sihtric," you whispered. "I have seen the goodness in you, I have felt it, and I want to be a part of it. I want to be yours."

"You want to be mine?" The surprise in Sihtric's voice was evident, his large, beautiful eyes reflecting the disbelief that his tone betrayed. He couldn't bring himself to believe it. After a lifetime of being resented and despised for who he was, he simply couldn't accept what you were saying.

"Yes, I do. Do you want to be mine?" you asked, taken aback by the quiver in your own voice. The silence lingered in the air as you awaited his response. You had finally found him, a man you were certain you wanted in your life not just for fleeting moments of pleasure but for a lifetime. Someone you had come to admire and wished to care for, someone from whom you wanted to receive care. His kindness and inner strength had captured your heart in an unexpected way. You felt certain that in Sihtric you had found a man who possessed the strength and warmth to fill that dark void in your chest.

"I'm already yours," Sihtric murmured, "I'm yours. I've always been yours," he repeated more resolutely, leaning in to capture your lips in the gentlest and most tender of kisses. Without breaking the kiss, Sihtric spun you around, pressing your body against the tree, and a soft gasp escaped your lips as you felt his already firm arousal pressing against your thigh.

"If you are mine, then I'm allowed to make you feel good too," he purred. "Will you be a good girl for me?" he asked, his bashful smile turning into a mischievous gleam in his eyes as he went down on his knees before you.

[why-this-kolaveri-machi]

whumptober day 10: crying

slightly more straightforward h/c this time!

summary: set after the ric grayson/joker war arc in nightwing. 

dick’s been missing for two months. jason finds him first, but it’s just the first step in finding how very, very lost dick really is.

warnings: SPOILERS for the aforementioned nightwing arcs. plentiful cursing. moderately graphic descriptions of injuries.

crying

The last time Jason received a family-wide SOS to help them rescue Dick, the guy was a twice-brainwashed mess whose brain was being pulled in opposite directions by the Court of Owls and the fucking Joker, and that was after said brain had been shattered by a fucking sniper’s bullet. (And a period of being left to fend for himself with a broken brain in between, but Jason doesn’t really like to think about that.) This time, he doesn’t know quite what to expect. He can’t imagine things have gotten even worse than the last go-around, but then again, Jason knows from personal experience that there’s no end to the list of ‘things that are worse than dying’.

Besides, the alert came from Babs. And, in quick succession, Tim, Bruce, Duke, and Cass. If nothing else, Jason is curious.

Dick disappeared from Bludhaven about two months ago. The reason the oh-so-precise Bats have the word ‘about’ in that statement is because nobody can really pinpoint the exact date it happened. Donna can recall dropping by his place ten weeks ago. Tim maybe exchanged a few emails or text messages a few weeks ago but didn’t really get alarmed about Dick not responding to his messages until the radio silence stretched for over a month. Bruce had his trackers on (that bastard) but Dick hates them and is known to destroy the ones he finds. And they can’t even really depend on reports of Nightwing sightings in the city because having his brain knocked around and pulled apart like taffy means Dick takes regular holidays from patrols if he’s not feeling particularly steady that day. (Look what being sensible and having a smidgeon of a sense of self-preservation got him.) And the CCTV in his apartment complex was shit, so. 

It’s almost like it was a planned thing, like he was kidnapped, but honestly it’s how things go and how they’ve gone for a very long time: they drift in their own worlds for long periods until an event brings them together, and then it’s back to being scattered across the country again (or sometimes the world, or sometimes the galaxy). Dick is more prone to this than most; he’s probably gone undercover more than any of them, and he’s lived the longest on his own as well. 

Even after the clusterfuck that was the last year and change, it’s nothing new. And if that isn’t the most fucking depressing thing that Jason’s had to think about today, it turns out that not only have the Family figured out where Dick is, but that Jason is the one that’s closest to his location. 

So here he is, shivering, on a particularly icy night on the Gotham docks, scoping out the warehouse where Dick’s supposed to be. It’s not very well-guarded, which either means there’s nothing in there and this is a massive waste of his time, or that it’s a trap and what’s waiting on the other side is a fucking bomb or something even worse. It’s not a great situation to be in either way, and Jason’s got half a mind to have Tim or even Bruce take over--but it’d take too long for them to get there and Jason’s never been fond of the idea of handing over to someone else anything that he could potentially do by himself.

Besides, like he said, he’s curious.

He crouches down at his vantage point overlooking the warehouse and presses the communicator in his ear. “Two guards in front but nothing else; the place is practically abandoned. Infrared picking up three people inside.” He shifts his weight from one foot to another, bracing, ready to spring. “I’m about to go in.”

Tim grunts. “I’ll be there in fifteen, give or take a couple.”

“Twenty,” Bruce says. Then: “Hood, you--” An uncharacteristic pause, and Jason can feel the sudden, uneasy chill across the entire comm channel. Bruce clears his throat. “Be careful. Assess the situation first. Don’t engage alone unless it’s an emergency.”

There’s a thanks for stating the obvious on the tip of Jason’s tongue, but something about the gravity of the situation, the mildest quaver in Bruce’s voice (he’s been missing for two months, god, two months) has him say, instead: “Roger that.”

Jason makes quick work of the guards in the front, leaving them in unconscious heaps on the ground before he creeps in. They’d hardly put up a fight, which just makes Jason’s stomach twist in anxious knots. The anxiety is made worse by the complete lack of resistance when he’s actually inside: there are only two huge, cavernous rooms, and one of them has two of the three people that he’d detected. They scatter as soon as they see him and Jason considers chasing, but now his nerves are stretched so taut that he thinks he’s going to vomit if he doesn’t see Dick now--

The night-vision on Jason’s helmet catches a figure sitting, slumped, in the corner of the room. A chain connects a manacle around its ankle to the wall, and another between the same wall and… a collar around its neck. Jason’s blood is already boiling before he steps closer and recognises the figure as Dick. His hair is long and shabby, having grown past his chin, curtaining his face. He’s shirtless but wearing ripped, stained jeans. His hands are cuffed in front of him, the thin metal biting into his wrists enough to leave his hands puffy and slightly purple from the lack of effective circulation. He looks considerably thinner--Jason can just about count the ribs under his skin--and every visible part of his torso is painted in bruises in various stages of healing. And--

--and he’s breathing.

Well, thank fuck. That’s a start.

Jason crouches in front of Dick and presses his comm again. “Found N. Little worse for wear, but alive and safe.”

He ignores the immediate clamour of questions from the others to focus on trying to get Dick awake. He brushes Dick’s hair aside and gently lifts his chin to have a look at his eyes. 

Dick smiles at him. “Hey.”

Jason is beset by an onslaught of emotion that’s part relief, part incredulity and part anger, so much so that he thinks he’s going to fucking burst with the pressure of it. Of course that would be the first thing out of Dick’s mouth--hey--like he’s meeting Jason for cocktails after work instead of being rescued after two months of captivity and torture! Well he can take that hey and shove it right up his fucking--

“Is there anything else here we need to worry about,” Jason says, busying himself with picking the locks on Dick’s manacles so that he doesn’t snap and say something he’ll regret.

Dick shakes his head. He’s got a shaggy beard going and he stinks of sweat and urine and filth, but there’s a sense of… togetherness to him, like he’d always known that Jason was going to show up at this exact minute and that had always been part of his plan. “They scattered as soon as they got word that you guys were coming,” he says, voice thin and raspy. “I guess not enough of them were curious to stick around to find out why so many capes would be coming for me.”

Jason pops the manacles and collar loose and goes to work on the cuffs. “So you weren’t taken as Nightwing.”

Dick sighs, then winces as the motion pulls on the gigantic bruise around his neck. “I wasn’t taken as Dick Grayson, either.”

The cuffs come off with a click. Jason stares at him. “So… what, you were just some poor mug they picked up off the streets to… torture for shits and giggles?”

Dick is silent for a moment. His eyes flick to a point behind Jason and back again. “They knew me as Ric.”

It takes a moment for the name to click in Jason’s brain, but he finally remembers that it was what Dick called himself during his brain-injured year in Bludhaven. “Why would Ric have enemies?” he says, without thinking.

There’s that smile on Dick’s face again, but this time it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Ric did have a life, Jason. And friends. And… enemies.” He begins to move, bare feet shifting against the floor and shifting his weight onto his hands as if he’s trying to figure out a way to stand up, but barely manages an inch of elevation before he runs out of energy, breathing heavily. “Ric--I used to fight. Street fights. Involved a lot more money and people than I remembered, and… apparently a lot of people felt betrayed when I just up and left the city one day. I’ve been fighting matches here almost every day.” A sudden, sharp grin. “I haven’t lost yet.”

Jason--stops. Utterly freezes, hands midway to helping Dick sit upright, because there’s something terribly, terribly wrong here. “Why didn’t you ever try to escape? And how--I mean, in the first place--”

How did you even get caught?

To Jason’s horror, tears start rolling down Dick’s face. His expression doesn’t really change, so Jason’s not sure that Dick’s even aware that he’s crying, but right now Jason is already halfway to being mortified. “I was on my way back from the gym,” Dick says finally, “and I think I--I blacked out. It happens sometimes.” Dick gives a wet laugh. “Talk about bad timing.”

“And--and what, you blacked out for two months?”

At this Dick’s face crumples, and suddenly Jason gets it: this is a man pushed and pushed to the end of his rope and beyond, utterly exhausted, past the point of caring who knows about it or why. “I guess…” Dick swallows. “I didn’t really see the difference. Between--between here and out there.”

Jason wants to scream, shake his shoulders--a shameful part of him even wants to hit Dick--and tell him that of course it was different outside of this stupid, dank warehouse: he has friends and family and a lifetime of experience to support him while he flies free. It’s ridiculous to even compare the two, and Jason is ready to put these words down to the effects of too much pain and too little food.

Except--

(plucked you right out of one life and stuffed you into another, didn’t they? treated you like a puppet without a past and a future, didn’t they? didn’t let you entertain the idea of a different life even for a minute, did they? punished you for straying, reminded you there was just too much at stake, and that those stakes were always, always bigger than you or your health or your happiness or your future--)

“Dick, I--” Jason really doesn’t know what to say. Tim says, “ETA five” in his ear while Bruce says, “Right behind you, Robin” and Jason knows, just knows, that this isn’t how they would want to see Dick, and more importantly, this isn’t how Dick would want them to see him.

He gathers Dick in his arms and presses him to his chest. Dick freezes for a second, surprised, then melts into his embrace. His shoulders shake, hands coming up to weakly grasp at Jason’s jacket. The sobs reach a crescendo quickly, a pathetic keening muffled into Jason’s chest, before tapering away and Dick is still, just… breathing. 

Jason breathes with him.

That’s how Tim and Bruce find them a couple of minutes later. Dick peels away and somehow musters the energy to reassure them. Bruce helps him up and carries him to the car while Jason follows; just as Dick’s lowered into the backseat his hand shoots out, grasping Jason’s arm in a silent plea. 

Jason gets in with him. Neither he nor Bruce say anything through the whole drive at the tears that continue to pour down Dick’s face, but Jason doesn’t let go of his hand for the whole ride.

[snitches-at-dawn]

draco fucking malfoy || d.m.

a/n: hi : ) i’m liza :) this is my first fic here and the first thing i’ve written in about a year apart from my uni assignments.

this is a soulmate!draco x reader, 1.6k words.

please please do give me any sort of criticism! it’s highly appreciated :) i hope you enjoy this fic!

find part 2 here and the alternative ending here

draco fucking malfoy. the bloody bastard.

you glared at him across the hall as he and his flunkies guffawed unattractively. what you wouldn't give to shove his wand up hi-

"(y/n)?" harry snapped his fingers in front of your face. you jerked out of your daydream of physically harming malfoy to the boy sitting besides you, "you're making it snow you git."

you blinked and looked above you to see soft snow flakes falling on your table. absentmindedly you brushed it off harry's hair.

"what were you thundering on about this time?" he asked.

you shook your head, "nothing important," but harry had seen your eyes on the slytherin with hair as white as the layer of snow on your shoulders. his eyes lit up mischievously, "nothing wouldn't happen to be snogging puggy parkinson would he?"

"he could pants her and fuck her in reverse on the ruddy table for all i care," you muttered as you refrained from looking at him to confirm harry's words, and reached for the coffee carafe to fill up a to-go mug.

"so you don't mind that you have to sit for potions with him in 20 minutes?" harry asked as you both got up to start your trek to the dungeons.

"not at all," you replied instantly, throwing a furtive glance at the slytherin table to ensure 'nothing' wasn't snogging anyone, "although i am quite excited to see what slughorn's like."

you and harry chattered with hermione and ron who had caught up with you all the way to the dungeons about the newest addition to the hogwart's staff. the four of you entered the room previously occupied by snape which somehow seemed less gloomy- coincidence? maybe.

as the rest of your class filled in, you noticed that there were only a dozen of you progressing to NEWT level. sadly, that included draco fucking malfoy. harry smiled at you comfortingly as she realised who you were glowering at. "it's okay," he mouthed at you as slughorn entered the room.

the round-bellied man introduced himself, directed harry and ron to the back of the room to pick up extra copies of the prescribed text, and carried on with his idea of an impressive first class.

he walked around the room questioning the class on the potions he had prepared, only being answered by hermione whose hand hit the air well before anyone else's. as he reached the third potion, you recognised it immediately as amortentia- you had read about it in a book about potion-making history and answered before hermione could.

"that's amortentia, sir, a love potion."

"indeed it is ms. ...?"

"(y/l/n), sir," you supplied for him.

"alright ms. (y/l/n), if you could step up and tell me two characteristics and what you smell?"

you walked over to the front of the class, "it's most recognisable by it's distinct mother of pearl sheen and steam rising in spirals, sir," you paused to take a sniff but were momentarily stumped. taking another sniff you said bewildered, "i can smell morning dew on grass, sir, but nothing else."

"no matter, m'girl, take five points for your answer, and five for you too ms. granger," slughorn said without missing a beat.

you turned around to see hermione in a sort of daze and snorted to yourself, then saw almost everyone in your class with the same hypnotised look.

everyone except draco fucking malfoy.

git was leaning back in his chair pretending to examine his fingernails as if you couldn't tell he was covertly watching you.

slughorn cleared his throat as you rammed your elbow into your best friend's side to drag him back to reality and away from his daydream which you supposed was about ginny. harry glared at you as the other students refocused on potions.

the rest of the class passed in a haze as you blindly followed harry and you thought on what you had smelt- morning dew on grass. not dean thomas, your current crush. not a new car. not the familiar smell of your dad's cologne or mum's perfume. not leather or the wood of broom or coffee or any smell that you associated with your favourite people. not even- draco?

you tried to cut your sopophorous bean which promptly flew across the room- right to where the slytherins were sitting, where draco fucking malfoy was sitting. you retrieved it, purposefully slowing down a tiny bit to try to get a whiff of the blonde, wondering if you had forgotten what he smelt like.

nope, still smelt like a git.

a git whose scent threw you back to that night on the astronomy tower where he unceremoniously ended your two year relationship the day before the year ended in your fifth year.

~throwback~

"i dunno, (y/n), it's just not feeling right anymore, you know?"

"no i bloody well do not. elaborate for me," you spat at him.

you could almost see his guards go up.

"there's no reason for you to snipe at me, (y/n)"

"i'll do what i want draco. you don't give me explanations, i won't give you an explanation."

draco's face hardened as he clenched his fists- you knew he was getting riled up. good. you wanted to piss him off right now.

he took a deep breath and walked towards you, lifting his hand as if to touch you somehow but you flared your nostrils and he shoved it in his pocket.

"i don't know what to say, (y/n), it's just feeling... off," he finished lamely.

you stared at him incredulously, "you didn't seem to be feeling off two days ago when we were shaggi-"

"because we were fine then!" he said quickly.

you crossed your arms over your chest and took a step towards him with your eyes narrowing, "so in forty-eight hours you did a full one-eighty about the past two years", your voice was dangerously soft and steady, not letting on how angry you felt.

he raked his hands through his silky soft hair and shrugged.

"nothing to say anymore? alright then, i'll talk. the yule ball. two years of birthdays, anniversaries and hogsmeade trips. the countless letters from home we dealt with. the-"

"is there a point to this?" draco asked coldly.

you laughed lowly, "the point is that you seem to have forgotten two years of memories, draco malfoy. if you had a solid reason for doing this, i might not have cared so much, but the fact that you can't even give me a reason makes me realise what a coward you are. the great draco fucking malfoy can't even dump his girlfriend properly," you stepped back and gave him a once over, "pathetic."

and you left him on the tower.

alone.

when you shook out of your stupor you were at your desk. you saw harry crush his bean and followed suit. ron coughed violently over his cauldron making you look at him- but someone else caught your eye. draco was watching you.

you casually flipped him off with your eyes trained on the textbook as you flipped to the next page with your other hand.

you somehow finished your potion ending up with a milky solution rather than the clear result you should have had. you peered into hermione's cauldron which was purple, the contents of rons' resembled cement but harry's was startlingly similar to the book's description.

the four of you walked out of class with harry gripping the vial of 'liquid luck' rather tightly.

at dinner that day, ron turned to you, "so are you excited to find out who your soulmate is?"

you snorted, "i'm more excited to turn seventeen so i'll be able to apparate. i'll be getting to and from classes like that," you snapped your fingers to emphasise your point.

hermione looked at you exasperated, "you can't app-"

"apparate inside hogwart's, yes, we know," you and the boys chorused, leaving her looking quite wounded.

"c'mon (y/n), you must be excited to know who your soulmate is, i'll have to wait till next july to know," harry said through a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

"i suppose i am a bit, yes, but i wouldn't have minded getting some time to date dean. i know he fancies me too but if it isn't his name on my wrist, i don't see the point of dating him," you replied.

"well it's only a week now," ron piped up.

