#he’s very well made too!! a lot less lumpy than i thought he would be

[chipsoda]

GOT HIS ASS!!!

i’ve also gleefully discovered that his little propeller spins in the wind. and it’s adorable

[ronniescribbles]

Tiny CuRickosity (Wonder Day)

Flesh Curtains!Rick Sanchez x Little!Reader

Rainbow Week 2022 (created by @whimsycreator)

629 Words 

“The world is filled with wonder and beauty. Life is mysterious.” – After a long night of performing, Rick shows you how he truly feels about your regression.

You can read it on AO3 here!

A/N: Day 3 of Rainbow Week! This is my first time writing for Rick, so I may have went a little off theme, but I wanted to have extra fun with it💗 p.s. I struggled so hard with this title😭

Rick was exhausted, you could easily see by the bags under his eyes darkening more than usual. A full night of bar shows would do that to you, for sure. He fumbled with his guitar, examining it for marks and scratches. His focus seemed to be on nothing in particular, though, just flipping between channels of distractions. 

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

Moonlight partially illuminated the inside of the tour bus, which was less of a tour bus and more of a dingy, poorly customized, and probably stolen RV. The lumpy seats and rust on the door handles didn't help, either. Though despite how unmanaged the vehicle felt, the scrawny man beside you made it feel like home. 

You, on the other hand, were restless beyond control. Sitting in the green room and waiting for the night to end seemed easy enough, but god if it wasn't the single most uneventful 'job' you could have. Rick always reminded you that you were his good luck charm, and that he enjoyed having you around, but you only got to see him briefly in between breaks. 

You'd stashed some coloring books in your backpack to ease the pang of boredom, knowing that you'd probably slip into headspace if left alone. With all the noise backstage, it was hard to calm down, even with your noise-cancelling headphones. And as always, with your luck, you found yourself pulling out your gear right as the gang barrelled through the door. 

Now, Rick knew of your little side and seemed to approve in some sense of the word, but after a night of performances, it wasn't something you felt comfortable bothering him with. It was easy to unintentionally get on Rick's bad side when he was exhausted; you just didn't want your little self to be too much on him, especially not right now. 

"B-uugh-babe, what are you- why the hell are you staring at me like that?" 

With a few harsh blinks, you realized you'd indeed been looking at Rick this whole time. 

Crap.

"Uh, I don't know, I'm just.. tired. Really tired. Yeah."Very smooth, you scolded yourself, before he had a chance to respond. 

As expected, he cocked half of his unibrow in disbelief, but seemingly shrugged off the urge to press further. 

"Yeah sure, whatever. You're lucky I'm tired. Just- just come here, yeah?" 

Rick lifted his thin arm for you, and without hesitation you slid beside him. It felt nice to let gravity go and feel his warmth next to you. You felt his hand rub your shoulder, the spiked bracelet he donned for shows poking against the fabric of your band tee. 

Rick made you think a lot whenever he was around. Not necessarily in a bad way, just a curiosity that made you wonder about the world in a way you usually didn't. Maybe that's why you found yourself leaning towards your regression more when he was around; he was a smart guy, and in any case, who wouldn't become tiny at the thought of aliens and spaceships and adventures? 

"Uh.. Rick?" You peeped, trying to disguise your big voice's faltering. 

He made a short noise in response. 

"Can's you..," you sighed, trying again, "can you talk about the planets you've been to?" You pouted at your growing inability to stay big. 

Rick chuckled to himself. 

"Well, uh, I remember that one time we played at Buttworld  – they go-ughh-gotta whole lotta butts there." 

True to your little nature, the word "butt" sent you into a fit of giggles. 

"I knew that'd get you," Rick smirked. "Y'know, you really don't have to hide that sh..shtuff around me. I mean, really, do you know how much I've seen in space?" 

Maybe you didn't have to worry about being a bother around Rick, after all.

[ndantalion]

The Third Animal

Back home every year on the Fourth of July the library put out this massive carnival. Well, it wasn’t really massive, but it was the largest I’d seen as a kid, with real electronic rides.