"can't wait," you muttered.

the following week flew by in a haze of potions, defence against the dark arts, charms, transfiguration and never ending rolls of parchment for homework.

the next thing you knew it was the night before your birthday and you found yourself feeling quite nervous. you had locked yourself in your dorm an hour before midnight, wanting to be alone for when you saw the boy's name. he would get to know at the same time as you did since you were older- the pair of soulmates would get the other's name on the older one's seventeenth birthday- and you had zero inkling of who the boy could be. was he even in your year? oh god what if he was in his second year? wasn't that a question of legality?

these sort of questions raced through your mind as you paced your room, redid your bed, refolded previously folded clothes and you watched the clock steadily tick to twelve.

the second your alarm went off, the scratching began on your left wrist.

you couldn't watch. you slapped your right hand over your eyes and waited till the feeling had stopped. slowly bringing your hand down you looked at the name.

your heart stopped.

your soulmate was draco fucking malfoy.

[josefavomjaaga]

Eugène de Beauharnais proudly showing the first signs of what might eventually become a moustache to the artist.

***

Antoine Darnay, an acquaintance of the Beauharnais family since before Josephine married Napoleon Bonaparte, had accompanied Eugène to Italy as his confidential secretary, the only person in his entourage Eugène had chosen himself (everybody else had been handpicked by Napoleon). After Eugène's death, he wrote a small booklet about the former viceroy's life, entitled "Notices historiques sur S.A.R. le Prince Eugène" and dedicated to his widow and children, because Auguste wanted to keep their father's memory alive in his children. This is how he tells the story of how Eugène got summoned to Munich:

The dispatch of Emperor Napoleon threw the Viceroy into an emotional turmoil he could not conceal. The brilliant destiny prepared for him, the fear that he might not please a princess whose graces and beauty were justly praised, and who was then sought after by several sovereigns; the unexpected happiness of soon seeing the Emperor again, of embracing his beloved mother, of being reunited with his friends from war, Generals Bessières, Duroc, etc.; this combination of various, though flattering, sentiments agitated his spirits and alarmed his modesty, which did not dare to imagine so much happiness at once. After a few arrangements necessitated by his absence, the viceroy set out with his first aide-de-camp (General d'Anthouard), crossed the mountains of the Tyrol on the 8th of January, cluttered with ice and snow, and arrived at Munich with the rapidity of lightning... Amor dat alas. [lat.: Love gives wings.]

I had the honour of following immediately, with a chamberlain and an equerry (the counts Bentivoglio and Mereniagno). We arrived in Munich twelve hours after His Royal Highness.

So, apparently those wings love had given had sped up the journey by 12 hours on a three-days-trip. Of course it's not quite clear if it was the love to a bride Eugène had never seen (except on a coffee mug), or the love to hopefully party with Duroc and Bessières on his arrival. In any case, it seems he at some point picked up Rapp on the road, as Rapp in his memoirs claims to have accompanied Eugène to Munich.

It's not quite clear what happened next. The only thing everyone agrees upon: Eugène immediately reported to Napoleon, Napoleon wanted to present his stepson to the Bavarian family - and it cost Eugène the adornment of his manhood.

As already related here, Eugène in Egypt had suffered much from being the youngest of General Bonaparte's aides. Especially as he also looked the part. So the first thing he did in order to look a little more soldier-like was to grow himself a moustache. And this moustache now proved (in somebody's mind) an unsurmountable obstacle to a happy marriage.

Let's first hear Darnay again:

The emperor Napoleon had snatched the viceroy on his arrival, and had not left him since. This monarch was proud to present his dear student himself to the royal family of Bavaria and to the Princess Auguste. His Majesty was constantly preparing him for this ceremony, and went so far as to have the Viceroy's moustaches cut off in his own cabinet, so as not to frighten the timidity of the Princess Auguste by a too martial air.

But, as Darnay has told us himself, he was not even around when Eugène first entered the Residence, as Darnay only arrived twelve hours later, during the night. There is however another report by Mademoiselle Avrillion, lady-in-waiting to empress Josephine, who was already in the Residence. Personally, I find her version even funnier.

The empress was pleased to see her son contract a marriage which would associate him with the blood of the sovereigns of Europe, and at the same time all that she had seen of the princess Auguste, all that she had been told about her, made her foresee for the prince that inner happiness which is rarer among the princes of the world than among those whom fate has placed in a more humble condition.

The happiness enjoyed by the empress was, however, disturbed by a cloud; the prince had arrived very early in the morning, […]

Err – 10.30 AM, actually. That’s a little past dawn, even in January.

[…] and on arriving had gone immediately to the emperor. As the latter was not accustomed to lose time under any circumstances, after embracing his adopted son he took him by the hand and led him at once to the King and Queen of Bavaria, where the interview with his bride-to-be took place without any kind of ceremony, and so to speak in a bourgeois manner.

The prince, whom the emperor had sent for in all haste, had travelled day and night; on his arrival the empress had not yet risen; when, on entering her room, I announced to her that he was in Munich, she wept a great deal at the thought that the first visit of her son had not been for her, that after all she had not been the first to embrace him. A few moments later, and as she was still quite agitated, the emperor entered her room on his way back from the queen's apartment. I was a witness to this interview; the Emperor held Prince Eugene by the hand, and said, pushing him slightly forward: "Here, madam, here comes your great fool of a son whom I am bringing to you." The emperor often used, in his moments of gaiety, such expressions when speaking of the prince to the empress. Her majesty burst into tears as she embraced him. Who, moreover, would not recognise the susceptibilities of a maternal heart in one of the reproaches she made to the emperor for having presented her son to his betrothed without her having seen him first? It is well known that the prince habitually wore moustaches, and his mother thought he looked much better without them. "Why," she said, "did you present Eugene before he had cut off his moustache, without giving him time to make his toilet?" This observation, made with that emotion which always follows the moment when one has just shed tears, made the emperor smile, and he cheerfully excused himself for not having thought of objects of such high importance. The empress feared that the first impression might not have been favourable to her son; at last she did everything possible to persuade him to sacrifice his moustaches, and the day did not pass without the moustaches being cut off.

I guess we all can picture that scene: Eugène, unshaven, smelly and dishevelled after three days in a coach, bows in front of Napoleon and immediately gets dragged away across the residence to meet his bride. »So, that’s her. That’s him. Now do that falling-in-love thing so we can get on with the marriage. I got a banking crisis to solve!«

It seems all the more likely that the order to immediately shave was given by the empress and not the emperor, as there was already a precedent for this in Josephine's recent past:

At the end of 1801, Josephine had tried to arrange a marriage between one Michel Ney and Aglaé Auguié, a friend of her daughter Hortense. Unfortunately, the suitor had outright failed his bride-to-be's first examination - due to unacceptable hair and beard. (The painting above probably does not do the problem justice as it was only made in 1834.) Only after a complete makeover did the young lady show herself inclined to grant the gentleman a second interview, which then led to the desired result.

Josephine probably still had this traumatic experience in mind when she insisted that Eugène immediately get rid of that shoe brush under his nose! To what extent this was necessary is difficult to say; Eugène was allowed to grow his moustache again a few years later, presumably with his wife's blessings.

The incident however had not gone unnoticed by whatever went for a »paparazzo« those days and was duefully made known to the interested audience even as far as the Kingdom of Prussia. As the »Königlich privilegirte Berlinische Zeitung« wrote on February 6:

On his arrival in Munich, the Viceroy of Italy wore a small moustache, which he immediately had removed.

Well, either he, Imperial Maman or Imperial stepfather in any case. Amor does not only give wings, it also costs the most cruel sacrifices.

[writefightandflightclub]

Out from the cold (Llewyn Davis x reader)

Summary: Llewyn (precious baby) needs your comfort, and oddly, looking after him comforts you too. Fluff but a lil angst to get to the comfort.

Author’s note: I’m doing soft blurbs bc you all deserve a hug from one of our fave fictional husbands. Let’s all destress and be comforted one blurb at a time, okay? (Dunno how many I can do but gonna try and blitz a few requests out tonight. I’m doing these quickly so they’ll be a bit scrappy, please forgive!) ALSO THIS IS EXCITING I’VE NEVER WRITTEN LLEWYN BEFORE AND I’M KINDA HAPPY WITH IT! LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK? (I love this movie so much, one of my all-time favourites, and one of my fave Oscar performances.)

Warnings: just Llewyn swearing, as per. Alcohol and cigs. No drunkeness. Mentions of homeessness / couch-surfing. Mention of abortion.

GIF by @digginmovies​

It’s late when he shows up at your door. Or rather, it’s late when you find him in your hallway. You don’t know how long he’s been standing there, because he didn’t even knock. Perhaps he was too afraid to, but by the time you eventually stopped pacing your floorboards and threw a scarf around you, you’d come to fear the worst; that he’d been beaten and left in a gutter or some doorway, or perhpas that he was just stubbornly wandering the streets, preferring to freeze to death rather than “bother” you. Or worse than that... perhaps he’d finally struck lucky and you’d never see him again. Now that he no longer needed your couch, maybe he no longer needed you.

Anyway, all of your fears were entirely unfounded, and it was a shock to find him there, leaning up against the wall. The shortest missing person recovery mission ever known.

“Llewyn?” you question, sighing in frustration and unwrapping your suddenly suffocating red scarf.

His whole body is an apology as he turns his head towards you. Eyes apologetic. Shoulders apologetic. That sorry cord jacket is very, very sorry indeed. Hell, even his curls slump over his forehead in a despondent way, as if they’ve given up too.

This precious man. Why doesn’t he know how special he is? Why does he always dwell in the shadows, rather than allowing himself to be welcomed into this warm, light-bathed apartment of yours. Why doesn’t he realise that he is a light himself, and not a burden? That his presence alone can furnish and illuminate any room. Can compel audiences and, certainly, can move you to train your eyes on him as if he is a star under a perpetual spotlight.

Well, you suppose you should just be thankful that he’s here at all, because he always seems an instant away from slipping into shadow and never coming out again. You are thankful. You are always thankful to find him on your doorstep.

“How did it go?” you ask him, and Llewyn pushes himself up from the wall, despondently shaking his head. He stuffs his hands into his pockets and simply stands there as if forgetting any purpose which might cause him to move. You have to shuffle forwards yourself to give him the hug you feel he so desperately needs, even if he doesn’t know he deserves it. You wrap you arms around him, and it’s a little awkward, and he’s stiff, and he feels of wool and cord beneath your fingertips. Smells of frost and cigarette smoke, and like he hasn’t managed to run his clothes through the laundry in a few days. You make a note to do that for him, if you can coax him into a warm bath later.

“Can I please stay with you?” Llewyn asks in a small voice.

You don’t let go of him, willing him to soften against you.

“Llewyn, you dont have to ask me that, you live here.” You say it like it’s obvious, yet this simple fact is something you are endlessly trying to convince him of.

“I sleep on your couch, because I have no fucking money. Because I’m a piece of shit musician who can’t book a gig except for the Gaslight. And that’s only because I knocked-up a chick who gets me a slot out of pity some nights because she aborted my baby.”

“Llewyn!” you say, heartbroken and disbelieving that he could talk about himself in such a way, and looking, in your shock, like you might come for a piece of him too for thinking so little of himself. But, the world keeps kicking this poor man when he’s down, and he’s running out of energy to keep getting back up, so there’s something in you which can’t blame him.

“I’m just tired. I’m just so fuckin’ tired.”

You bring your hands to the sides of his face, that thick, soft beard under your fingertips.

“Llewyn,” you say softly, searching his melancholy eyes. You want to tell him how talented he is, how important. How special, like you have a hundred times before, but he won’t beleive you. Never does. So, instead, you try something you never have before. At least, not while sober. You dip forward and press a chaste kiss to his lips.

You pull away before his lips have time to react, though even if you had lingered, you’re not sure he would have. You swear that man is so touch-starved that he can no longer recognise affection. That he can no longer remember how to move his lips against another’s. You swear he’s too down on himself that he doesn’t remember how to respond to being wanted.

“Come inside. Your lips are like ice,” you say, and it’s true. You only wish you could thaw him.

Llewyn picks up his guitar case and finally follows you inside, taking his familiar spot on the couch and folding his arms around himself, not even taking off his scarf or jacket. Sometimes you worry that his chill goes all the way down to his bones. Just incase it can help with that, you make him some warm tea and wordlessly pass the mug to him.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly, leaning forward in his seat as you sit at the other end of  the couch from him, watching him gripping the warm beverage in his fingerless gloves like he’s never known a warm touch like it.

You sit quietly next to him and allow him to thaw a little, watching the steam rising from the mug as he takes careful sips. It has begun to lash with rain outside, the percussive sound and howl of wind muffled against the window pane, and pleasantly soothing. At least, it sounds soothing to you; Llewyn probably thinks it’s that dark cloud following him around again.

“Have you eaten?”

“Waffles. Had some Gaslight money left,” he says in monotone, staring intently at a particular spot on your hardwood floor. He didn’t make nutritionally sound choices, it seems, but at least he’s had something.

“Good,” you nod. “And do you want to talk about the audition?”

“Nope,” Llewyn responds dejectedly, popping the “p” emphatically.

When he’s drained the cup he sets it down, eventually unwinding his scarf from around his neck and shuffling off his gloves and jacket. Without all his layers he looks a little like a lost baby bird without its nest, or like a winter tree without it’s covering of leaves.

You take a risk in an attempt to perk him up and head towards the vinyl player, dropping the needle on a record you know he likes. And then, you reseat yourself on the couch, a little closer to him this time.

Llewyn finally turns to you, elbows resting on his thighs, looking just a little less morose. “Got any wine? And cigarettes?”

Now, that you could do.

You oblige him, and before long you are sipping on a glass of red, and you let Llewyn rant freely about the audition he doesn’t want to talk about at his leisure, a cigarette bobbing in-between his lips as he talks, smoke wafting around his face and his hair like the ghost of his own curls. You let him rant about the cookie-cutter, soulless, talentless musicians who make it, and the blood-sucking label execs, and the tasteless consumers, and the whole damn thing, until his shoulders look a little less heavy. A little less apologetic. Until he forgets himself and picks up his guitar and begins to mindlessly pluck and strum away.

He starts to sing under his breath, because he can’t help but sing. Because it comes naturally to him, and suddenly he is the only light in your living room. He is under his own super trouper, against the backdrop of the rainy window pane. Light shining against melancholy.

As lovely as he is to look at, with the way his left cheek tugs up with his words and his brow creases with feeling, you close your eyes as his voice filters through into your bones, making you warm from within.

“I love it when you sing,” you say sincerely, and you don’t know it, but your simple, honest words are music to Llewyn’s ears. Those words are something he hears startingly seldom for a man with a talent like his.

Your eyes are still closed when you hear the chaotic thrum of strings as Llewyn sets the guitar down. Your eyes are still closed as Llewyn kneels before you and slides his hands along your thighs, palms down. Your eyes open just before he dips his head and presses a chaste, smoky kiss to your lips.

Your lips do not react. If Llewyn was too touch-starved to kiss you back earlier, you suppose you are too surprised that he might want you back. You want to kiss him, and apparently he wants to kiss you, but you are singing different bars of the same song. Your timing is all off. So, your lips do not meld with his, no matter how long you’ve waited for this. Wanted it. This time too, his mouth was even warm against yours. His hands warm against you. Thawing.

You smile at him, softly. Catiously. As if you might scare him off. As if he is a wild animal who has dropped to his knees for you.

Instead, he remains as you bring your hands back to either side of his face, and lose yourself in his dark, turbulent stare. It is you who suddenly feels catious, as if he is a storm which might swallow you. Might paint you in licks of grey if you don’t first heal his pain. His eyes are raw. Broken apart, and his beautiful soul so exposed beneath them. No wonder he is so guarded. Feels so vulnerable. His heart is so open and so wounded beneath the expletives and the apathy and the lucklessness, isn’t it? It would be so easy to break, like a lost bird far from its nest.

But this time, he stays. Llewyn simply looks right back into your eyes, for once. And when he undoubtedly notices your evident desire there, all he does is question why you are looking at him at all.

“Why do you want me?” he asks you, plainly, shaking his head softly. He doesn’t say more, but you swear you could guess his thought. You could have any Tom, Dick, or Harry. Or a Chad. Some rich, muscly dude with a centre part and a Corvette. I’m nothing. Nobody.

Your mouth forms a bashful, thin line, and you shrug your shoulders, placing your hands over his palms. You desperately want to show him he is somebody.

“I dunno. Why do you sing, Llewyn? Why do birds make music? I just do. I want you. My soul tells me I should, and I listen.”

He looks sad. So sad, So tired, and so you do the only thing your soul tells you to in this moment. You comfort him. You reach up and tangle your fingers into that mess of crotchet black curls on his head. You stroke him and soothe him, and he gives in to you, burying his head in your lap and letting you touch him. Letting you smooth your hands and your fingers and thumbs over his hair, his neck, his back, his shoulders. He wraps his arms around your lower legs and curls around them, still sat at your feet like a stray who refuses to be a house cat, despite how many times you try to coax him in from out of the cold.

“Llewyn, come lie with me a while?” you ask gently, and he looks up at you, unsure. Still, he clambers up from his position and is about to recline on the sofa when you grab his hand. “No, Llewyn. Come lie with me in my bed?”

He gulps, as if you might eat him alive, but he follows as you guide him as if it might be a relief to climb into your jaws anyway, and you lead him by the hand along the hallway and into your room.

He watches you with hesitant fascination as you shrug off your layers, down to your underwear. Then, he follows suit, letting his worn trousers and white t-shirt pool on to the floor at his feet, until he’s standing in only his patterned boxers.

You climb under the covers, shivering at the autumn chill in the room, and you hold the tented covers open for Llewyn to climb in after you.

“Y-You want me to... W-what do you wanna do?”

“Nothing you don’t want to, darling. But if you’ll let me, I just want to hold you.”

He hesitates, but he’s cold, and so, so alone, and he’s so tired of never having anything he wants. So tired that he’s willing to forget, just this once, that he can’t give you what you deserve. Or at least to stop consciously reminding himself of it.

He slots his soft, slim body under the covers, and you let the blanket fall over him. Then, you lie on your back and pull him on top of you, until his body covers yours and his head nestles on the cushion of your breasts.

It is quiet enough in the room that you hear him gulp again, but he doesn’t bolt. Once he’s settled, your wrap him in your arms, your fingers twining in his hair, carding through those thick, tangled curls. Your hands smooth up and down his back, until he is humming softly, his face entirely buried in your chest. “Sweet man,” you soothe, and listen to the sound of the rain outside, and the background noise of the record player filtering through. “I know it’s not much, but I love it when you sing. I wish I could give you riches for it, and record deals. But all I have to give in return is a little piece of my heart, and you steal a piece of it every time I hear your voice,” you whisper gently.