The library grounds were kind of weird. The building itself is this pyramid at the top of a hill. The terrain is all uneven around it, so that the shiny gold—it’s gold, too—cuts into the ground sometimes a floor apart in different places, and gives the impression that it just keeps going and going. Down to the bottom of the hill, at least. Maybe even further.

But it just stops there, I think, at the lowest point you can see, or maybe there’s a couple inches for utilities. Me and some friends snuck in there in high school and couldn’t find any trace of a basement. The stairs only went up.

But the grounds, right, they had all these weird sculptures up to the top of the hill with the pyramid, which was itself oriented so that the sun lit up a full side on noon one day of the year. It was the summer solstice or the Fourth, I kind of forget. You’d think I’d remember, since I was there every year.

This particular year I was by this ride, which used to be my favorite. It had these sort of glider-shaped harnesses you strapped into and—once the attendant checked you were secure—the wheel of the machine tilted up and swung you gracefully in circles, up and down. And from the high part of the glide you could see the statues—wait, I should explain the statues.

So the statues are—they’re gold like the building, but less shiny, and made out of these lumpy sorts of panels dangling from thin wires that are crafted to look like two different animals. What I mean is, from most angles they look kind of like abstract blobs, but they’re arranged so that from one very specific angle you see—for instance—a wolf, and from another, a rabbit (they were all predator and prey). And people always commented on how the panels had width, too, sometimes in weird places. So maybe there’s a third animal there, only visible from above or below. I should point out these things are huge, like two humans tall at least, so it’s not something you’d see easily.

But I’d look out for them from the top of this glider ride, you see. I came back every year, even, as if growing taller would somehow help. I did start to think about, after predator and prey, what came next? I learned about microbes when I was like twelve and thought, well, maybe I’ve already seen the third animal, and it was just something unrecognizable.

So I was by—okay, I’ll admit, I was on this ride, even though I was fourteen and one year past definitely too old for this and the ride—the whole fair really—was starting to seem a lot smaller than when I was a kid. And I saw some paint on the top of one of the animals and when I hit the right angle it morphed into my name.

Except as we all know, I’m a John, and so are like half the people I know, even my best friend at the time. So I don’t get too excited. Next I see a heart and I get ready for the girl’s name, Lisa or Suzy or something, but it’s also “John.” And that’s when I freaked out a little, because I kind of over-exaggerated, there were only a couple at the school besides us, and they were wildly different grades, and my parents friends didn’t count.

John of course ambushed me the moment I got off the ride, like the tiger he’d written his name on. Except he had candy, which was surprisingly romantic for a fourteen-year-old, and he didn’t eat me, we just called ourselves boyfriends for a few years until eventually we both realized we wanted to go to college single.

It’s pretty awkward though, since we both went to the same school, so nobody around us thought we had any business breaking up. His sister and me were kind of still friends—she has got to be the smartest person I’ve ever met. Their whole family is smart but she is something else. She won the school spelling bee every year it happened and spelling wasn’t even her thing. I always thought she knew what the third animals were, that she could derive it from some theorem or whatever it is they teach you in advanced math.

Anyways I stopped by right at the end of summer as I was going away and their parents basically trapped me into staying for dinner. They sat us down and explained to both of us how love isn’t a sparkling, shining thing forever, not without grueling effort. And the Dad looked way more passionate about how damn hard everything was than their Mom was, and every time she interjected about how maybe it wasn’t so bad he’d basically cut her off. It really didn’t have the effect of making me want to stay with their son or in general be a part of their family ever.

Except for the one thing I learned later, which is that someone told me after-the-fact that they’re big library donors—not his parents but his grandparents—and if we had just asked nicely we might have gotten the key to the top of the pyramid. That’s where I think the third animals are visible from. You see, all the other ones have certain points where the surrounding animals—predator or prey—all come into view at once. It just makes sense it’s somewhere high, but reachable, right? I tried to look at it top down once but it gets blurred out on maps, and my town has some ordinance against flying drones.

Maybe they know a bit more about the library too—for some reason, whenever I tell this story, someone asks. But I don’t think there’s much to know. It’s just a public library.

Except the whole point of this is what I saw after the John hearts John, and I almost missed it in the panic. Out of the top of the pyramid, which I was just below level with, someone was waving an American flag, and the hand—the whole arm, as far as I could tell—was honest-to-God green.

[theveryworstthing]

So over on patreon Trevor asked for my take on the Addams Family and I grew up LOVING the Addams family movies so here we are. Instead of doing a straight up style interpretation, I decided to do a full on design challenge, using the characters as bases to make a black southern gothic Addams au. I actually drew the kids first, using the character bases of Wednesday and Pugsley to create some delightful kiddos I'm calling Sunday and Blanche. I of course then redesigned Gomez and Morticia into Carlisle and Mortesha.

The Addams have a very specific high aristocratic goth aesthetic (they've got a butler and nobody really works among other things) so in this re-imagining I wanted to go with vibes that run a little more middle class/upper middle class.  I thought it would be interesting to think about what would be considered weird and off-putting in an entirely different culture, and how being a big ol' goth is way less controversial than it used to be.

I tried to keep this short (HAHAHAHAHAHA) so I didn't spin off into an essay about villain coded families, black people in the horror genre, and normalcy as it pertains to social survival, but just...bits of that are in these designs and lore. Keep that in mind.

Also I made the kids twins because they've flip flopped in age so much in different media and also twins run in my family (i'm the daughter of one). And let's face it, I'm pulling a lot of their southern gothic traits from living as a southern goth so *shrug*.

10 thousand pounds of lore incoming loooooooooool.

The Parents

From the moment he saw her he knew that there was a 50/50 chance of him either never making it out of that swamp alive or marrying the figure that was creeping out from under the distant willow tree in a black cocktail dress. The third time she found him trussed up in one of her traps, he complimented her rope work and asked if she'd like to go out sometime after his head wound stopped bleeding.

Or while it was still bleeding.

If she was into that.

Some kids and a mysteriously burnt down Piggly Wiggly later, their love is still as strong and inescapable as a bear trap in a sink hole.

Carlisle Guillermo (now Addams through marriage but I wanted to give him two first names for a name since Gomez has two last names) makes a vaguely described living practicing ‘law’ around town. A loophole king, people come to him from miles around with contracts signed in blood, fights over chunks of hair buried in their rivals’ yard, dehydrated primate hands, memories that seemed like dreams until the evidence of their happenings became too real, and other regular Legal Items asking for counsel which he is all too happy to give. For a price. Sometimes that price is a homemade pie and sometimes it’s a million dollars, depends on who you are. Whatever you’re asked to pay it’s worth that price, and if you try to scam him out of work or he just plain doesn’t like you? Well. He knows how to twist a contract better than anything at the crossroads.

And he always gets his due.

He doesn’t just serve the local (living)humans though, there are many things that need proper legal representation in this day and age. You wouldn’t believe how many city councils try to build on sacred burial grounds even after he lets them know that his ghostly clients are totally gonna haunt the FUCK out of the ensuing shitty condos and curse their families for all eternity. At least 50% of his energy goes towards dealing with real estate bullshit.

Carl is an excitable and good natured(?) man who loves his family, cigars, dancing, and his many knife-based hobbies. People find him very charming once they get past the feeling that they’re talking to a sultry gator badly disguising itself as a human. I didn’t put a ton of deep thought into designing him, mostly I wanted to make a middle aged dude who looked like he would have been voted ‘most likely to smooch the literal devil’ in high school. Tbh he probably has, but no demonic ex’s can compare to his lovely wife~

Mortesha Addams(her name was already perfect so I just tweaked it)is a woman of many talents. A self proclaimed homemaker, she prides herself on a greenhouse full of Concerning Foliage, a beautiful wasp apiary, and a coop full of what are probably chickens that she keeps for what are probably eggs. She’s also an avid creator of the outsider art that can be seen around the estate. She has taken on the family business of selling her homemade goods in a little stall by the road just outside the swamp with her mom, and makes pretty good money doing so. A surprising amount of poison gets bought in quaint southern towns.