Llewyn is silent, and you wonder if you might have scared him off, but he seems quite content exactly where he is. You wish he would stay, but you know he has a cycle of houses, like a traitourous street cat with nowhere he feels deserving to call home.

For now though, he is here, and you begin to sing gently along to the song filtering through from the living room. It’s one of your favourites. One which Llewyn has sung for you many times before.

You look down at the side of his face, his eyes closed, his eyelashes fanned on his cheek, and his beard twitching as his full lips tug up into a faint smile. Finally.

“You have a pretty voice, dove,” he says, and your heart clenches at the pet name. At the fact you have finally found a way to make him happy. You should have realised it would be music.

“No, Llewyn. It’s nothing compared to you.”

“I dunno. You probably have more chance of making it than I do. Maybe you should have gone today instead.” You worry that he has been tugged back into a slump, but you see he is still smiling, and you recognise the humour in his tone, self-deprecating though it is.

By the next chorus, Llewyn begins to softly sing along too, and your heart flutters as his voice vibrates against your bosom.

You tug in a deep, happy breath, and exhale spring into the autumn room.

Llewyn props himself on to his elbows and shuffles up the bed, until his face is level with your own.

You regard him catiously, feeling suddenly as flighty as he usually is.

“What do you want to do?” you ask him, as his lips hover close to yours.

“Nothin’ you don’t want to,” he says, mirroring your words from moments ago.

This time, when your lips meet, softly, neither of you are surprised. This time, your mouths are both warm and moving together, like you sing the words to a shared song, both melding in time.

As Llewyn curls around your body and snuggles into you for warmth, you hope you can get him to stay. You hope you’ve showed him he doesn’t need to wander in the cold any longer.

He has your heart after all, and you need him to bring it indoors; out from the cold.

[just-a-poor-boy-queen]

Part 23 of Jimercury Kid series

‘Freddie?’ Phoebe quietly called out as he poked a cautious head around the singer’s bedroom door. ‘Mary’s here to see you.’

There was no response from the frontman. His face remained buried in his pillow, his weeping silent but obvious by the gentle trembling of his shoulders. Jim was by his side, one hand gently rubbing up and down the Persian’s bare back as he silently comforted him.

‘My baby…’ Freddie whispered, the only words he had been able to say since Khaleel was literally ripped from his arms.

‘Shh, love.’ Jim murmured, stroking his husband’s hair, and shooting Phoebe a hopeless look. ‘I think she should come back later.’

‘That’s what I said.’ Replied Phoebe, shoulders sagging in defeat. ‘But she’s unusually insistent today.’

Another sob from Freddie. The hand that was desperately clutching Khaleel’s old, battered triceratops toy tightened severely.

‘I’ll go.’ Jim said finally, leaning down and gently kissing the back of Freddie’s neck. Before he could rise from the mattress, he felt Freddie grab his hand and turned to see two dark eyes staring at him fearfully, still red-rimmed from all his crying. Losing Khaleel served only to intensify Freddie’s already severe abandonment issues; Jim couldn’t so much as use the toilet without the singer panicking, convinced he’d never see him again.

‘I’m coming back, sweetheart.’ Jim leaned down, brushing a kiss against Freddie’s lips. ‘I promise. I’m not leaving you, not ever. Phoebe will stay here with you until I get back, okay?’

Freddie didn’t look like he believed him, but he released his hand regardless and threw his head back onto the pillow to continue mourning his child. Fighting back his own tears, Jim sent a thankful nod to Phoebe before leaving the bedroom and descending the staircase.

He found Mary in the lounge, sitting anxiously in one of the armchairs with her coat still on and her purse clasped in her hands. When Jim walked into the room, the disappointment on her face was evident; she had clearly been seeking to speak with Freddie and Freddie alone.

‘He’s in no state to talk.’ Jim said gently but firmly, before the woman could say anything. ‘I’m sorry, but you should really come back some other time.’

He expected her to argue with him – Mary wasn’t one for being confrontational but when it came to Freddie she made an exception – but she remained calm, her mouth pressed in a thin line as she fiddled with the purse on her lap.

‘If I can’t speak to Freddie, can I please speak to you? I just need to speak to someone.’

Jim knew he should have rebuffed her, told her to leave immediately so he could get back to consoling his distraught husband. But the expression on her face was so downcast, he didn’t have the heart to turn her away. He nodded tiredly, last night’s lack of sleep finally catching up with him as he mumbled something about putting the kettle on and shuffled towards the kitchen to start preparing them both tea.

As he waited for the kettle to boil, he took a moment to lean against the counter, staring determinedly up at the ceiling, blinking away tears of grief and exhaustion. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could cope with all of this. Khaleel’s absence had left a massive hole in the lives of everyone at Garden Lodge and the aftereffects were damning. He barely recognised Freddie anymore. For seven days, his husband had barely said a word to him, barely eaten or left his bedroom. For seven days, their lives had been a living hell.

The woman from social services hadn’t beaten around the bush. She made it clear that there was no guarantee that Khaleel would be returned to them. The worst part was the satisfied glint in her eye as she said it.

‘Everyone thinks I did it.’ A soft voice said from behind him, and Jim turned to see Mary standing in the doorway, her purse still clutched in her hands. Her face was pale, completely devoid of any colour and her entire body was shaking as she attempted to compose herself.

‘What do you mean?’ Jim asked, though he already knew.

‘They all think I called them.’ Mary’s voice wavered, her eyes looking everywhere but Jim’s own. For one horrible moment, the Irishman thought she might actually be sick. ‘I didn’t, Jim, I swear on my life. You have to believe me, I didn’t call-’

‘Mary, sit down.’ Jim took her hand and guided her over to the kitchen table, drawing out a chair and taking her purse from her hands. Once he was certain that she wasn’t going to collapse, he returned to the counter to finish making the tea and placed a steaming mug in front of the woman’s quivering form. ‘Just take it easy. No one’s accusing you of anything.’

Mary’s twitching hands curled around the hot cup, and she took a deep breath, a pink flush crossing her cheeks from the heat, making her look a bit less ghostly. Once she had appeared to calm down, she carefully took a sip of her drink.

‘I know you all think it was me.’ She finally met Jim’s gaze, silently begging for reassurance. ‘I can see it in your eyes, even Freddie’s. Surely he knows I’d never do that to him?’ She reached over and clasped Jim’s hand in her own, her grip almost painful. ‘I’d never do that to you. Please tell me you believe me.’

Jim wasn’t sure what to believe anymore. He would be lying if he said it hadn’t crossed his mind that Mary might have been involved. Out of all their friends, she was the one with the motive. Maybe this was a last-ditch attempt to drive he and Freddie apart, some sort of twisted revenge for Freddie leaving her.

But he quickly dismissed the idea; as far as he was concerned, that was all in the past and they had moved on from it. He and Mary had had their differences, but she’d never do this.

She was his friend now. He trusted her.

‘I believe you, Mary.’ He replied softly, gently squeezing her hand back until she relaxed. ‘I know you wouldn’t do this, and Freddie does too. Everyone’s just so fucking stressed at the moment and they’re looking for someone to blame.’ He used his free hand to lift his own mug and take a long swig. ‘If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine.’

‘Don’t say that, Jim.’

‘I shouldn’t have let things get out of hand. We were arguing over wine, for fuck’s sake. I should have just walked away.’

‘We’d all had a lot to drink, Jim. It was a stupid mistake made in the heat of the moment. Besides, it wasn’t as if Khaleel was there to see it. He was in bed, asleep.’

Jim shook his head, eyes threatening to spill tears. He felt he was solely to blame. He usually prided himself in his ability to walk away from such quarrels but that night, fuelled by both alcohol and his own stubbornness, he was fed up with being walked all over and fought back.

His refusal to back down could very well have cost them their darling boy.

‘Jim?’

Mary’s voice tore him away from his thoughts. She suddenly took both his hands, her touch feather light as she held onto them, thumbs extending out in a comforting stroke across each of his knuckles. ‘I’ve never seen Freddie as happy as he has been since he met you. He can finally be himself, live his true life. I admit, I was sceptical at the start; I’ve seen him hurt so many times and I was convinced you were no different from the others. But after seeing what you both went through, how you stuck by him through his illness, I realised how wrong I was. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him, as well as Khaleel. That little boy is so lucky to have you two as parents, and if social services can’t see that then, as Freddie would say, fuck them.’

Jim snorted, though he looked like he was about to burst into tears. He held onto Mary’s hands as if they were a lifeline.

‘You’ll get him back.’ She said it so tenderly, Jim almost believed her. ‘I know you will. Khaleel will come home.’

Jim envied the faith she had in her own words. He had already resigned himself to the fact that society would never be on their side; that he and Freddie would forever be looked upon as “perverted homosexuals,” incapable of raising a child. Social services would do whatever they could to make sure Khaleel stayed with a “normal” family, regardless of the boy’s own happiness. As much as it killed him to think about it, he knew the reality was that it was more than likely that they would never see their precious bijou again.

‘Thank you, Mary.’ Jim whispered, lifting her hand and softly kissing it.

Yeah okay so Mary is apparently not a *bad* person in this universe, or at least not anymore. Looks like we were wrong, anon. Lol.

Firstly, Freddie and Jim crying in bed for their baby broke my heart😭😭 They deserve to have their baby with them, cuddle with him and raise him together. Fuck the homophobia that's doing this to them.

Secondly, I wasn't expecting Mary here, and certainly not being so open. But I like how you have acknowledged her shitty behaviour in the past, and the fact that whilst things are civil between her and Jim (maybe slightly more than civil), the shadow of past incidences still linger on. I mean, I usually do not read canon-ish fics that completely erase what an arsehole Mary Austin is, especially if she features prominently. But I am loving the almost real approach you're taking to etch your characters, and as I've said before, showing how they may have grown in such a situation. I still have doubts about Ms Austin redeeming herself had Freddie lived, but in the context of this story, I really like the arc you've given her.

Also, I am LOVING the angst lmao. Even though it's breaking my heart, my angst loving self is really enjoying this hahaha.

And now, most importantly, I hope you're doing better, my dear. There were a lot of messages of support for you, and I just hope that you realise how loved and cherished you are in this community💙

(More drabbles by writer anon)

[wordsablaze]

1~ i see your pain

tell me your problems (i’ll chase them away) Internal scars can be difficult to deal with but Eskel vows to heal any that Jaskier is weighed down by if it's the last thing he does…

A/N: accidentally sank into jaskel and whipped this up at like 3am so here we go... titles from monsters by timeflies

-

Eskel is familiar with physical scars. 

How could he not be, with them making up half his face? 

He'd had to become familiar with them whilst training, growing up, travelling the path, trying to survive. 

Countless cuts and scratches and bites had led to countless scars, scars that he barely even pays attention to anymore because he'd become so used to them. 

But that was just physical scars.

Obvious, external reminders of battles and people and memories he often wishes he could forget. 

He can turn away from his reflection and keep his hands away from his skin and avoid the gaze of judgemental townsfolk and sometimes, it's almost as if he can't see his scars anymore. 

Unfortunately, not all scars are physical. 

Some are deeper, etched into hearts rather than flesh, invisible to most and impossible to forget. 

Well, not so impossible if Eskel has anything to say about it. 

To be fair, he usually doesn't. 

But for Jaskier? 

He makes an exception for Jaskier from the very moment their paths cross…

---

Eskel groans internally as the innkeeper's nose wrinkles up in disgust. 

It's the third time he's done that during their conversation and he's rather tired of it. 

He knows he's covered in innards, thank you very much, but he isn't going to do anything about it until he gets his coin. Being refused payment is nothing new but he needs it this time, the cursed beast had ruined his armour. 

"Must you be so-" the innkeeper starts, clearly about to insult him. 

But he's interrupted by someone slinging an arm around his shoulders. 

It's been an age since anyone has done anything of the sort and he's equally as confused as he is annoyed. He might also be a little bit relieved but he'd never admit how nice it feels, not even to himself. 

So he tenses, fighting every impulse in his body that screams at him to throw the stranger off. 

"Gorgeous? Why yes, he must," the stranger interjects, and suddenly he's not so much of a stranger anymore. 

Eskel doesn't frequent public places often and he rarely pays attention to bards but he'd recognise that voice anywhere. 

"And since this lovely witcher has just done your town a favour, it's in your best interest not to insult him."

And even if he didn't, there's only one human who's known to have a habit of defending witchers. 

Jaskier spares him a sideways wink before staring pointedly at the innkeeper, who looks just as confused as Eskel feels. 

He's not sure if that's because Jaskier had appeared out of nowhere or because he'd just been referred to as both gorgeous and lovely, but either way, he finds he doesn't know what to do. 

"Now, do be a dear and run the poor darling a warm bath, will you? I know you have no rooms left so you can have it sent to mine. That is, unless you wish for me to stop playing?" 

Jaskier raises an eyebrow and Eskel can't help but smirk, recognising the look of defeat on the innkeeper. 

"No, I- Of course. It'll be ready when you finish for the night."

The man disappears immediately and Eskel finally turns to Jaskier. "You're his bard."

If Jaskier didn't have an arm looped around his shoulders, Eskel wouldn't have noticed the flinch.

But mischievous blue eyes distract him before he can question it. "I was. But right now, I'm just the bard ordering you to go sit and brood in the corner and enjoy my performance."

Eskel's frown only deepens. "And if I say no?" 

Jaskier removes his arm from Eskel's shoulder and places his hands on his hips, both accusation and amusement dancing in his eyes. "You will not do that because I absolutely refuse to waste a perfectly good bath."

"You could just use it," Eskel points out. 

It's a wasted argument, they can both smell the strong floral scents on Jaskier that suggest he's recently had his own bath. 

Rolling his eyes, Jaskier takes Eskel's arm and pulls him to the corner of the room, firmly guiding him into sitting down and sliding a drink towards him. 

"Drink up, darling, it's been made extra strong to suit your witcher-y needs."

As Eskel wonders how Jaskier could have known he was going to stay, the bard slips away and turns his attention to the crowd. 

Or rather, turns the crowd's attention to him. 

Apparently, Geralt had severely understated Jaskier's abilities as a bard. 

He's in charge of the room as soon as he starts playing his lute, filling the place with an energy Eskel has only ever felt on hunts, making sure all eyes are on him as he travels from table to table. 

Eskel feels the faintest sting of bitter confusion when Jaskier refuses to even glance in his direction, knowing that Geralt had commented on the bard's habit of drawing attention to him during performances. He can't help but wonder if it's because he's not as good as Geralt, if he's not as appealing to look towards in the middle of a song. 

But when a man starts muttering darkly about witchers and Jaskier slyly spills ale all over his lap, Eskel realises it's just part of his plan.

Jaskier is making sure all the attention is on himself rather than on Eskel, as if he can tell how uncomfortable the witcher feels. 

It's difficult to fathom why someone who might not even know his name would go to such lengths for him with no hesitation. But really, can he be surprised when this is the bard who'd changed the fate of witchers?

He just can't figure out why Geralt isn't also here or why Jaskier claims to no longer be his bard, especially since they've all heard the plethora of songs about a white wolf. 

When everyone is satisfied and people have started leaving tips and drifting back to their rooms, Jaskier announces his departure and all but falls onto Eskel. 

He's breathing heavily but there's a wide grin on his face as he sees the empty mug on the table. 

"You drank it!" he says rather obviously. 

Eskel nods. "It was good."

And he's not lying. It really had tasted good, much better than most drinks he's been served. 

Jaskier grins smugly. "I know, it's my recipe."

Eskel blinks. 

"But you, however gorgeous you may be, smell absolutely appalling. I believe you promised me a bath?" 

He could theoretically snap the bard in two but he finds himself unable to refuse as Jaskier steers him through the remaining crowd. 

They stop in front of the innkeeper, who sighs when he notices them. 

"Your bath awaits, bard."

Jaskier nods but doesn't move, raising an eyebrow. "I think you owe my friend here some payment, do you not?" 

Eskel glances at Jaskier in confusion, wondering if he'd heard correctly. Why would he so recklessly associate himself with Eskel despite having just met him? 

The innkeeper seems to know better than to argue this time, simply handing over a pouch and waving a hand. "A little more than promised as a token of... apology." 

Jaskier beams at the man. "I knew you were a good soul! We'll see about earning you more coin with another performance in the morning…" 

And with that promise, he takes the coin and guides them both upstairs. 

Eskel takes a moment to appreciate the way Jaskier can take full control of a situation so effortlessly before realising he's also victim to one of those situations. 

"My horse-" 

"I took care of it," Jaskier interrupts, pulling him inside a room and shoving him towards the bath. 

"You did?" Eskel asks, frowning yet again. 

Jaskier scoffs. "Do stop worrying your facial muscles, daring, of course I did. I know how witchers work."

Eskel chooses not to reply to that, simply staring at the bath that he still can't believe was brought up for him. By an innkeeper who'd apologised for his words. 

He can't help but wonder if he's being referred to by terms of endearment because Jaskier doesn't know what else to refer to him by or if he's just like that with everyone.  Geralt had complained that the bard could be overwhelming so the latter seems likely. 

Jaskier bites his lip. "Do you… Do you need me to leave?" 

He sounds so unsure of himself, so unlike how he'd been a mere minute ago, that Eskel finds himself shaking his head before he can consider his options. 

"It's your room, I couldn't kick you out of it," he says slowly. 

Jaskier beams at him. "I'll stay out of your hair, though, I promise. Just make sure you don't smell like the insides of a monster when you're done."

Eskel nods as Jaskier places the coin pouch on the small bedside desk before settling on the bed and starting to scribble something. 

Within minutes, Eskel has slipped out of his armour and into the warm water - it shouldn't still be so warm after so long, not unless someone had been told to make it extra hot specifically for a witcher - and his eyes have started to close at how good it feels in comparison to cold rivers. 

It's nice, truly nice, and he lets himself forget about the rest of the world as his muscles slowly begin to relax. 

He only remembers to move when he hears a pointed cough. 

His eyes shooting open, water splashes as he sits upright to see Jaskier leaning forwards and smirking at him, but not unkindly. 

"I know I said I'd stay out of your hair but how long do you plan to keep all that foul-smelling stuff in there?" 

Eskel is still trying to process how he'd started to let his guard down in the presence of a relative stranger when he realises he'd literally forgotten to actually bathe. 

Jaskier doesn't seem to be laughing at him though. If anything, he looks a little sad.

"They're not too bad," Eskel says eventually, resisting the urge to smile when Jaskier gasps dramatically. 

"Excuse me? You're in the same room as my beautiful oils and salts and you dare to suggest that innards smell better? I should think not!" 

And somehow, Jaskier is beside the bath within the blink of an eye, all but glaring down at him. "Now, you're going to sit still while I take care of that beautiful hair of yours, understood?" 

Amused, Eskel just nods. 

He's no longer amused when Jaskier gets to work though, he doesn't have time to be amused when he's too busy being pleasantly shocked. 

Jaskier's fingers make their way through his hair in the same way they play his lute: softly and gently but also firmly, expertly, as if he's done so a million times before. 

No wonder Geralt's hair had always looked surprisingly good. 

"All done," Jaskier whispers after what feels like an eternity. 

Eskel opens his eyes and forces himself not to groan at the loss of Jaskier's touch - it would be ridiculous to miss something he's only felt once.

"Thank you," he whispers back, not wanting Jaskier to regret helping him. 

To his surprise, Jaskier blinks as if he'd never been thanked before. There's a flicker of confusion in his eyes before he recovers and stands with a soft smile. "It's truly my pleasure, darling."

Eskel frowns at the repeated term, wondering once again why Jaskier throws such affection so freely, so thoughtlessly. 

"Will you be staying the night?" Jaskier's question pulls him out of his thoughts. 

Oh. 

Is he meant to stay? 

Would it be rude to use both someone's bath and room or is he meant to provide company to return the favour? 

Jaskier chuckles. "Don't think so hard, you'll get wrinkles. You're welcome to stay if you wish but I won't be so selfish as to demand it."

He knows he probably shouldn't but there's something so sad about Jaskier expecting nothing in return for his deeds - mostly because he can see the mindset of a witcher in that logic - that he offers the bard a smile. 

"I owe you for the bath. Do you wish for me to stay?" 

Jaskier looks at him in bewilderment before his eyes light up and he grins widely enough for it to look painful. "Would you? Witchers are just so warm and the nights can be dreadfully cold…"

Eskel pauses, glancing between Jaskier and the bed, the one bed, to make sure he's interpreting the request correctly. 

"You want me to… share the bed with you?" 

Jaskier bites his lip, seemingly regretting his words. 

His hands fidget as he shakes his head and looks away, moving his things to the floor. "No, no, sorry, I can't ask- It would be unfair of me to make you do anything you're not comfortable with."

Comfort is rare for Eskel and despite the bard's reputation, he's beginning to think it is for Jaskier too. 

"I didn't bring my bedroll," Eskel says casually. 

After a slight pause, Jaskier frowns at him, a small smile then gracing his face once more. "Well then, you'll just have to share the bed with me. It wouldn't do to stiffen up those stunning muscles, now, would it?" 

Glad that Jaskier is no longer wallowing in the bitter scent of regret, Eskel finally lifts himself out of the bath. 

Jaskier's eyes widen and his breath hitches before he practically dives under the bed. 

He reappears before Eskel can express any concern, holding out a small pile of clothes, his gaze fixed on the floor. "I, uh… your clothes need washing but you can use these for now."

"Why do you have them?" 

Jaskier shrugs. "Might have rescued them from a man who was letting them collect dust…"

Eskel wonders what the rest of that story is but he'd rather not make Jaskier uncomfortable by inquiring so he simply takes the clothes and slips them on. 

Once he's done, Jaskier smiles, having settled under the blanket. "Are you going to join me or simply admire those clothes all night?" 

Eskel snorts but slips under the blanket, unsure of how close Jaskier wants him to be. He doesn't know exactly what Jaskier was like with Geralt and even if he did, there's no guarantee it'd be the same with him. 

But Jaskier is having none of his hesitation and turns so he can curl himself towards Eskel. 

"Is this okay?" Jaskier breathes. 

Eskel shivers ever so slightly. He moves closer instead of audibly replying, relieved when Jaskier gets the message and smiles, closing the remaining gap between them. 

He honestly doesn't know if he has the right to be doing this. If someone like him, just another witcher, has the right to this kind of intimacy. 

"Goodnight, Eskel."

Oh.

Jaskier does know his name. 

He knows exactly who he is and he'd not only let but invited him stay anyway. 

With a smile that he'd never confess to, Eskel waits until the bard is asleep before taking the time to appreciate everything about the sheer, unadulterated kindness of the moment. 

He doesn't even notice himself drift off. 

---

A life filled with affection had never seemed likely for Eskel but Jaskier makes it seem tangible. 

He's willing to give his love to Eskel and Eskel's scars without a second thought so it would be wrong not to ensure the favour is returned. 

It's really quite logical that he helps Jaskier overcome the problems he can't even tell he's dragging around. 

And it's definitely just because he owes the bard for improving his reputation and getting him his coin, not because something in his chest burns at the thought of the bard's wounds never being allowed to fade.

His own scars will never disappear but he vows to heal whatever scars Jaskier doesn't know he has, no matter how long it takes.

It's only fair, after all. 

-

okay so i have a vague plan but also have other witcher WIPs so we’ll see where this goes... i do love this ship tho !!

-

thanks for reading! witcher sideblog: @geraskifer | masterlist | next chapter

[nyctolovian]

this ship will carry our bodies safe to shore

This was written for @tma-safehouse-fest day 3-5 prompt (pining). But its sorta a dedication to the way the romance is written cos jon and martin legit try so hard to make things work :’ Please enjoy it!!

Summary: A study of Jon's love for Martin and why he kept it. (set in S4)

link to AO3

Jon knew exactly what this was—pining. Very useless and painful pining.

He was surprised by how quickly he recognised it. Less emotionally constipated people have taken longer to notice their romantic feelings for another. It was all rather strange and hilarious, if you asked him. (But he’d heard plenty of people criticise his sense of humour so he suggested you take this opinion with a pinch of salt.)

During the first few months in the hospital, despite his coma, he heard Martin—sensed him even. He noticed Martin not in words, though Jon knew he was being spoken to, but in presence and genuineness. And he came often, and would always be exuding tender care. Then, his presence began to dwindle with each passing visit, before it dropped off altogether.

Jon didn't (or couldn't, given his unconscious state) think much of it. Then, while asking Basira about what happened in the Unknowing, he was abruptly reminded of him—Martin, where was he? How was he?

Then, came the first thing he would Know after becoming an Avatar. Jon was overwhelmed with the somehow already deep-seated knowledge that he had feelings for Martin, something that had apparently been left brewing like wine in his chest during his Not-Death.

Almost immediately after he came to this realisation however, he was also struck with the fact that he hadn't been visiting lately. Not within the last month. Suddenly, cold dread that Martin didn't care about Jon anymore thrummed in his chest. Had their affections missed each other? Like two fleeting trains on opposite sides glancing off one another?

No, Jon was to learn that it was much worse. Martin was working for the Lonely.

Jon's chest tightened with worry at the thought. What was he doing? Didn't he know working for any of the Fears was bad news? Jon didn't want Martin to be put in danger like this. He didn't want Martin to become… like him, whatever that meant—not human, trying hard to be not-monster…

The dread expanded in his chest when he finally saw Martin. The sheer relief he had felt when he first set his eyes upon Martin could easily set him afloat. He had lost a little weight and grown slightly pale, but he was still alive and well nonetheless, cupping a mug of tea and wearing his usual large faded sweaters.

Jon, on the other hand, must have looked awful with his coma-induced haggardness and messy bun.

When Jon called out to Martin, a look of shock passed over his face at the sight of the man. His eyes darted down to Jon's outfit.

Self-consciously, Jon fiddled with the sides of his ankle-length skirt. His usual clothes had been more or less destroyed by his numerous kidnappings and near-deaths so he had to get new ones. He had made the decision to ditch professionalism entirely and gone for 100% comfort as a petty rebellion against the institution he was trapped within. Unfortunately, his outfits of choice resembled that of a little old Grandma, he belatedly realised.

When he glanced back up nervously, Martin's initial shock was already plastered over with composure. Cheekily, however, the Eye had let Jon Know that Martin's glances were rather appreciative ones and that sent his heart fluttering uselessly.

This short interaction replayed in Jon's mind for days and days, and he found himself drenching in mortification. Every interaction after that too. He would find himself thinking back to it and regretting his every word and twitch. (Not seeking Martin though. He never regretted seeking him.) And after the first sting of embarrassment subsided, he was left with the gentle aftertaste of his pining. To be frank, it was a bitter thing, as expected of something left brewing as long as it had.

He often found himself lying in bed, bolster held tightly against his chest, imagining Martin in his arms. And he'd feel a pang of pain. One that could only be relieved by the warmth of another.

Pining was not something Jon was familiar with. He was not the type to develop crushes to begin with. On the off chance he did, however, he had always been quick to stamp out the first flames of affection, with Georgie as the only other exception. Thus, the pain of yearning for someone you could only watch and think about from afar was incredibly foreign to Jon.

It was pathetic. It was embarrassing. It was unbearable.

But he cradled it in his palms, gently cherishing, refusing to let drop. Anyone who so much as implied that this feeling was something he couldn’t help would be dead wrong.

Jon chose Martin.

He had decided for himself—vowed it to whatever sick god that was watching him—that he was going to love Martin. He found the nascent affection growing in his chest and chose to keep it, let it bloom, chose to foster it even. He saw the red string of fate on his pinky and stubbornly wound it around his wrist, twice, thrice, over and over, tethering himself to this stupid love against all rationality.

He wasn't letting go.

He wasn't letting go of Martin.

Because everyone seemed to think he was gone, lost to doing the Lonely’s bidding. Not Jon. When Martin reassured him that he was doing everything for their sake, to protect them, Jon wholeheartedly believed those words. Martin wouldn’t do anything to hurt them. He didn’t just Know this; Jon trusted him.

But if Martin kept giving and giving, what would be left of him by the end? Surely somebody had to give something back. Jon couldn’t just watch him wither away into nothingness under the aegis of the Lonely.

Who was going to pull Martin out of the Lonely when it's time for him to return? (Surely he would come back. He'd come back when this was all over. He had to.)

Jon knew it had to be himself. Because Jon loved Martin, and loving him was the most natural thing to do. And, by god, Jon was fighting tooth and nail till his body fell apart to protect this.

If he had to die to keep his love, he would.

***

“Uh,” Martin muttered. “Jon, I, uh, I appreciate this but um…”

Jon looked down at their interlocked hands, not quite registering.

“I have to open the door.”

“Oh.” Jon’s face heated. “Oh. Yes, of course.” Reluctantly, he released Martin’s right hand, shivering as he did so. This was the first brush of cool air against his now-sweaty palms in hours.

He hadn’t noticed how long they had their hands linked like this. They must have been holding hands since their reunion inside the Lonely’s realm. He had been so petrified of losing Martin again that he had clasped his hand in an almost-death grip while he navigated through the mists and fogs.

Yet, Jon found himself missing the contact already. It hadn’t even been three seconds and already Jon was longing for Martin’s touch like a needy child. His fingers were growing cold and his heart was palpitating with the ferocious urge to just grasp Martin’s hand and superglue it to his. Never in his life had he ever felt this possessive but he really couldn’t be blamed after losing so much.

As soon as Martin got his front door to open though, he turned to look at Jon with the most tender smile, and held his left hand towards him. “How about we switch hands? My other one’s gotten quite moist.”

The warmth that swelled in Jon’s chest was a ridiculous thing but he quickly snatched up that offered hand anyway.

It was stupid, trying to pack clothes into a suitcase with two hands of two different people, but they somehow made it work. And when it was Jon’s turn to pack his bag, they allowed the same silly process to repeat itself. And if they shared a hug in the middle of the living room, no one would ever know.

Jon wasn’t letting go.

And Martin wasn’t letting go either.

[mcheang]

Bustier salt Bustier's old teacher comes in and she's basically like Ms. Mendeleiev and Bustier hated her and couldn't stand her. Bustier's teacher critizes her teaching(Caline was the way she is even back then) until Bustier breaks down defeated

Odette Le Haut

I’ll admit I was inspired by the Ballerina/Leap movie for this rough draft. https://youtu.be/6JW_AD3rJqI

Ever since scarlet moth’s reappearance, the school board had been alert and decided to investigate the akuma class.

Considering that they decided to be thorough instead of hasty, by the time inspector Le Haut was sent to each class and lessons to monitor all the teachers, Chloe had already turned into Miracle Queen.

When the principal introduced the elderly woman, Caline had not recognised her at first.

She was a straight-backed lady with her silver hair in a neat bun, tailored navy suit, and a sharp mouth.

Inspector Le Haut eyed Caline and sighed, “Why am I not surprised you are teaching the akuma class, Caline.”

While Caline started at being addressed with such informality, her cheeks flushed at the nickname her class had been given, it humiliated Caline more than her class.

“Excuse me, but do I know you?”

“Come now Caline, you can’t have forgotten your old humanities teacher, now have you?”

“Professeur Costa!” Caline exclaimed, the memory coming back to her. Immediately she pasted on a saccharine smile and said rather stiffly, “How nice to see you. I didn’t know you had gotten married.”

“Yes, a nice lawyer I had met two years after I was promoted to work for the school board.” Oh rub it in; why don’t you?

Caline had hated this professeur. She was like Ms Mendeleiev but worse because she kept picking on Caline.

When Caline had been elected as class president, Professeur Le Haut has scolded her for not reporting the bullying that had gone on in her absence.

Professeur Le Haut supervised Caline’s fundraising and criticised her workload management because she is supposed to do more than her deputy.

Oh, and apparently Caline is terribly at solving bullying cases because she is quick to judge.

Needless to say, Caline had greeted her next humanities teacher- a dull, lazy man- with considerable enthusiasm.

Professeur Le Haut had saved the akuma class for last and she had followed them to all their classes for a few days.

To her credit, Professeur Le Haut didn’t interrupt the lessons and only interviewed all students during lunch.

She asked the students about the scarlet moth reappearance and looked skeptical at Lila’s disease and Marinette’s guilt. She asked Adrien how he felt about girls constantly invading his space. She asked Marinette if Caline has helped her prepare for Class presidency. Oh, and of course she interviews on everyone’s opinion of Chloe Bourgeois.

At the end of the week, the teachers all got their results. All passed, with the notable exception of Caline.

“But why?” Caline protested. “I’ve done nothing wrong. You can’t blame me for the akumatizations because some of them happened outside school! I don’t deserve to be suspended.”

Professur Le Haut’s face was impassive. “Caline, you lack responsibility and efficiency. You have little or no sense of decorum. You are without common sense, foresight, and fairness.”

“Oh come on,” Caline cried out in exasperation.

“On the good side, you have the positivity of a spring sun, but you let your students take advantage of that.”

“Where’s your evidence?” Caline demanded (hypocritically).

“Let’s see, shall we start with the obvious? You never corrected Chloe Bourgeois on her bullying behavior.”

“I was trying to set a better example by treating her with kindness! Her classmates need to learn to forgive her.”

“That is irrelevant. Her class can forgive her even if she is reprimanded. What matters is that for years, you have tried this lenient method of yours and it has not worked. For years, Chloe has taken advantage of said leniency to bully her classmates. You have only encouraged her to continue her bad attitude, and look what happened to her!”

“I,” Caline stammered, not sure what to say. It’s true, Chloe’s self-correction had been a long shot, but Caline had not wanted to give up.

“Speaking of bullying, we need to discuss a Miss Rossi.”

Caline blinked. “But we’ve cleared Marinette of the blame. Lila had a disease-“

“I am aware of that. I have made a thorough, in-depth investigation into Miss Dupain-Chang’s expulsion, and rest assured Caline, you are not to blame for this alone.”

Why was Caline not comforted by that?

“Using school security camera footage, I have found evidence of Miss Rossi stealing your test answers, planting the necklace in Marinette’s unlocked locker, and walking down the stairs before crying out that she was pushed.”

Caline was dumbstruck. “But that can’t be true!”

“Is it more likely that Marinette committed those crimes? We will get to her later, but right now we are seeing your lack of common sense Caline. You knew the test answers were stolen after it was over, so how could Marinette have cheated?”

Looking back, Caline now saw that she had reacted blindly and foolishly. But everyone makes mistakes, right?

“Regarding Miss Rossi’s lying disease and her other disabilities, I have called her mother and she told me her daughter was perfectly healthy.”

Ms Bustier sat back, her face as pale as chalk.

“Oh, and by the way, for some reason, Mrs Rossi was confused as to something about an Achu trip. Apparently she was told that the school was shut down for months because the principal had been akumatized.”

Caline swallowed.

“Is there any defense you would like to make regarding your management of Lila’s doctor notes, the miraculous curing of them, and her overseas trip to help a prince in a meeting meant solely for dignitaries?”

“No. No, I don’t.” It came out shakily. Caline was losing her composure.

“Oh, one more thing I have to add. From what I can see. I believe Lila Rossi is sexually harassing Adrien Agreste.”

“What?!”

“Yes, it means that when Lila keeps invading his personal space and he looks uncomfortable, Adrien is being sexually harassed.”

“I know what it means!”

“Do you? Then why have you not corrected Lila on her behavior? She behaves so in front of you plenty of times as far as I can see.”

Caline stayed silent.

“Now to Miss Dupain-Cheng. From what I have learned, you have let her handle the responsibilities of fundraisers and field trips with only her deputy to help her. Is that correct?”

Caline nodded, unsure where this is going.

”You let a student handle such massive responsibilities without even checking to make sure she got everything right? Or without helping to take some of the load off her. Even I never gave you that much responsibility.” I wasn’t stupid, was what she implied at the end.

“And when Chloe was in trouble, you decided to lecture Marinette in private. When she was accused, you accused her in front of the whole class. Why was that?”

“I...I wanted to advise her to learn forgiveness. Those are two different things!”

“Then why didn’t you want to teach the whole class to forgive?”

Caline’s defense faltered.

“I’ve seen how you have acted when the class has been akumatized. Do you remember Stoneheart.”