Speaking of poison, people who come out to the edge of the swamp to buy it are usually carrying a lot of secrets around, and Mortesha knows most of them. It’s not like she pries the truth out of people, it just so happens that many nervous hellos eventually turn into the tragic backstory power hour if she’s alone with a client for long enough. She supposes that’s just how people are. Despite the fact that the Addams are very active in the community (whether the community likes it or not) she especially, as a direct descendant of the first Addams matriarch, is seen as…Well not an outsider because the community feels A Certain Way about outsiders and despite it all the Addams are their people, but maybe something like an exception. They feel like whatever weirdness they’re hiding can’t be weirder than any given Addams, so they get a little loose with their words.

This is amusing to her, since Addams’ don’t naturally keep the kind dramatic secrets that their surface level prim and proper neighbors do. It’s much more fun to openly talk about those things.

Do they have a sadly decrepit yet terrifying grandma up in the attic? Yeah, like three. They got a tv, all the creepy porcelain dolls they could want, and they’re close to family. Where do you keep your gram-grams?

Any bodies buried on the property? Yeah some, but most are thrown to the gators.

Any creeping through the balmy summer night with ill intentions? Yeah dude, everyone loves a nice family stroll.

What about dangerous forbidden love? If an adult Addams isn’t incorporeal then they’re either queer or in a torrid romance with some person/thing mysteriously drawn to that awful swamp. Sometimes both at the same time. Most times actually.

Mortesha would know.

The current head of the Addams family is just as outgoing as her husband but a lot quieter and harder to read. She never really seems to get mad about much and always has a genteel smile for everyone whether they deserve it or not. A seven foot tall human shaped “Oh, bless your heart”. A perfectly composed Lady even when she’s, oh I dunno, burning down a Piggly Wiggly. You know. A regular southern mom. Chat her up at the hair salon for 50% off a jar of wasp honey with your next purchase of a mysterious but foreboding packet of herbs.

Designing her was pretty easy because I just drew a lankier Grace Jones and called it a day. I had some problems with her outfit simply because if we were going HARD southern gothic then she’d probably be wearing a white/cream dress with a fuller skirt but I thought keeping the silhouette and the black was more important. She’s supposed to be an anti southern gothic southern gothic character anyway. A woman who looks like she has a million secrets who is actually the most open person you could meet. For better or worse. The red hair came from a coloring error that I really ended up liking (my mom had red hair her whole childhood that only darkened up in high school so I can buy that an Addams can be naturally fire engine red) and the veil was to get more of that classic Morticia silhouette in there.

The Children

Sunday and Blanche are the twin children of Carlisle and Mortesha Addams. Some say the Addams clan got their cursed homestead when a wealthy local businessman made a deal with the devil and lost, leaving his grand mansion to his least favorite maid and cutting his losses once he realized that the swamp would do everything it could to drag the house into the water and take what was owed with its horrible curse. Others say that the family has just always squatted there and no one really cares because man, fuck that particular swamp. Have you been in there? Absolute horror show.

Anyway.

Blanche is the more outgoing sibling and quite the engineer/mad scientist in the making. He started going grey at 2 weeks old but considering he was also rocking some extra fingers, toes, and a tiny tail (he takes after his dad), his parents just put it on the 'not life threatening' pile and decided not to worry about it. He's the kind of smart that teachers find utterly infuriating, less a dog eagerly learning and obeying commands and more a hyena who keeps teaching itself how to pick locks. He has a few friends in his school's robotics club (which they honestly allowed him to make so the school could contain his... creations) but mostly hangs out with his sister exploring the swamp. They find all sorts of neat things in there! wedding rings, suspiciously lumpy garbage bags, cloaked cultists who can't read private property signs, it's an adventure every day!