“Of course,” Caline smoothed out some strands of her hair, tucking them back. “Ivan had been shy about confessing his feelings to Mylene.”

“Yes, he had been bullied by Kim and when Ivan reacted, instead of investigating, you sent Ivan away, right into the akuma.”

At that Caline finally broke down and started sobbing into her hands.

Professur Le Haut looked at her former student with something like sympathy.

“Caline, I do not say these things to be cruel. I am being honest but you have always stuck to your own world view. Can you tell me now that you have acted with foresight and efficiency regarding Chloe?”

Caline sniffed and shook her head.

“Can you tell me that you have behaved responsibly and fairly towards Marinette?”

Now it was a sob that was followed by a headshake.

“Do you believe you have the common sense and decorum needed should Lila accuse Marinette about something else?”

“No! I don’t, ok? You’ve made your point!” Caline yelled, finally breaking down. “I’m a horrible teacher and it’s no wonder my class is the akuma class. Are you happy now?”

There was definitely pity now in the inspector’s gaze. “Am I happy that you failed? No. Am I happy that you are miserable? No. Am I happy that you have finally seen your errors and can learn from them? Yes.”

The inspector pushed forward a mug of warm tea to the sobbing teacher. “Drink. It’ll help to calm you down. We don’t want another Zombizou incident now.”

Caline obeyed. Her face was a mess.

At the end of the inspection, it was let known that the principal was fired (he went on to become a full-time staff at a community service center and kept wearing his owl costume there.) Caline was suspended but she was taking this chance to start over. Meanwhile their replacements got down to work. It was time for some changes to be made. Especially regarding Miss Lila Rossi.

[maybankiara]

PHONE SWAP (DREW STARKEY)

14: FRIENDS

summary: Addie Mallory is just your average economics student when she meets Drew Starkey at her local Target in Atlanta. This is where the story is supposed to end – a short meeting and a picture to go – except Drew accidentally leaves with the wrong phone, and the story begins, instead.

w/c: 4k

a/n: this is compensation for ch 12. also check if you’ve read the previous chapter bc apparently tumblr didn’t notify people??? also check this out before reading!!!! it’s a cute reference for later on in the chapter and will 107% enhance your experience ok

read on wattpad

previous part | series masterlist

Drew is late. Obviously.

  According to the time displayed over a candid photo of Drew grimacing (she still hasn’t changed it back to normal, not even after Holden noticed it), it’s only thirty-five minutes past noon. Addie sits at the corner table of Waystone with a cup of warm coffee sitting in front of her, trying to kill time.

  On a shelf behind her, there’s a nice green plant. Addie doesn’t know anything about plants, but she does like the way this one looks – it fits the creamy brown of the coffee shop walls. It was actually Marianne who introduced her to the spot, and Addie hadn’t been a lover of staying in for a coffee until then, but the girl made her fond of the European tradition. She was only happy that Drew seemed to be fond of it, too.

  Plus, there aren’t many people inside with her right now. Most already came in the early hours of the morning or will come in the afternoon or evening, after work. Addie presumed that’ll make Drew feel less worried about being recognised.

  Before she met him, Addie didn’t think Drew would be a little… awkward, to put it that way. She spent some time thinking about it, then chalked it up to the circumstances of their meeting. As much as she’s still aware that he's an actor, and not an unsuccessful one at that, she reckons he must be aware that she is someone who’s seen his work. That’s the whole reason why they met in the first place.

  So, Addie has decided to take it upon herself to eradicate that barrier between them, one way or the other. She banned Marianne from acting like Drew is the Drew Starkey from Outer Banks instead of Addie’s acquaintance Drew, and she asked the same from her other friends.

  It sounds easy. It’s supposed to be easy.

  When she sees Drew walk into the coffee shop and smile at the waitress, then glance around, looking for Addie, she takes a deep breath and gives him a small wave.

  Addie will make it easy.

  ‘Hey, sorry I’m late.’ Drew plops down onto the chair with ease. He’s wearing a fitted black T-shirt and a light blue baseball cap that he takes off and puts on a table, throwing around a subtle glance, before his eyes set on Addie.

  She smiles at him. ‘Don’t worry, I expected you to be.’

  His shoulders visibly relax a little, and he nods at the cup in front of her. ‘So, you got coffee already?'

  ‘Yeah. Sorry, I wasn’t sure how long I’d be waiting here and I didn’t want to seem rude by just sitting here, not buying anything. I wouldn’t want the girl to get in trouble because of me.’

  ‘No, it’s fine, don’t worry. Is there a menu?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Addie leans over and reaches for the menu that’s propped on a holder on the empty table next to them, then hands it to him. ‘We didn’t get one.’

  ‘Right.’

  Drew shuffles through the pages of the menu with a slight wrinkle between his brows. Addie notices how they’re almost straight, one a bit thicker than the other, and something about that makes the corners of her lips tug ever so slightly upwards.

  ‘Are we getting just coffee or do you want something to eat, too?’

  ‘I planned on getting food when I’m back at my place,’ Addie admits. ‘But you’re more than free to get something, I won’t mind.’

  ‘Alright. I’ll be right back.’

  He gets up with a tap to the table, and he’s off to the counter. The girl working behind it doesn’t freak out when he approaches her, so Addie figures she doesn’t recognise him.

  Not too long ago, Addie was working in a small coffee shop, back in Denver. That’s what she spent most of her summers doing – travelling was something that was for after she’s done with all her studies, and working was what gave her the money she needed for both. She wonders if a celebrity—or as much of one as Drew is—ever approached her and she didn't know.

  Maybe. So far, she hasn’t recognised any of the faces, and Denver isn’t really a place for celebrities as much as Atlanta is.

  The sound of chatter fills the space. Drew is making the waitress laugh, half-leaning against the counter as he rests his hand on it.

  It’s not flirtatious, at least not as far as Addie can tell. He ends up waving to the girl and comes back to the table with a wide grin.

  ‘That’s Nikki,’ he answers Addie’s unasked question as he takes a seat. ‘One of my friends used to date her, she hung out with my group a few years back. Didn’t know she works here now.’

  ‘Oh, cool.’ Addie remembers her promise not to make things awkward, so she relaxes into her chair, takes a sip of her coffee. ‘What did you order?’

  ‘Latte and strawberry pancakes.’

  ‘So you’re a latte and strawberry kind of dude.’

  Drew lets out a chuckle, lifting an eyebrow in amusement. ‘Judgy much?’

  ‘Nope. Just thought you’d be, hm…’ Her thoughts trail away, and she rests her elbows on the table, placing her chin on her palms. She looks at him, at the rough lines of his face – the high cheekbones, the long eyebrows, the kind, intelligent blue eyes, and lips that seem oddly soft. ‘Black with a sprinkle of milk. And, like, a croissant or something. Strawberry’s good, though, I approve.’

  Drew’s pose mimics hers, and it takes all in her to keep herself from laughing. ‘Your pronunciation of croissant is very... French.’

  ‘My roommate is half French. You bet she made sure I knew how to pronounce croissant.’

  ‘Ha. Knew it.’ At this, Addie quirks an eyebrow. Drew sighs. ‘Fine. I didn’t. I thought you were French.’

  ‘Wrong. Denver, born and raised.’

  ‘Well.’ The smile he gives her is playful, and a whole lot more open than any she’s seen on him before. ‘Guess we read each other wrong.’

  Just as Addie is about to reply, the waitress—Nikki—greets them, placing a mug identical to Addie’s in front of him. Drew thanks her and she tells him the pancakes will be in a few minutes, then walks away.

  ‘Hey, Drew,’ calls Addie. She raises her mug and nods at him to do the same. When he does, she clinks the mugs together. ‘To getting to know each other.’

  The actor repeats the word with a smile.

  They chat, for a bit, mostly about coffee preferences. Addie tells him how she started with having straight black every morning back in high school, switched it to afternoon in college, then to drinking cappuccino in her senior year. He tells her how he drinks straight black when on set, a habit from college, and latte is what he rewards himself with when he's not working.

  A bit later, Nikki comes back with a tray, as promised. Drew makes small talk as she puts a pancake plate with chocolate poured over the strawberries on top, and then she places another one in front of Addie.

  ‘Thanks, Nikki,’ says Drew before Addie gets a word in. The girl walks away, and he eyes the plate in front of Addie. ‘You said you like these, right?’

  Addie just stares at him, for a moment. She thinks she should say something, ask why he got one for her, too, and then— ‘I do. Thanks.’ A beat. ‘You didn’t have to.’

  ‘Hey, if you don’t want it, I’ll take it.’ His mouth is already full, fork and knife in one hand each.

  Of course Addie can’t help but smile.

  She takes the cutlery herself and dives into the pancake, making sure he can see her roll her eyes. ‘This better not be another way to apologise for stealing my phone.’

  ‘Nah, that’s not it. I just didn’t want to be the only one eating.’

  The wide grin on his face is enough to tell her that he’s being honest about this.

  Addie ends up teasing him a little more as they eat their pancakes and finish their latte and cappuccino. It gets easier, talking to Drew. She doesn’t even notice when the starting awkwardness turns to laughter and jokes, all caution and reservation either of them might’ve had, thrown out of the window.

  Time goes by, and Addie doesn’t notice.

  They end up deciding to go on a walk around the neighbourhood. There’s a nice park nearby that neither of them has been to in ages, so that’s on the agenda for the rest of whatever their time together. Addie snaps a quick photo of the coffee shop before they leave.   She’s planning to do just the interior, when Drew leans into the frame, squirming a little.

  Addie laughs and focuses the camera on him, taking a quick shot. ‘Already missing being in front of the camera, huh?’

  ‘Always.’ Drew makes a grimace at the camera, looking twenty-six and six at once. ‘Want me to take one of you?’

  ‘Nah,’ says Addie, shaking her head. She then turns her camera off and puts the phone into her back pocket, ready to leave.

  Drew follows suit. He puts the plates one on the other, cutlery, too, and brings them to the counter. Addie follows his example and brings the cups. Nikki thanks them and Drew just waves her off, both of them saying goodbye to the waitress.

  The air that blows into their faces as they leave the place is fresh and welcoming, a slight chill present even under the October sun.

  She feels Drew bump into her. ‘What’s the deal with the photo?’

  They take a turn around the corner as Addie gathers her thoughts, hands finding their way to her pockets. ‘I just like having evidence of the things that happen, I guess.’

  ‘But not posting it,’ he says. He lets out a nervous laugh then, scratching his nose. ‘Sorry, I stalked you a little.’

  ‘Fair. ‘Cause, you know, me too. Obviously. But yeah, I like my privacy. Putting shit out there is a bit... I don’t know, iffy, I guess.’

  ‘So you just take pictures of everything?’

  ‘Pretty much. It’s a great way of keeping memories.’

  Drew takes a turn earlier than Addie would’ve expected, and she takes a second to follow. He waits for her to catch up to him, sighing as he does, as if doing so is a great bother.

  Addie rolls her eyes again. ‘Don’t give me that face.’

  ‘What face?’

  She points at him. ‘That face.’

  They fall into step and it’s as easy as breathing. Drew’s presence at her side stops being something she’s aware of like a summer breeze, and more like the stability of summer warmth, instead.

  ‘What do you do with the photos?’ he asks.

  Addie chuckles, a cheeky smile stretching over her face as she glances at him. ‘I print them. Put them in an album. Basically the exact thing our parents used to do.’

  ‘Why not just get a film camera, then?’

  ‘Because it’s weird to carry a film camera wherever you go. Or any camera, for that matter. Using your phone is just convenient, I guess.’

  ‘You’ve got a point.’

  They turn another corner. Addie recognises the road – it’s about half an hour’s worth of walking back to her apartment, and in about five minutes, they’ll be at the park. Around them, birds chirp, high up in the skies. She hears a faraway plane, cars that pass by them speeding past over the limit, and kids screaming at one another in one of the back alleys, game or not.

  The silence between them isn’t heavy. She hears their footsteps, too, hers faster than his. Drew’s close enough for her to just feel him at her side.

  ‘How long have you lived here?’ asks Addie.

  Drew glances at her. ‘I moved here after graduation, so... about four, five years, now? It feels longer than that.’

  Addie chuckles, hands in pockets. 'Yeah, I get that. How come you picked Atlanta?’

  ‘Job prospects, mostly.’

  ‘Ah, yes. The blooming film industry of Atlanta.’

  ‘It’s true! It’s no Hollywood, but it’s easier to find gigs here than in LA,’ he admits. ‘If I ever move to LA, it’ll be because I’ll think I've got enough of a resume to pick up some bigger roles.’

  ‘So no toilet commercials, then?’

  Drew gives her a look that’s part disbelief, part amusement. It comes with a smile, so Addie gives him one in return. 

  At the point of walking into the park, Drew’s telling her about what his first experience of Atlanta was like. The girl finds herself laughing a lot – he’s a good storyteller, motioning with his hands a lot more than she’d expect him to, and a lot of the story benefits from the way his voice carries the words. 

  The bench they sit down on is in the middle of the park, right in front of a modest fountain. It used to be the pride and joy of the neighbourhood, Drew tells her, but someone kept trashing it and they eventually stopped trying to repair it. 

  ‘It’s still kind of cute,’ Addie notes.

  It makes him chuckle. ‘Right. You’re allowed to dislike it.’

  ‘Okay, it looks absolutely nothing like a park fountain and I’ll file a complaint to the major.’

  ‘That’s more like it!’

  Addie gives him the same look he’d given her a couple minutes earlier, and he breaks into a big smile. 

  ‘Stay like this,’ she tells Drew. ‘You're getting in front of the camera again.’

  ‘Oh, boy. As if that’s a problem.’

  He begins to move in place almost immediately and Addie grunts, taking a quick snapshot before he’s able to ruin everything. She takes another one, and then another one, and before she knows it, they’re laughing their hearts out as Drew makes the oddest faces at her, tugging at his hair and saying some of the weirdest shit she’s ever heard. 

  Before she puts her phone away, she scrolls through the photos they’d taken. Drew leans closer, their shoulders touching, and watches them with her. 

  Addie is aware of his proximity in a way that she hasn’t been before. She feels his breath on her shoulder and his hand on the bench is dangerously close to her thigh; her thumb trembles a little and she really hopes he doesn’t notice. 

  Drew puts his finger on the screen just as she’s about to scroll forward. ‘I like this one.’

  She chuckles.’'It’s not bad.'

  ‘Right? It should definitely be in one of your albums.’

  The feeling that brushes over Addie in the moment after Drew says that is like a smile, but filling out the entirety of her body. Whatever barrier they had between the two of them, it’s gone now, as if it had never existed. 

  Addie composes herself, hoping Drew won’t think much of her hesitation. ‘Obviously. That’s where all photos of my friends go.’

  Friends. The word hangs between them like a soft exclamation mark, an unspoken promise. 

  When Drew moves a little, Addie feels the sudden lack of heat at her side as if someone had blown cold air into the spot. ‘Good.’

  Despite its ugliness and age enhanced by vandalism, the fountain has running water. The stream is just loud enough to notice if one is listening, as some of the machinery pushing the water upwards seems to be out of function. It’s a nice, soothing white noise – Addie feels as if time doesn't flow according to the same rules here. 

  The feeling inside her chest is something she’s never felt before, yet she can’t put it into words. It’s like trying to catch a thought without thinking about it – here and there and nowhere at once. 

  She wonders what Drew is thinking about. 

  He sits with his back against the wooden backside of the bench, one arm on the metal armrest. His eyes are fixated on the fountain in front of them, eyebrows slightly furrowed, lips parted in thought. 

  She looks at him, and he’s Drew. Not an actor; not a stranger. 

  Her friend Drew. 

  She sees him run his tongue over his lips, right before he turns to her. ‘I’ve got a film camera. I should bring it sometime.’

  Sometime – a promise of this not being the last time. A promise of this happening again, when he’s back from LA. 

  Addie faces him with a bright smile, her fingers fleeting in her lap. ‘You should also get an album. So we can keep the photos somewhere.’

  ‘Or we use one of yours,’ he suggests. ‘I don’t know anyone our age who still keeps albums.'

  ‘Physical copies are more secure and permanent than whatever we keep on our phones or in the cloud. It’s just the maths of odds.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘How long have you been collecting photos?’

  Addie ponders about it for a second; the hum of water running fills the moments in-between. ‘Ten years, give or take.’

  ‘You’ve got the albums here?’

  ‘Some. Most are back in Denver, but I’ve got the ones I took here.’

  ‘Can I see them?’

  The “now” is silent, but Addie hears it nonetheless. It sounds like the water running; it sounds like the “friends” they'd just declared themselves. 

  His eyes are looking into hers, deep and gentle; Addie is astonished at just how blue they are. She’d thought they’d be a clear blue, like a crystal glass, but they’re muddied with sprinkles of green and yellow, even some grey around the irises. 

  She nods. ‘Sure. My roommate is going to be out ‘till late, anyway.’

  He nods, too, and smiles a little. ‘Cool.’

  It’s settled – they’re going to Addie’s. 

  About half an hour later, Addie feels like she’s bringing an old friend to a new home. Their conversation feels up the walls of the building as they climb up the staircase – his laughter does’'t feel out of place here, even when they enter the apartment and Addie makes him take his shoes off. 

  ‘Leave your coat here, shoes there, and feel free to take those slippers if you want. The albums are in the living room, underneath the stack of French books,’ Addie instructs as if she were reading it off a list. Drew chuckles and does as told, following her into the living room like a really tall puppy. ‘Want something to drink?’

  ‘You got a beer?’

  Addie grins. ‘You bet.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  She nods, already halfway to the kitchen, and holds herself still against the doorway to nod at him. ‘Which one?’

  ‘What you got?’ 

  Addie hears him plop down onto the couch with a sigh of comfort and makes a mental note to tell Marianne that Drew Starkey enjoys the couch the French-Brit picked. She opens the fridge, eyes glancing over the assortment of beers (mostly courtesy of Marianne’s boyfriend, Tom). ‘Heineken, White Claw, Corona—’

  ‘I’ll take White Claw.’

  ‘Basic bitch!’

  ‘I like a reliable drink, alright!’

  In the end, Addie walks back into the living room with two glasses, a can of White Claw, and a can of Heineken. She finds Drew on the floor instead of the couch, surrounded by a heap of albums that Addie recognises in a heartbeat, a familiar stack of French books shifted to the side. 

  The sight of Drew hunched over photos she took at her friend Leanne’s twenty-third birthday party last year makes her laugh, and the sound startles him. 

  ‘Sorry,’ he says. His cheeks redden in an instant and he rests his palm flat on the album. ‘I didn’t mean to just start rummaging through your personal stuff.’

  Addie shakes her head. ‘I told you where they were for a reason, Drew.’ She joins him on the floor, gives him a glass, fills it up to the brim, then pours Heineken into hers. ‘These are from a birthday party, the first one I attended in Atlanta. A little over a year ago. I met Leanne’—she points at the brown-skinned girl on one of the pictures—‘literally, like, a month before this. She was friends with Marianne’—points at the plump ginger-haired girl—‘before I met her.’

  ‘You met Marianne in Atlanta?’

  ‘Kind of. Give me a second.’ Addie leans over the album Drew’s got in his lap and reaches for the one furthest back. She flips the pages until she’s gone through about a fifth of the album, and the first photo that pops in the left upper corner of the page is a selfie of her and Marianne in no place other than Waystone. 

  Addie smiles at the picture with a fond smile on her lips. ‘This is when I met her for the first time, at least in real life. We’d spoken beforehand for about a week or so, a lot of the move and everything happened suddenly for the both of us. Marianne spent her first week here with her boyfriend, Tom, who’d moved to Atlanta a few months prior. She suggested Waystone, we hit it off, and that’s how it all started.’

  ‘That’s a nice story,’ comments Drew. ‘How’d you meet her?’

  ‘Mutual friend. Iona. Marianne’s friend from back home, she went to Berkeley with me.’

  ‘Damn.’

  ‘Yeah’'

  Drew raises eyebrows at Addie as if asking for permission, and she nods at him. He takes the album and flips through it, slowly, asking questions here and there, commenting on Addie sometimes. 

  There is something irrevocably intimate about sharing your life with someone like these. Addie’s always thought physical albums carry more weight than any other form of memory collection, and she’d always collected them for herself first. It’s different from social media, where everything is curated to be nothing short of perfection, for others to see. 

  Now, Drew is seeing into Addie’s past in a way that’s as close to partaking in it as possible. Her friends, her experiences, her dumb photos – with a glass of beer in hand, music playing on Marianne’s speaker in the corner of the room. 

  She tries to remember if she’s ever so openly shared her life with anyone before this, and she can't. 

  Out of the corner of her eye, she watches Drew. The corner of his mouth is curled into a permanent half-smile, moving only as he remarks a photo he’s looking at in the moment. His hair is still messy from their impromptu photoshoot, and it looks dark brown under the apartment light. Addie notices he’s got freckles, all around his nose and under his eyes. 

  She doesn’t know the exact moment they became friends, but they did. Now, Addie can’t picture a life where Drew isn’t a part of it. 

  Some time later, when they’ve gone through two albums, a dozen more stories, and two more beers, the door opens with Marianne just about screaming bloody murder. Addie answers to her name with a calm, inconspicuous voice, and motions to Drew to be quiet. 

  In the end, it’s a bit of a ruckus, when Marianne just about faints at the sight of Drew Starkey chilling on the floor of her living room, surrounded by cans of beer and a heap of albums. It’s over soon, with Marianne calm and managing to find out that Drew likes goulash because his old neighbour was Hungarian and would make it for the Fourth of July, and that he is a basic white bitch who loves White Claw (Marianne gives him a lecture on buying alcohol in bulk, aka the British binge-drinking practice). 

  In the end, Marianne doesn’t consider him a celebrity anymore, either. He gives Addie his phone number (‘It’s simpler than Instagram, I’ll see it faster.’) and promises to let her know when he’s back. It’s two promises in the form of one, both verbalised this time, and they reassure Addie that she isn’t the only one considering them friends now. 

  He leaves, and she cleans up after themselves, getting Marianne up to speed with their hangout. 

  Addie could get used to this.

◇

15: ALCOHOLISM IN HOLLYWOOD

tagging. @jjmaybanksbaby​​​​​​​​ @taiter-tots​​​​​​​​ @sacredto​​​​​​​​ @snkkat​​​​​​​​ @drewswannabegirl​​​​​​​​ @yeslifeofateen​​​​​​​​ @rudypnkw​​​​​​​​ @stfukie​​​​​​​​ @x-lulu​​​​​​​​ ​​​​​ @drewstarkey​​​​​​​​ @butgilinsky​​​​​​​​ @solllaris​​​​​​​​ @hyperactive2411​​​​​​​​ @chasefreakinstokes​​​​​​​​ @surferkie​​​​​​​​ @jroseron​​​​​​​​ @k-k0129​​​​​​​​ @starlightstories​​

[justkeeptrekkin]

Wrote a little Good Omens/Star Trek crossover

.... for the awesome @comicgeekery​. Thanks for the inspo!

5th April, 2063

“--historic day for humankind. For this is truly the first time that we have been able to refer to ourselves as such with the certainty that there is, in fact, life elsewhere in the perceivable universe.”

It’s a balmy, spring afternoon in London when Crowley rolls out of bed and turns on the television. Honestly, he’s fairly used to ignoring the news; it’s only on because he’d left it on channel one last night for a nature documentary that he and Aziraphale have been watching about whales. That’s why he pays very little attention to the picture on his projector screen.

“-- quite extraordinary. It seems as if this was all triggered by Zefram Cochrane's attempt at warp-speed flight, and er-- just coming in now, these beings call themselves Vulcans, Jane, and-- aha-- well, they’re not quite saying that they come in peace, but if our translators are correct, they’re offering us a long and prosperous life--”

Crowley slams his mug on the counter. He’s run out of coffee. He could very easily conjure up some more now, right here, but miracle-coffee is never as good as the nice Costa Rican stuff he buys. Or, more accurately, that Aziraphale buys for him, because he’s just that much of a kept man, apparently.

A knocking at the door. A light rapping that Crowley recognises immediately, and it would usually make him humiliatingly happy except for the fact that he’s just woken up from a--

He checks the time on the TV screen.

 -- from a two week nap, he hasn’t got any coffee, and the TV is blabbering on far too loudly. Waving a hand at said TV until it is muted, Crowley slides over to the door, dressing gown belt flapping about against his leg, and opens it with a flourish.

 Aziraphale has that bright-eyed, bushy-tailed look about him: never a good sign. “Crowley--”

Crowley plants a brief kiss on his cheek, then immediately retreats back into the kitchen, shoulders heavy with sleep. “I’m going back to sleep, angel. World’s too loud still.”

”Crowley--” the sound of the door slamming, very purposefully, Crowley thinks, as Azriaphale continues: “I have been trying to call you all morning. I thought you left your phone on vibrate for such things.”

 “I did. Didn’t I?” Crowley scratches his head. He’s sure he’d changed the ring tone for Aziraphale’s phone number specifically so he’d wake up when only he called. “Apparently not, sorry Angel-- any news?”

He sees the way Aziraphale is rolling his eyes and flapping about when he turns back around from the kitchen with two mugs of tea. His hands are fiddling with each other in that excitable way that they do, a happy nervous way that he’s come to adore. Crowley hands him a cup. Aziraphale takes it with a pointed raise of his brow.

“Any -- any news? Really. You could not have asked a more absurd--”

At that point, apparently, he’s lost for words. More frustrated than Crowley realised, and so he begins to take Aziraphale’s bright eyes and bushy tail a little more seriously. Particularly when Aziraphale puts down the cup of tea of all things, and gestures to the television, one arm outstretched and gaze still fixed on Crowley.

The screen remains muted. However, Crowley gathers what Aziraphale is gesturing at fairly quickly. He’s so used to letting the news blend into the background, tired of feeling depressed by the human race -- especially with this World War III nonsense -- that he’d completely missed that something, actually, rather important has been happening.

It looks like the research base in San Francisco. Crowley knows only a little about this; as the angel who created a fair few of the stars in the sky, he takes interest when humans start pointing their big magnifying glasses at them. Zefram Cochrane, the inventor of warp-speed engines, and a few other important looking men (who may well be important, what does Crowley know? He hasn’t been paying attention) welcomes three people. People, except they’re not human. Humanoid, perhaps, but human? No. Crowley can spot an alien a mile off.

“Crikey,” he mutters, hovering in his sparse living room with his dressing gown open and tea steaming.

Aziraphale nods fervently.

“Which ones are these?”

“These are the Vulcans,” Aziraphale explains. “Do you remember? Our colleagues -- oh, I forget their names -- a few of our colleagues helped set up. Erm.” Aziraphale purses his lips. “Well, their version of Eden.”

“Something like Sha Ka Ray, if I remember,” Crowley mutters, unblinking as he watches one of the Vulcans raise their hand in a v-shape, the humans mimicking.

“That was it! Sha Ka Ree.”

They’re wearing long, heavy cloaks. Even expressions, but glints in their eyes, as if they are taking some professional enjoyment out of this. The humans, barely containing their own excitement -- and probably a good dose of apprehension. Human beings, finally meeting an alien species who could take them down a notch, teach the buggers a couple of things. Crowley and Aziraphale certainly never managed to, much as they’ve tried. Far too stubborn.

After a while of sitting and watching the proceedings-- the beginnings of a new, enterprising delegation-- Crowley gives a long exhale.

“Those bowl cuts are questionable.”

Stardate: 53459 (17th July 2269)

“What? Just give them a quick ring? Give the flagship of Starfleet’s exploratory expedition a cheeky call, just to check in? ‘Hello Enterprise, nice to meet you’?”

“Yes. Why, do you not think that they’d appreciate it?”

“It’s less that they won’t appreciate it and more that it might blow their tiny minds, Angel.”

“They’ve met plenty of extraordinary species by this point -- extraordinary by their standards, anyway. A call from us will be -- how do they put it -- ‘a walk in the park’--?”

“Not the point. That’s -- that’s actually the bit that I’m struggling with, here. What is the point, exactly? What are you aiming to achieve? You looking to freak them out or…?”

“Well, I thought perhaps we could… ah. Tell them who we are.”

Aziraphale looks at Crowley. Red hair tied up, ringlets around his face; silver eye-shadow; a black jumpsuit in the style of the Terran fashion that really leaves very little to the imagination, with cut-outs here and there all over his body. Legs crossed, foot bouncing impatiently, arms sprawled across the back of Aziraphale’s sofa. In his old bookshop, Crowley always sticks out like a sore thumb, and he’s always loved that about him.

He tilts his head. “Really,” he drawls, vaguely amused.

“Yes. Don’t you think it’s about time?”

“IIIII dunno…” Crowley sucks air through his teeth contemplatively. “Never ends very well. Tell humans that angels and demons roam their planet and they get all agitated. Don’t need to tell you that, you remember how much it traumatised dear old Hieronymous. Couldn’t stop painting us, the poor bastard.”

Aziraphale sighs. “Yes, well, that was different. That was almost a millennia ago, now.”

The bookshop is still just as dusty as it has ever been. Crowley has been urging him to at least install a proper computer -- one that will answer to him, rather than sitting there stupidly, looking like a brick. But he is quite happy with it as it is, especially when he has Crowley here, lounging about as he’s always done, draped across the furniture like he’s still wrapped around that apple tree. And drinking more wine than is good for them.

“Right so -- let’s just role-play this--” Crowley’s glass makes a decisive clink against the table, “-- we patch into their network. Right? I find their frequency and just, try and call from my PADD.”

“Yes,” he confirms, not liking his partner’s tone of voice.

“So then they answer, all, military-like and ready for some sort of diplomatic… situation.”

“Mm…”

Crowley’s leaning forward in his seat, gesticulating a enthusiastically. “They see us, they’re all, ‘oi, how did you get this number?’ and we’re all, ‘sorry, just thought we’d pop in and introduce ourselves, we’re your new neighbours,’” he wrinkles his nose mockingly, “‘Cept we’re not new at all, not really, we’ve been here since the dawn of time, but don’t worry too much about that’.”

“Well--”

“So they’re all, ‘ah, immortal beings from outer space!’ and we have to explain that, actually, we’re not really from space at all, we’re the ones who made space, and no, sorry, we’d love to patch you through to God, except She’s been a little busy for the past six thousand odd years, no can do, just got us boring old sods’.”

“Crowley, really. Don’t you think you’re being a little reductionist?”

“No.” Suddenly serious. “I don’t. They’re humans. They’re brilliant, but they’re also humans, which means they’re also thick as shit.”

Aziraphale purses his lips, electing to ignore the love of his life for this moment. Sitting up properly, linking his hands in his lap. “I think it’s time.”

“And what do you think they’ll do?”

“Perhaps it will bring about some new, interesting philosophy. About the nature of the universe, of the overlap between science and faith.”

Crowley’s brow quirks, yellow eyes staring, wide and disbelieving. “Some ‘new and interesting philosophy’? Books. You’re talking about books. You think you’ll get some nice literature out of this.”

Aziraphale flounders. “Well, that’s not exactly how I’d put it--”

Crowley scowls. But then, he’s taking out his PADD from his purse, making aggravated noises as his fingers fly across the screen.

“You’re doing it?” Aziraphale asks hopefully.

“Yes, yes. You got all happy as soon as you started talking about it and-- I was never really going to say no, was I? You know how pathetic I am by this point, surely.”

He’s not looking at him, but Aziraphale is gazing with those big, angel-eyes that Crowley’s told him he uses sometimes. They drive him insane, but he can’t help it, not when Crowley’s being so unintentionally romantic. “Oh, Crowley.”

“Shhhht. Stop. I’m not doing anything nice, I’m--”

“Not nice, I know.”

Aziraphale smiles serenely. Crowley’s scowl deepens, just as the PADD begins to ring.

The screen is propped up against a wine bottle, just in time for the image to reveal a man. A man in green and gold, sand-blonde hair swept back and a look of cautious curiosity in his hazel eyes. Behind his chair, a woman in red is leaning over the controls. The captain’s head is angled slightly, tilted as he seems to consider his situation -- consider the two strangers who have called their starship.

“Greetings, this is Captain Kirk of the Starship: Enterprise. To whom am I speaking?”

“Oh, how exciting,” Aziraphale whispers, nudging Crowley a little. Then, more loudly, “Greetings, Captain Kirk! My name is Aziraphale, and this is Crowley.”

Crowley sighs, seeming very put upon.

Aziraphale nudges him again. “Well! Don’t be rude, Crowley.”

“Yes, hello, how very nice to meet you,” he simpers accordingly.

“This is a secure line, gentlemen. How did you access our co-ordinates?”

“Ah, yep, sorry, my fault,” Crowley waves a hand. “I’m -- well, we’re, er… we can do stuff. Lots of stuff. He’ll explain later.”

He shoots Aziraphale a glare, which seems to be a warning that this could go horribly wrong. Aziraphale, ever the opportunist, elects to ignore this.

“That I shall,” Aziraphale adds, pointedly.

Kirk thinks. He thinks, sitting so still as he leans towards the monitor, that for a moment, Azirpahale thinks the screen has frozen. Then, turning his head to his right, he notes that he is talking to someone. A certain someone who then appears on screen, a royal blue shirt and hands clasped behind his back. A Vulcan. The two converse with a silent look.

Ah. Aziraphale knows that look very well. 

“Be that as it may,” Kirk continues, turning back to them, “it is technically a federal crime to trace Starfleet co-ordinates and to contact a ship without first organising an official meeting. That is, unless it is an emergency.”

“Oh, yes, I have heard of your ship’s adventures, captain,” Aziraphale rushes. He puts down his glass of wine. “You’ve done an awful lot of good, helping those in need.”

“We… do our best,” he says with a slow nod.

“Sorry. For the, er… illegal call,” Crowley says.

Another moment where both men share a glance. And then, the Vulcan in blue tilts an inquisitive chin.

“Sir, may I enquire as to the colour of your eyes? They do not appear to be contact lenses.”

It takes a moment for Crowley to realise that he’s the one being addressed. Then, “Ah! Bollocks. Forgot the sunglasses-- see Aziraphale, this is why we don’t call Starfleet when we’ve had two bottles of Rioja.”

“Awfully sorry, dear--”

The captain looks up at his colleague with a wry smile and a raised brow. “Spock, don’t you think it’s a little rude to as a stranger questions about their appearance?”

“A stranger who has made contact with Starfleet’s flagship outside of legal parameters.”

“Still, politeness can go a long way,” he adds with a smirk, and a look in his eyes that’s, quite frankly, obscene.

Crowley clears his throat. “To answer your question-- although, seems like they’re more interested in each other,” he says to Aziraphale as an aside, “- to answer your question, yeah, they’re real. Snake eyes. Unfortunate accident involving a bastard called Lucifer.”

A pause. The man named Spock tilts his head. Kirk leans forward in his seat.

“Lucifer, you say?”

At that, Crowley gives a wicked smile. Aziraphale sighs. This wasn’t exactly how he’d imagined this conversation starting.

Stardate: 51650 (9th May 2271)

“My point is -- my point is -- tribbles. Tribbles, now -- whose idea were those, then? Who thought they were a good idea? They’ve -- they’ve not got faces, they’ve not got hands or feet or paws or anything, just, little balls of fluff that just poof! Reproduce, until you’re up to your tits in furballs.”

“Now, tha’s what ah been tryna tell yeh, captain. And you mind what he’s saying, too, Lieutenant Uhura! I know you thought they’s adorable, but they’re terrors.”

“Pointless, they’re pointless. Don’t know what they were thinking of when they made tribbles, whoever they were.”

“Aye! See, straight from the mouth of an angel!”

“Er, former angel.”

”Them wee bastards’ve been cloggin’ up my ship’s engine, would ye believe?”

 “Our ship, Scotty.”

 “Oh. Well, o’course, captain… I didnae mean no disrespect, captain--”

 “In Russia--”

“I swear, if you’re about to say that Russia invented tribbles, Chekov, I’ll kick you out of this here bar faster than you can say Alabama Slammer.”

“Alright, now, Bones, it’s shore leave. He can say what he wants. We’re all here to relax. Isn’t that right, Spock?”

“Yeah, he sure looks relaxed there, Jim.”

“I am not accustomed to frequenting such establishments.”