Blanche is all about experimentation with his creations, his look, and his tether to this mortal coil. Is lipstick a cool thing to try? Let's find out. Can he get out of a strait jacket fast enough after being pushed into the depths of the swamp by his sister? let's find out. He's not dead yet and confused local doctors can attest to the fact that he's rarely attained more than a bad bruise so he's pretty set on continuing to kiss rattlesnakes on their cute little heads and have his sister practice her knife throwing at him until that fact changes.

Blanche is very much a country goth. Cowboy boots (customized by his mom), knife, and lighter are daily accessories. He likes to wear the crusty swamp jewelry they find (the rust adds a splash of color!) and despite appearances he does try to keep himself neat. He's just got  natural Grunge Colors and a tendency to wear clothes he likes until they fall apart. Pugsley always seemed the most modernly styled to me (which might just be because little boys clothes have been the same for a long time) so I wanted Blanche to be the most purposely fashionable Addams. Everyone else is goth by nature, but he's the only one truly familiar with goth as an alternative fashion.

I got really into designing Blanche because honestly, I find Pugsley to be the most boring member of the family. And he was hard to design! I had to mess with his vibe a lot to get him looking how I wanted. I know he's supposed to evoke an " 'evil' little boy next door who's parents never reign him in", but that's just goth Dennis The Menace.  I's 2020. We can at least go queer goth Calvin.

Sunday was much easier to design. Wednesday was my favorite as a child (of course) and I really wanted to keep the spirit of her look while adding things like billowy sleeves (it gets HOT down here), big poofy twists instead of braids, and a nice tie. She's a professional after all, been running the local pet cemetery since she was 6 and the previous groundskeeper met with an unfortunate accident after telling her that tarantulas don't have souls. Her specialty is creating beautiful naturalistic animal funerals similar to those that Maquenda (https://linktr.ee/artofmaquenda) makes, and she takes pride in creating miniature dioramas of her subjects after each burial which she uses as a kind of 3D catalog for future clients.

She really wants to try out her skills on humans one day. Well. Publicly try out her skills. Lotta random bodies float into the swamp. None of them have turned down her requests for diorama models so far. Most seem downright flattered. Plus, she usually figures out which graveyard/crime scene they floated over from and gets her parents to give them a lift back. She'll even help enact terrifying revenge from beyond the grave on whoever put them there if she's not, y'know, busy.

Besides arts, crafts, and pet based funerary arrangements, Sunday is an avid lover of archery (any ranged weapon really), books where little fantasy adventure animals die dramatic deaths, and history. She is That Kid who eagerly raises her hand when asked who Christopher Columbus was and ends up being sent out of class after 15 minutes for making 'a scene'. Her favorite party trick is just picking an item in the room and talking about how it relates to either some obscure historical figure with a buck wild life or a horrible disaster. At least one charity pancake breakfast ended with children in tears after her vivid description of the Great Molasses Flood of 1919.

Social-wise, while Wednesday is the girl that people ask to smile because they think she'd, "look so pretty", Sunday is rarely asked anything at all. People just kind of assume from her quiet nature (in between horrible history facts) that she's angry all the time and that she hates everyone. This is untrue. She hates some people but she's ambivalent to most everyone else and even downright friendly if you bother to talk to her like a person instead of a terrifying cryptid. Like, she IS a terrifying cryptid but she's also a little girl.  

That’s about it for now. One day I might do the other family members but for now I’m happy with the four I’ve redesigned. Making an au! Lurch in a family that doesn’t do butlers could be interesting. Over on patreon I put forth that he could just be Motesha’s mute little brother (similar bone structure) but Amy Crook had the nice idea of quote: “ a mysterious "cousin" that "helps around the house" whose origins are both long in the past and faintly unsettling. He's good for lifting heavy things, like that tank of propane you're about to throw into the burning Piggly Wiggly... “ which i now consider canon. Who's kid is he? How old is he? Not important. Anyone willing to commit arson with you is family.

Annnnyway.  This challenge was a lot of fun! I love indulging in AU’s.

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

De Amore

My fic for @aceomenszine is finally available on AO3!