“I would like to state, for the wecord, sir, that I was not going to say that Russia inwented tribbles.”

“I -- ah -- actually, I have a bit of a confession to make in that respect…”

“Angel. Please. Please don’t tell me that you’re… Christ, you didn’t…”

“You are the angel responsible for creating the tribble species?”

“You have a lot to answer for, Aziraphale.”

“It wasn’t intentional! Or, rather, the intention was to simply create a creature so lovely and adorable that no one could quite resist it. And, I suppose, what with evolution and how that may have changed their, erm, reproduction process…”

“You bastard.”

“Crowley -- for Heaven’s sake, it was simply an accident! You can hardly say that it’s worse than some of your creations.”

“I invented Luton airport. You invented the universe’s most irritating pest. Honestly, I figured some lower ranking demon had been the one to come up with it, but now I feel, sort of… betrayed.”

“Don’t say that! May I remind you that you are the one who came up with the M25? Which nearly destroyed the universe as we know it!”

“I beg your pardon? Would you care to rewind and just, explain that last bit, Aziraphale?”

“Oh -- er, it’s a long story.”

“A very long story that would mean another round. Angel, you are definitely bloody-well buying.”

Stardate: 43897 (24th November 2366)

“You know, when you said that you wanted to check-in with Picard and the team, this isn’t what I imagined.”

Their call isn’t immediately picked up. However, when it is, the first thing they see is a large barbershop quartet. They’re all wearing pink, candy-stripe suits and wicker hats. The bridge of the Enterprise looks much the same as it did under captain Kirk, if not for this barbershop quartet, and perhaps a few technological tweaks. And, of course, the current captain who sits in his chair, face in his hand.

“Er.” Crowley looks at Aziraphale, who looks back at Crowley. “This doesn’t look like a good time.”

“No, by all means,” Picard gestures to the screen, other hand still covering his face. “If you have any advice to offer, then I will happily take it.”

“What…” Aziraphale trails off, purses his lips. The, trying to affect something light and airy, “What seems to be the problem, captain?”

Picard looks over the edge of his hand. “Are you aware of the being that calls itself ‘Q’?”

He’s about to say that he isn’t -- perhaps Crowley knows this Q?-- but before they even have a moment to deliberate, the tallest of the barbershop quartet members steps forward from the throng and hops down the steps to Picard’s side. Dark eyes that have seen too much, brightened by mischief. And for a moment, there is the faintest flicker of recognition as he doffs his hat to the screen, leaning against Picard’s captain chair.

“Good day to you, gentlemen. Did you like my song?”

“No,” Picard says quite firmly. “Now, would you please leave and take your pestering elsewhere!”

Q tuts, rolls his eyes. Pokes his thumb in Picard’s direction. “He’s just grumpy because he hasn’t had his morning cup of Earl Grey.”

“You…”

It’s Crowley that says this. Leaning forward on Aziraphale’s sofa, snake pupils narrowing. And it’s then that Aziraphale realises that this is absolutely someone they know. He just can’t put his finger on it, whilst Crowley clearly has.

“You know him?” Picard says, with the smallest flicker of hope.

“Wait. Wait a second now,” Q points his finger at Crowley, frown deepening. He miracles his hat away, cradles his chin. “Now, we worked together a long time ago, didn’t we?”

That makes Aziraphale stare back at Crowley.

There’s some hesitance. “Oh. Sure, probably. Long time ago, now, wasn’t it? Who knows. Worked with lots of people.”

“No, no, no -- we did a lot of creating with each other. Some fun messing around you know?”

“Er. Not sure. Might have a different person in mind--”

And then those eyes widen. A wicked grin on his face, and Aziraphale can only imagine that this Q must be a demon.

That’s when Aziraphale finds himself standing on the bridge of the Enterprise. Jean-Luc Picard looking up at them despairingly, whilst the rest of his crew work as diligently as they can with a quartet serenading them. Data, notably, is working with the utmost focus, whilst Wharf looks like he’s two seconds away from ripping something in half bare-handed. Riker looks no more patient.

“Oh,” Aziraphale remarks. “You’ve -- you miracled us here!”

No use, Q is far too preoccupied by Crowley. Pointing a finger in recognition. “You’re Crawly! I remember you! Oh, we got up to some good stuff together, huh? It’s been a long time since I’ve seen any of the guys from the Milky Way neighbourhood. You guys really like to keep to yourselves, I never understood it. Totally obsessed with your ‘Eden’ as if the rest of us don’t exist.”

“You o know him,” Picard says with some accusation.

Crowley looks, to put it lightly, a little embarrassed. Hands sliding in his pockets and averting his snake-eyed gaze, “Yup. Long time ago. Hung out with a different crowd, then, you got to understand…”

“Qasphiel.” The name bubbles up on Aziraphale’s tongue from nowhere; memories of a gaggle of angels who called themselves the Q Continuum, who were cast out for blasphemy. Creating your own little gang was never something that The Almighty did like. “You’re Qasphiel. You know, I do remember you, now that I think about it.”

Q looks Aziraphale up and down once. “I don’t remember you. Were you one of the more straight-laced types? Yeah, we wouldn’t have hung out, much.”

“Excuse me? I… I’ll have you know, that since then I’ve become quite the rebel--”

“What’re you doing here, Qasphiel?” Crowley interrupts with some exhaustion. “Coming in here and getting on everyone’s nerves -- believe me, I get that it’s fun for a while, but, come on. You must be a bit knackered of it now, no matter what the others are getting you to do.”

“Ah, but I don’t work on anyone’s terms any more. Not even the Continuum’s,” Q smiles smugly.

“That’s awfully nice, but the alternative is buggering off, so the rest of us can get on with our lives.”

He narrows his eyes at Crowley. “What’s in it for me?”

A weary sigh. And Aziraphale considers just how kind Crowley has always been, even if he doesn’t always see it. “Listen. How about -- what about a catch-up. Grab a drink on some planet in the Omicron Delta quadrant. Talk about old times? Big Bang and all that?”

“Ah yes,” Q sighs. Then, apparently distracted, “You know, I don’t recall the yellow eyes,” he gestures to his own. “The demonic thing. Did you fall with Lucy and the others, Crawly? Bad luck.”

“That’s a story that needs telling over a drink.”

There’s a long moment -- too long a moment -- where Q considers this offer. Picard is leaning back in his seat and watching the interaction over steepled fingers. Even Data has stopped to listen, head tilted in interest.

Then, Q shrugs.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

And with that, Picard’s bridge is once again empty of divine or immortal beings. Or barbershop quartets. It is extraordinarily quiet.

Picard lets out a long exhale. “Never a dull day.”

 Stardate: unknown

Three suns set upon the horizon of Alpha Centauri. Palm trees wave in the breeze; planted there a few decades ago when this planet first became populated by humanoid species. The air tastes like salt and smells like ozone. A burning orange sky, a deep purple scattering of stars directly above them. Small, clay houses, their shutters closed in the late afternoon heat. Mountain ranges in the distance, seeming so small from their little balcony.

“Total tourist trap,” Crowley mutters into his glass of Romulan ale.

Aziraphale stifles a burp. “Sorry?”

“Look at it. Tourist trap.” Crowley crosses his legs on the railing of the balcony. “All of it. Built like a Terran city, as well. Palm trees and all that bollocks. Shops and restaurants, Christ, it couldn’t get more human if you tried. When will they stop colonising and just learn to appreciate?”

“Mmm.”

“Remember when we could come here and not be harassed by people selling sunglasses? When it was just a big, ol’ expanse?”

“Empty,” Aziraphale remarks. Then, wide eyed, “Hot.”

They watch the first sun dip behind the mountain ranges. The Romulan ale burns Crowley’s throat nicely.

“D’you ever wonder what it would’ve been like?”

Aziraphale takes a slow, indulgent breath. And Crowley knows that he understands what he’s asking. “Sometimes. But I think it’s better that we didn’t run away. We did save the universe, after all.”

“I know, obviously. But do you ever wonder what would have happened if we hadn’t?”

Of course he does. They both have. Images of a war-torn universe, of all of this: gone.

Crowley drops his hand, finds Aziraphale’s. Their fingers link, and they absorb the light of three, alien stars.

[sambergscott]

a valentine’s surprise

Summary: Cheddar had passed the gem stones, they had been sterilised (twice!) and everyone is usually too loved up, or sad, to be out committing crimes, making Valentine’s the perfect holiday for a heist. Except when you had plans that will have to be cancelled. At the end of the day, Jake makes it up to his wife.

(spoilers for season 7 episode 11)

Her Valentine’s starts pretty great, her husband treating her to coffee, heart-shaped pancakes and a card that reads I’m going to make you moan like Myrtle.

(Despite the message on the front, there is a very sweet paragraph inside about how much he loves her and how smart and pretty she is and about how she makes him feel good about the world and his place in it. When she gets to the sentence about how difficult the last few months have been, he thanks her, says that he couldn’t have gone through it with anyone else and reminds her that they are a family - no matter what).

He proudly displays his card from her (a drawing of Hans Gruber falling from Nakatomi Plaza with the words I’ve fallen for you) on his nightstand and lays out his elaborate plans for the rest of the day: quick stop at home after work to shower and change, dinner at a fancy Manhattan restaurant and then, when they’re a little wine drunk and their inhibitions are lowered, salsa dancing.

She pops a piece of pancake in her mouth, chewing slowly as she debates the pros and cons of telling him they can’t do any of that. He will be crushed. He made the reservations last year, added it to their joint calendar and sticks new post-its on the fridge daily counting down to the Valentine’s Day Of The Century. They clearly both need the distraction from eating healthily and monitoring temperature and overly scheduled sex and referring to said sex as uterine deposits and doctor’s appointments, fertility drugs, negative test after negative test and questions from everyone they know. But the heist is due to restart today - Cheddar had passed the gem stones, they had been sterilised (twice!) and everyone is usually too loved up, or sad, to be out committing crimes, making it the perfect holiday for a heist.

Except when you had plans that will have to be cancelled.

“I’m sorry, babe,” she apologises after revealing the news, kissing away his disappointed frown. “We can always reschedule. February 15th can be the most romantic day of the year if we want it to be.”

He doesn’t respond, but she recognises the look on his face from when he’s coming up with a backstory for one of his undercover characters or an explanation as to why the dishwasher is overflowing when there are still dirty dishes all over the kitchen. His expression changes, his lips twisting into a smile, his eyes sparkling - he has a solution.

“What is it, Jake?” She deadpans.

“Surprise,” is his only answer as he wolfs the rest of his pancakes and asks her to shower with him.

Thank God she washed her hair last night otherwise they would’ve most certainly been late to work.

“Morning lovebirds,” Charles says in a singsong voice as soon as the elevator doors open, firing a million questions at them about what they bought each other, how the pancakes tasted (he must’ve got lessons from Charles, which makes the gesture that much sweeter) and whether they’ve already conceived a Valentine’s baby from their love.

Rosa punches him in the arm for them as she walks past.

Of all days to be handcuffed to her husband’s best friend, it had to be Valentine’s Day.

She learns way too many disgusting details about his sex life; he lists the sexiest restaurants in New York from A-Z (his personal favourite is Dining in the Dark that just opened in Parkslope, the blindfolds enhancing all the senses, he explains with a smirk), recommends the best foods to eat off a lover’s body and reads all his texts to Genevieve OUT. LOUD.

Amy shudders at their increasingly gross pet names, trying to focus her attention on Jake from across the bullpen. He’s kept coy about what he has planned for her, her only clue that it will be “hella romantic.”

(She read his lips).

Charles puts his phone away (thank God, she was moments from pulling a Terry and crushing the thing with her bare hands) and they go over their plan once more. Jake and Holt will argue, thanks to her excellent idea to rig the teams, they will mess up and Charles will use his dainty fingers to steal the gems from Bill’s pocket.

Then there are flowers everywhere, the precinct filled with the sweet scent of a billion roses, and in the chaos Scully steals (and swallows) the damn gems.

They end up back at Cheddar’s vet because all the emergency rooms are filled with skeletons and clowns and Harley Quinns having their stomachs pumped and apparently Scully’s body resembles closer to that of a human-sized giraffe with his big ol’ heart and leathery skin than a human-human. The vet reveals the gems are indeed inside of him and the heist is postponed until Easter.

“Hey,” Jake says, grabbing her hand to hold her back as everyone else leaves the surgery. “We’re friends again, right?”

“Yes, babe,” she assures him. Kylie thinks it’s weird how they can go from trash talking back to “babe” and heart eyes with the flick of a switch, but that’s just the way they’ve always been. They’re competitive. They will do anything to win. And they love each other. “Best friends.”

“Awesome,” he grins.

“So, best friend, what do we do now?”

He feigns ignorance. “What do you mean?”

“What’s your big Valentine’s Day surprise? I know you have one.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Ames. We’ve missed our reservation. I just need to go back to work to pick up my bag.”

“Mm-hmm. Sure.” She eyes him suspiciously, following him to the parking lot and their car and laughing when he turns on a playlist of the Most Romantic Taylor Swift Songs for the drive back to the precinct.

She plays along, acts like nothing is happening, like she doesn’t see the nervous tapping of his hand against the steering wheel or the constant lighting up of his phone with new encrypted messages. He’s even changed his passcode from their wedding date so she can’t unlock it.

When they get to the Nine-Nine, all the Valentine’s decorations have gone, probably removed by the night shift detectives who cannot stand their day shift counterparts, and Jake leads her to the evidence lock-up.

Her thoughts inevitably drift to HalloVeen, to becoming a two time champ and Jake Peralta’s fiancée. To the way he told her to “read the inscription on that there belt”, the way he was already down on one knee when she realised what was happening, the way he smiled when he managed to surprise her. To his heart eyes as he listed the things he loves about her and slid on the ring and kissed her in a way he’d never kissed her before.

She doesn’t know how anyone can argue anything other than her winning that day.

He opens the door and there are hearts everywhere, all the flowers from the delivery guys, a table and two chairs constructed from evidence boxes, a bottle of pinot gris and a take-out bag from her favourite Polish place.

She’s speechless.

“I got Bill to set it up,” he explains, fiddling with his police badge. “I figured if we couldn’t make it to the fancy restaurant, I’d bring the fancy restaurant to you. Kind of. I mean, it’s still a police precinct and the floor is kind of sticky and we’re surrounded by evidence from murder cases, but-.”

She cuts him off with a kiss. “Babe, it’s perfect.”

“Really?”

“Really. It’s so romantic. And this is kind of our place, right? Where we had our first for realz kiss, where we got engaged.” She pauses. “Also the flowers really mask the bad smell.”

He breaks into laughter, shaking his head. “I love you so much.”

“I love you so much, too,” she replies. “Now can we eat? I had to listen to Charles talk about food all day and I’m starving.”

“Of course, m’lady.” He pulls out a “chair”, ever the gentleman, and kisses the top of her head before sitting on his own stack of boxes. He pours the wine into their NYPD mugs and holds his up in the air. “To us, to Fake Charles, to pierogis.”

“To pierogis,” she cheers, clinking their mugs together.

(And, for the record, when they get home, he sticks to his card’s promise, a very happy ending to Valentine’s Day indeed).

[ethelphantom]

Into the... Wait, we’re all what now?

As it turns out, I’m horrible at keeping things as one-shots, so now you’re getting a continuation of the fic in which Mari falls into the DC verse. Using Maribat March is definitely a wonderful way to continue these things. Also, yes, this means you can ask to be tagged to the story from now on. There is at least one more thing to write about this if not more.

Ao3 || first part

This is Maribat -- don’t like; don’t read

______________________________

It was way too late to be up and awake but apparently, that was precisely what Marinette was anyway. Sighing, she pushed the covers aside, slipped on a pair of fluffy socks and made her way to the kitchen through the seemingly endless halls of the Wayne Manor.

As she got into the kitchen, she checked the clock from the microwave oven. It was only 3.29 am. Damn it. She hated the fact she couldn’t sleep. She also hated the fact they hadn’t yet figured out a way back to her own world. The Amazons didn’t know anything about the miraculous — her own world was a cartoon in their world, it turned out, and she kind of knew her partner’s identity, as well as Papillon’s and Mayura’s identities, which, poor Chaton. Hopefully, the Parisians were doing fine without her there to capture and purify the Akuma —, though Wonder Woman had said she could still try to look further into it.

She was glad that Diana had promised to do that because Marinette really would have preferred to be home, especially since speaking English all the time got very tiring. There weren't many people she could speak French with, not really. Dick knew some French, Bruce could speak French, and Tim was able to hold up a simple conversation for a while, but it... It wasn't really enough.

It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy being with the Wayne family, no. She loved the family and kind of considered them her other family aside from her Maman and Papa. She’d even been officially adopted to the family in their world’s eyes so it wouldn’t confuse anyone as to why a random girl suddenly hung out with them without dating any of them. It had been Tim’s idea, Bruce had decided it was a good one, and then they’d asked Marinette if that was something she was okay with. She was. It wasn’t like her family was in this world or universe anyway, and it was nice to know she belonged somewhere. Besides, she fit the pattern — black hair, blue eyes. The only ones who didn't have both but had black hair anyway were Cass and Damian, really.

It was a little amusing that the only one who was actually related to Bruce looked like him the least if they ignored his facial structure.

Quietly, she tiptoed around the kitchen, having already given up on the idea of sleep at this point. She made night snacks for herself and poured herself a cup of coffee, sighing happily as she inhaled the bitter smell of it. The coffee was scalding hot as she took a sip — just how she liked it. The drink warmed her hands as she held the cup which was nice, seeing as the Manor was rather cold at night.

Marinette settled herself at the small table in the kitchen that was mostly meant for anyone who really, really didn’t want to eat with the rest of the family and opened her phone, meaning to go through her Tumblr feed and maybe watch Netflix. She'd even been ready to just start watching a new show when she was interrupted.

What caused the interruption was someone trying to get a mug out of the cupboard quietly and instead dropping one on the ground. Thank god it was the sole plastic mug in the entire manor, so nothing broke.

Marinette turned to look at the source of the voice and found Tim staring at the ground with what looked like grief in the dim light of her phone. She would’ve understood if there was coffee or if it had been Tim’s favourite mug (as that one could be broken — Jay had threatened to do it once or twice by now, actually), but no. Nothing was broken, nothing had spilt on the ground, nothing needed to be cleaned up.