Aziraphale has come to Paris to find the answer to an important question: What's it like to be in love? Crowley's not sure why he wants to know, but he's willing to discuss it to make his angel happy. Full text below!

--

“What’s it like to be in love?”

Crowley stumbled to a stop on the Paris street, glaring at the angel beside him. Aziraphale stared straight ahead, walking with his usual expression: calm, poised, slightly arrogant. As if he were talking about the weather.

“Dunno. S’a human thing, isn’t it?” He scowled at a few gawking peasants, hurrying to catch up. “Romance. Lust. Sex. Nothing to do with us.”

“You could say the same of hunger, or exhaustion, or boredom.”

“Yeah, and I’d be right.” Crowley held out an arm to stop Aziraphale from walking directly into a produce cart. “Neither of us gets exhausted. You’re never tired, and I just like a good nap sometimes.”

“Really?” A flicker of that mocking bastard smirk. “How many nights did you sleep this past week?”

“Nrrg. Five or six, but that’s not the point.” They started walking again, Crowley tossing an apple he’d snuck from the cart. “I could stop if I wanted to — I’d miss it, but s’not the same as being tired. Same with you and eating.”

“But if I desire a food, so strongly I can already taste it, surely that’s…if not exactly hunger, a close approximation?”

“Don’t think so.” Crowley offered the apple, but Aziraphale shook his head. “Spend a couple days in the city, you’ll see what hunger looks like. S’not about pleasure or wanting a particular food. It’s need, desperation. And we just don’t experience that.” He tossed the apple towards a group of children, and a girl in a ragged dress caught it. “Boredom I’ll grant you. I’ve definitely been bored.”

“So, we might enjoy things as humans do, but never desire them the same way,” Aziraphale mused, smoothing his hands down the front of his stolen jacket. “But is love the longing for a connection with another, or the pleasure of that connection?”

“Doesn’t really make a difference to us, does it?”

He waited for Aziraphale to respond, but the angel simply continued walking, hands folded behind his back, eyes more distant than usual.

“So?” Crowley prodded after nearly a block in silence. “What brought this on?” Aziraphale shrugged. “Let me guess. Reading novels again? Sappy poetry? Getting…ideas?” He stepped ahead of Aziraphale and walked backwards, to ensure the angel saw his suggestive eyebrow wiggle. No response. Crowley shrugged, falling back into step. “Look, f’you want to try falling in love with a human, s’your business. Let me know how it goes. Just do it back in London, I don’t need that…drama getting back to my bosses.”

“That’s not it,” Aziraphale snapped, wringing his hands. “It’s not — it doesn’t even work that way, Crowley. Humans don’t just decide to fall in love!”

“They don’t cross an ocean and charge through a revolution for a snack, either.”

“Oh, never mind. Clearly you’re the expert here.” Aziraphale froze, glaring at a shop just ahead, and threw his hands up in disgust. “And now they’ve closed my favorite creperie! Why do I even bother? Might as well return to England and feast upon whatever lumpy brown bread the first tavern I pass serves.”

“Stop being dramatic,” Crowley hissed, turning down a side street and gesturing for Aziraphale to follow. “If you get locked up again, I’m not rescuing you a second time.” The angel’s lips twisted sourly. “Look, gourmet crepes aren’t really in demand right now, but I know a place. Might still be open.”

“I suppose that will have to do.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and glared at the sky, thin grey clouds veiling the sun. He should probably just let Aziraphale stew in his own sullen displeasure. Might even give him an advantage — a distracted angel was easier to outsmart.

But Crowley hadn’t been in the business of thwarting Aziraphale for over a thousand years. Why oppose each other, when they could work…not together, but in tandem? Ensuring all their duties were fulfilled, their paperwork properly filed.

It was better this way. Less fuss all around, less inconvenience. Pleasanter conversation. More time for trips to the theater or quiet meals, either of which was a far better way to spend an evening than any sort of elaborate espionage.

He’d been looking forward to griping about his job over a mug of cider while Aziraphale worked his way through a plate of crepes, smiling and wiggling in his seat. Watching Aziraphale get excited over something was, in Crowley’s opinion, one of the best ways to pass the time.

Only the conversation had left Aziraphale annoyed, pouting and…Crowley studied him carefully, dark glasses imperfectly hiding his eyes. More than anything, Aziraphale looked hurt. A sight that always made Crowley’s stomach twist painfully.

He sighed, tossing back his head. “‘Love is an inborn suffering, proceeding from the sight and immoderate thought upon the beauty of another, for which cause above all other things one wishes to embrace the other and, by common assent, in this embrace to fulfil the commandments of love.’”[1]

“I beg your pardon?”

“Look, I don’t know. You asked me—!” Crowley walked faster, face growing hot. “It’s from some old treatise, right? Love, he says, is seeing someone beautiful and wanting sex. Then, when you have your fill…” he waved his hand vaguely.

“I see.” Aziraphale adjusted his sleeves. “I suppose that…makes sense.” But he still looked grim.

Up ahead, not quite along their path, stood one of Paris’s parks, gates now open to the public. Apart from some rubbish cluttering the entrance, it seemed well-maintained. Crowley tipped his head, inviting.

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up and he nodded, the first hint of a smile on his face. It always made Crowley feel light, that smile, however briefly it appeared.

They wandered in silence up the path, lined by trees here, flowerbeds there. Leaves had turned yellow and the grass was edged with brown, but the roses were still in bloom. Crowley paused to pluck a particularly well-formed bud.

As they crossed a bridge over a small watercourse, Aziraphale suddenly said, “Do you think it’s true, though? That — that treatise? Because it rather sounds like he didn’t see any difference between lust and love.”

“Mmh.” Crowley paused, gazing downstream, where a group of ducks swam contentedly. “As a demon? Yeah. Fits the party line. Humans don’t think of anything but their own pleasure, always wanting what they don’t have. Jealous, possessive, until something better comes along. Then it starts all over. If love and lust aren’t the same, well, they’re pretty close, right?”

“I see.” Aziraphale stepped beside him, holding out his red cap, now filled with grains of barley and cracked corn. They each took a handful and tossed it down. The ducks swam over eagerly, bobbing to catch the seeds before they drifted away.

“But as a being who’s been in the world nearly six thousand years?” Crowley threw another handful, then leaned against the railing, crossing his arms. “Not so sure. Humans do too much that can’t be explained by simple pleasure. Besides, I’ve seen what they do when overwhelmed by lust, and what they do when overwhelmed by love and…dunno. S’not the same.”

More handfuls of grains as a second group of ducks approached.

“What d’you think, Angel?” Crowley prodded. “Must be something in all those books you read.”

“Oh, quite a lot,” Aziraphale assured him. “Much of it contradictory. Many poets will only talk about their beloved’s face, or eyes, but if it were simply a matter of beauty, surely everyone would fall in love with the same beauties.”

“Sometimes they do.” Crowley rolled some seeds between his palms. “S’where the jealousy comes in. But yeah. Gotta be more to it than that.”

“I hope you’re not planning to make those poor ducks sink.”

“What? Nk — no. Course not.” He threw the grains down and the ducks quickly swarmed, turning bright shades of pink and blue and violet as they ate.

“Crowley.”

“Oh, it’s not hurting anyone.” He glanced sideways to see Aziraphale pressing his lips together, struggling not to smile. Grinning, Crowley tossed down more enchanted grains. “Go on then.”

“Hmm? Ah, yes. Well, the overall impression is that love is…transformative. Changes the way one thinks and feels at all times. They speak of, oh, the sun shining brighter, foods tasting sweeter, winter blossoming into summer. Metaphors. Others speak of — of attraction, quickened pulse, sudden heat and so on, but that’s a passing thing, part of a — a particular moment of closeness. Surely, no human could maintain such a state for an hour, never mind weeks or years!” Aziraphale offered Crowley the last handful of grain in his cap. “And once that moment passes…”

“Back to the metaphors.” The ducks below were now spotted, striped, every color of the rainbow. One bore pure white wings, beside another with midnight black. Aziraphale chuckled, very softly, which made Crowley feel immensely satisfied. Dusting off his hands, he circled the angel and continued walking.