So what was it?

When Marinette raised her eyebrow at Tim as he finally looked at her, Tim just sighed and shook his head. “‘S nothing, Nette, don’t worry ‘bout it,” he told her, crouching to pick up the mug. “Haven’t slept much, nothing more than that. I thought there had been coffee for a second.”

Marinette nodded, understanding what he was on about, and continued reading. It was only when Tim dropped down on the chair in front of her that she paid attention to him again. He had his laptop out and was frowning at his screen.

“A case?”

“Yeah. A series of murders, three robbed stores, riddles and a string of witnesses that refuse to say anything kind of scream multiple of our villains, and I’m not sure who to investigate first, or if it was a collective effort of theirs, or if someone is impersonating them and trying to frame all of them. None of them has claimed the crimes either, which is a little unusual and a lot disturbing,” he told her and turned the screen around for her to see. Indeed, there was a list of possible culprits and the chance of an unknown and the details of the crime.

“I can see why this is troubling you,” Marinette sighed and turned her eyes from the screen back to Tim again. “I cannot believe I’m suggesting this, but what if you slept and then looked at it again? I know you tend to try solving problems even in your dreams, so there’s that as well, but also your brain might want to brain better after sleeping.”

It took her a moment before she realised what she said, but when she did, she groaned and rubbed her hand on her face. “I can’t believe I just used a noun as a verb. Please kill me or knock me out so I could sleep.”

Tim just laughed at her. That asshole.

“What are you two doin’, drinkin’ coffee at this hour?”

Marinette jumped, startled that someone had managed to sneak up on them even in the silence of the night. She turned around to see the slightly glowing eyes of Jason and let out a sigh of relief, bringing a hand to her hear. “God, Jay, you scared me. A guy your size shouldn’t be allowed to move so quietly,” she whined and let her forehead hit the table. Jason only barely managed to snatch her cup away from her way so it wouldn’t fall down and that all her coffee wouldn’t end up on the floor.

She murmured her thanks into the table as Jason patted her head, laughing at her quietly. She would kick his ass in the morning for that. Maybe. After all, he had just saved her coffee.

This time, Marinette noticed when someone entered. She couldn’t bother to turn her head to look at them, though. They would make themselves known to the rest of them soon enough.

No, actually. There were two people. One of them had a very soft walk, barely audible, but now that Marinette was listening, she was able to find it. A hand touched her hair, gently pushing it away from her eyes and tucking it behind her ear. When Marinette looked up, just a little, she found the dark eyes of Cass staring at her. Marinette gave her a weak smile in return.

They don’t talk, not really. The time passed by as Cass just sat on the floor next to Marinette, Tim tried to solve his case, and Jason and Dick were talking (or fighting) about something in hushed voices again. None of the others, except for Cass, obviously, because she noticed everything, paid attention to the small frame that appeared in the doorway. Marinette did. She stood up, stretched and walked to Damian.

She didn’t touch him. She wasn’t sure if it was okay right now. Instead, she watched for any signs of what had happened, or reactions to anyone in the kitchen. Nothing. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Damian shook his head. “No. It was merely an unfortunately timed nightmare, I can survive.”

“I know you can. You’re strong like that. It just doesn’t mean you have to survive on your own, alone. It’s also a strength to recognise when you—,” Marinette yawned. She hadn’t slept in a too long time. “—When you need others for support.”

When Damian lingered in the doorway a little too long, his eyes going between the floor and Marinette. Marinette just opened her arms and let Damian walk into them before embracing him. “Do you want a hug? I can tell none of them you wanted a hug if that helps. We can also go to the living room if that sounds better?”

Damian nodded. Marinette shot Cass a text to drag the rest of them to the living room in about half an hour with pillows, blankets and mattresses. They all needed sleep, or at least rest, and maybe they could get that in a pillow fort?

The two of them went on ahead, and once they were there, Marinette sat on the couch and waited for Damian to come there with her. He, a little reluctantly and hesitating a lot, took careful steps towards her before he too was sitting on the couch and curling up against Marinette. She smiled and pulled him closer, securing them under a blanket.

Maybe he’d feel safer from the nightmares this way.

About half an hour later (though both Damian and Marinette had dosed off already), the rest of the family made their way to the living room, everything Marinette had asked from Cass with them. They built a pillow fort for them as quietly as possible, one of them always watching over Damian and Marinette so to make sure they didn’t wake up. Heavens knew both of them needed the sleep, and they didn’t want to try their luck and see if they would fall asleep again.

After it was done, Jason picked Marinette up in his arms as Dick carried Damian in his, and carefully laid them down on the mattresses before tucking both in. Tim and Cass curled up the closest to the two, Jason and Dick surrounding the smallest four of them the last. It was comfortable and much warmer than it usually was in the house, six bodies all huddled close.

Aside from how none of them knew how to not sprawl over everyone else, it was the most peaceful and well slept night any of them had had in years.

________________________

@kris-pines04 @thethirdwheelfriend @maribat-is-lifeblood @abrx2002 @persephonebutkore @rebecarojas07 @corabeth11 @kadmeread @silverwhiteraven @marinettepotterandplagg @freshbark @maribat-march2020 @catsandfanfic @fertileleaf @eat0crow @cutechip

[sheyshen]

I dug out what I had started so far on the shan trio coffee shop au, still seriously debating on working on it more again. Lemme know what you guys think!  :D

-

It was busy as usual in the shop, customers coming and going since the doors had opened. Kara recognised a few of them, her regulars who always ordered the same coffee and breakfast muffin, the same ham sandwich with extra swiss, the latte with extra espresso to go. The hustle and bustle at the small coffee shop known as Port Nowhere was commonplace, they were well known for their talented baristas and friendly staff.

Kara strode from table to table, dropping off orders and taking a chance to move around while Risha took over the register for a while. She saved the last mug for a regular who she’s come to consider her favorite.

Heading to a table in the corner she slid over the fresh cup of coffee, extra strong with a little bit of whipped cream along the edge and took the empty one from it’s spot next to the laptop the guest was currently glaring at. Noting the fresh drink he looked up at her, and while he was clearly tired he immediately perked up and smiled at her, thanking her and taking the new cup and sipping at it carefully. She returned the grin and debated on trying to sit and talk for a moment, but that idea was tossed out the window as the next wave of customers came in and she had to hurry and back Risha up at the desk.

She didn’t know anything about the man personally, but from what she could tell he seemed a good sort. Young, around her age, asian, brown hair, brown eyes, hard worker, took his coffee extra strong and had a bit of a sweet tooth. He was a regular who would always come in after 6, set up his laptop at the same table, order the same drinks only under the name ‘Shan’. He keeps to himself, rarely talks to anyone except the kids that get curious to what he’s doing or with Kara herself when making orders and always stays until close.

The main thing she noted was how he'd watch her sometimes when he wasn't grumbling at his laptop. He would look away quickly if she made eye contact with him, but otherwise seemed content to just watch. On occasion he would begin to say something when she would bring him a refill but he never seemed to be able to find anything to say except "thank you".

Kara had had plenty of creeps that would hang around the store, would sit and watch her or Risha while they worked, but they rarely ordered anything, just watched. It was enough that she had started keeping a knife on her just in case.

But with this one, mr. Shan as they had started to call him, seemed more unsure of what to say at this point. He had been coming to the shop every work day for months now, sitting in the same spot, working on his laptop the whole time, and then heading home. She supposed that it might be odd to try and start a conversation after that long.

Not that she could worry about that at the moment with the sudden influx of people who were lined up. So when she noticed him watching again she gave him a smile and a wink, chuckling to herself at the look of surprise on his face before he quickly turned his attention back to his laptop. Kara counted herself lucky that he was handsome.

Two weeks later it was a madhouse, there was a holiday and most of the offices around town were closing early to celebrate. But for a place like port nowhere it was absolutely packed. Parents wrangling kids, couples hanging on each other and flirting in the most annoying ways while ordering, older folks just passing through. And of course her regulars were there.

She thanked her luck that Corso had offered to take her sons to the parade so she could focus on the task at hand. And what a task it was, she thought as she hurried from table to table, bringing out mugs of coffees of varying types and sizes to a dozen different tables.

She spotted her favorite in his usual corner, watching her with what looked like concern on his face. But she didn't have time to worry about that at the moment as the sound of a plate breaking had her scrambling for the broom.

Fake smile on her face she cleaned up the mess, and turned, nearly running into a guest.

"Oh! I'm so sorry." She said as she went around them to throw away the shards of ceramic.

"It's fine, very busy today."

Apparently he had followed her, "yea well, the lights festival is tonight so no surprise." After dumping the pieces in the trash she turned to face the speaker. "Is there something you…" she hadn't realized it had been her favorite, hadn't even seen him move in the time it had taken to get the broom and sweep up. "Need?"

He stood there his face serious, but a little unsure, like he didn't plan this through entirely.

"Can i help?"

She was surprised at the request, especially since this was the first time they had truly spoken. He was there often and if he paid attention to what she was doing all those times he watched her, he should be able to at least take out orders.

She debated on telling him they had it handled, but a shout from Risha made her rethink that. "Sure. Yeah, we could use the help with corso out right now." His face seemed to light up at that. "Here, you can put your things in a locker," she said as she led him to the backroom. When he locked his things in she handed him a hat with the shop's logo on it and led him back to the front. "Have you worked in a coffee shop before?"

He shook his head earning a tired sigh in response. He had watched her a while, something about her caught his attention when he had first come to this place months ago, and while it was somewhat out of the way, getting to see her was worth the extra travel time. Though he currently cursed himself for having not tried talking to her sooner, he couldn't sit by while they were overwhelmed. "I did help out with a restaurant a while back, taking orders mostly."

"Good, then you can help Risha." She paused a moment, "I'm Kara, by the way."

"Theron." He couldn't help but smile even as he walked into hell.

[spikeymarshmallows]

Kliego, “Come on, sweetheart. We can’t stay here any longer.”

Thank you for the prompt, anon!

Sorry it took me a while to post this. I wanted to post the “main fic”, as it were before I did. [read this on ao3 if that is your preferred medium!]

Prompt post here. [*screams at how the formatting on this KEEPS FUCKING UP*]

Reality wasn't quite… real. Or was it? He didn't know. He felt like he was a few inches to the left of his body, in it, but not quite in it at the same time.

He didn't know how much of that was grief, and how much of that was the ketamine.

He slumped to the floor and lay there for a moment. It might have been longer, but who was to say?

Eventually, he managed to push himself up, surprising himself when he even got to his feet. Being upright lasted approximately three seconds before he stumbled, knocking a multitude of objects off the bookshelf that his hand shot out to brace himself with. He vaguely recognised that his knees would be sore when he could next feel things, but for now, the sensation was dulled.

Good.

That was the point.

He crawled up onto his bed, head spinning wildly. He ceiling above him looked circular. He giggled and tried to breathe through his nose to stave off the light-headedness.

It worked as long as he kept his eyes closed.

He was vaguely aware of his father coming in, but he didn't know how much time had passed. When his father scolded him, the words came through fuzzy, and delayed, and Klaus couldn't quite make sense of them. He nearly vomited when he was dragged out of bed, and he stumbled into things as he was pulled through the halls.

There was something about proper motivation to make his powers work now. Klaus knew it should infuriate him, but he mostly felt numb.

At least the mausoleum was cold against his feverish skin.

*

He wasn't sure how long he was in the crypt. Time had always been a bit of an abstract concept to Klaus, and this was no exception. He just knew it was dark when he'd been thrown in, and it was dark when he was pulled out.

Oh, and he was so very, very in the depths of withdrawal.

When it became apparent he couldn't stand, Father disappeared, and Klaus didn't even have it in him to plead not to leave him there.

The next time Father reappeared, it was with Luther. Klaus was almost as tall as Luther, but Luther had his oh-so-special powers. Luther scooped him up, weirdly gentle with him in a way he'd never been before.

There was jostling, and too much movement, but he was eventually settled down on his bed. After their father stormed out, Luther brushed the matted hair off Klaus' forehead. He grabbed a blanket from the end of the bed and tucked it over Klaus.

In the darkness, Klaus could kind of make out a look that was eerily like concern. Klaus didn't know what to do with that, so he didn't acknowledge it.

"Take care," Luther said softly, glancing back towards the open door. "I've already lost one brother this week. I don't want to lose another." He nodded sharply to himself and then scurried from the room, as if showing any hint of kindness would be an excuse for punishment.

Actually, knowing their father, that was exactly what would happen.

*

Klaus couldn't sleep. He was so fucking nauseated but he couldn't get out of bed. Every time he tried to move, the world tilted.

He heard the door to his bedroom open and the next thing he registered was Diego kneeling beside his bed. His face was close to Klaus', but he had trouble making it out in the darkness.

"Jesus, Klaus," Diego whispered.

Klaus tried to say something, but his voice came out a rasp.

"Come on, sweetheart," Diego said gruffly, hand a vice grip around Klaus' upper arm as he helped Klaus to sit up, "we can't stay here any longer."

"Where are we going?" Klaus asked, torn between finding the touch agonising and comforting. He shuddered and slumped down to the floor.

"Doesn't matter. Just. Not here. We're not staying here."

Klaus whimpered and nodded. His head felt like it was going to explode, weird pressure pushing from the inside out.

He wobbled again and groped around for something to be sick in. Diego must have been able to read his mind because the next second, there was a wastepaper basket in front of him while he emptied the contents of his insides into it. He was dehydrated and hadn't eaten in… Well, he didn't know how long. It was agonising to vomit up nothing but bile; maybe that was just the withdrawal.

Diego was stroking the back of his head and neck, hand blistering hot.

"I…" Diego stood. He disappeared but Klaus wasn't quite sure whether it was only for a moment or a lifetime. When he returned, he knelt in front of Klaus. Klaus blinked up at him, moaning when the world tilted.

He felt Diego's hands on his, wrapping around them and holding them around a cool mug. Diego let go of one hand but it shot back over Klaus' when it became apparent he couldn't really hold it. He helped Klaus take little sips of water, just a few mouthfuls before he set it down again. Klaus couldn't really make out Diego's face in the darkness, but he felt Diego's hands brush the hair off his forehead. Klaus lay his head back against the edge of the bed.

"Just stay there…" Diego told him, as if Klaus was in any position to move right now. Diego was moving around the room quickly so Klaus had to shut his eyes against the nausea that accompanied following him. He was suddenly so very, very cold, and began to shiver, even though he was sweating like a sinner in church.

There was faint clattering as Diego grabbed things and Klaus belatedly realised Diego was packing a bag on the bed above him.

"What… are you doing?" Klaus asked blinking slowly up at him.

"Packing," Diego said shortly.

"Oh. Where are we going?"

"We're getting out of here."

"Oh. Okay then." Klaus closed his eyes and rested his head back on the bed again. Diego knelt beside him again and helped him take a few more sips of water. Klaus drank it gratefully. He wanted more but figured that Diego didn't want him to vomit it back up.

"Just. Just stay here, okay?"

"Oh, I was planning on running a marathon, but now that you've told me that," Klaus said as drily as he could.

"Glad to hear you're feeling better," Diego said and even though Klaus couldn't see it, he knew Diego was rolling his eyes.

He disappeared from Klaus' room, but Klaus couldn't hear him. Of all of them, Diego was best at moving silently. Klaus, when he could be bothered, was a close second.

He found enough strength to lift the water to his mouth again, and was glad it didn't revisit him.

Diego returned at some point. He hoisted Klaus onto his feet. Klaus lurched and made to be sick into the bin again. He vomited up the water he'd managed, and shuddered again.

"Sorry," Diego said softly. "Do you… Do you think you can walk?"

"I dunno," Klaus said wetly. "Can't we… do it another night? Dad's still gonna be a prick in the morning."

"Can't wait until morning."

"Why not?"

"Because I stole a couple'a grand from Dad's office, plus some shit to pawn, and a few of his credit cards."

"Well, Diego, I'm impressed," Klaus managed.

"Didn't realise you'd be quite in this state when you returned though."

"Rookie error, Number Two."

Klaus pushed himself up with both hands on the bed to balance him. He stood on both feet, swayed, and leant into Diego. Diego wrapped an arm around his waist to help steady him.

"Just… Try not to be sick, and keep quiet, okay?" Diego said. Klaus nodded. Diego shifted abruptly, which almost set Klaus off again, but he realised he was just shouldering the bag on Klaus' bed. Klaus realised he had one of his own already. He would have felt guilty were he not feeling like death warmed up. Well, warmed up was a strong word for it given he felt like his veins were filled with chips of ice.

Diego navigated them through the hallways. They had to stop and let Klaus breathe a few times, let him stave off the nausea. Klaus braced himself against the walls, clutched the bannister down the stairs like a lifeline.

By some miracle they didn't encounter anyone on the way out. It made sense; Diego was planning this, and it was 3am. Diego wouldn't have tried to sneak them out if there was considerable risk of them getting caught.

The outside world was cool, but almost warm against Klaus' icy skin. Diego kept them walking until he managed to hail a cab. Klaus tucked his face into Diego's neck in the back of the cab, letting his eyes close. His head was throbbing, and he couldn't stop shivering. Diego kept stroking his hair, and if Klaus didn't know any better, he'd say Diego pressed a few kisses to his forehead and the top of his head.

Diego let him sit outside in the gutter when they reached a shitty motel somewhere far away. Klaus vaguely recognised it, but he put his head between his knees to keep the flickering neon lights from tormenting his exploding head.

And then there were steady hands peeling his damp clothes from his body. There was a shower. Diego helped him sit under the blistering water, and when he no longer felt like he'd slipped through a frozen lake, he was brought to a musty old bed and tucked under blankets.

"There's water here, and a bin here if you need it," Diego said, brushing Klaus' wet hair off his face. Klaus could scarcely keep his eyes open. He nodded.

"I'm going out for a bit, but I'll be back soon."

Klaus had a thousand questions, but he was too tired to ask them. Instead, he nodded again, felt warm fingers on his forehead again, and then heard the quiet sound of a door shutting.

Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he could see Ben, sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed.

Klaus squeezed his eyes shut against the stinging and even though it made him sick, even though he fought it, he convulsed with a sob. He curled around a thin pillow, and buried his head in it.

And he didn't cry.