“Yes,” Aziraphale hurried to catch up, cap twisting in his hands. “I get the sense that the feeling is so obvious, so…universal, they never think to describe it.”

“How inconsiderate.” Crowley thought it over. “So, flash of heat, racing heart, sun gets brighter, then ten pages about the color of their eyes? That about it?”

“I suppose so.” Aziraphale rubbed a finger across his lip. “Not always beauty, though. Some appear drawn by their partner’s clever mind, or acts of kindness. Some praise stories of bravery or great deeds, others fixate on meaningless symbols of wealth. But still, those only tell why one falls in love, not what it feels like.”

“Sounds like a sort of obsession.” Crowley furrowed his brow. “That treatise had a list of…sort of rules of love. Mostly about jealousy, really, don’t think the author thought much of women, but… ‘Every action of a lover ends in the thought of his beloved.’”

“I see…so that, together or apart, one cannot help but think always of the other. That certainly aligns with the evidence.” He started to replace his cap, then paused, looking inside. “Anything else of use?”

“‘Love can deny nothing to love.’” Beside him, Aziraphale turned pink and a brilliant smile broke across his face, like the sun after a storm. He pulled from the cap the bright red rosebud Crowley had hidden within.

Crowley watched as Aziraphale slid the flower into his buttonhole, drinking in the way the delighted shiver ran across his shoulders. Then the angel looked up, hitting Crowley with the full force of his smile.

Stunning. Blinding. It stole Crowley’s breath away, wiped every thought from his mind.

One day, that smile would destroy him, and he wouldn’t mind at all.

“So, this creperie — are we close?”

“Ngh. Smh. Unh. Nearly. Another block or two.” The park’s gate stood just ahead, half shut, the bustling street beyond. Crowley quickly stepped ahead, pulling it open for Aziraphale. “You, ah, find the answer you needed?”

“I…think so, yes.” He rested his fingers on the gate — so close to Crowley’s he could feel their warmth — then quickly pulled away, folding his hands behind his back. “I’ve been trying to work out…well…whether I’m in love with you, Crowley.”

“Oh.” What was he supposed to say to that? “Oh.”

“Indeed.” Aziraphale’s eyes darted nervously and he began to pace. “I-I want you to know, I don’t desire you. I’ve never felt that sort of attraction. And I’m not jealous by any means. I’m not even certain who I’m meant to be jealous of. But…” He turned back, tugging his jacket. “I think of you. Constantly. Every action, every experience reminds me of you. I go to a concert, and I can’t concentrate on the music, only whether you would enjoy it. I hear a joke and I imagine how you would laugh, or roll your eyes, and I can’t know a moment’s peace until I’ve shared it with you. And last month…when I was reprimanded…for days afterward I could think of nothing but how I wished you were there. When I finally found the strength to venture out, it was only from my determination to come here.”

“For…crepes?” Crowley offered stupidly.

“No, you silly creature, for you.” He stepped forward, reaching up as if to straighten Crowley’s lapels, but once again his hands dropped. “I hear your voice and no matter how dark my situation — no matter how absurd you look in the current fashion — I just…feel happy again.”

Aziraphale took a deep breath and lifted his eyes — hopeful, fearful, vulnerable — to meet Crowley’s.

“Oh.” Something more was probably needed. “Yeah.”

That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say.

“Well.” Aziraphale’s eyes dropped and he turned, trying to hide his expression. “Yes. I thought you should know.” He ducked his head and hurried through the gate. “Where — where is this creperie? We should try to arrive—”

“Me too.”

Crowley hadn’t meant to say anything. His mind was still ten minutes behind, struggling to catch up, but the pain on Aziraphale’s face hurt him like a blow to the chest.

The two words stopped Aziraphale in his tracks.

“I…I think about you, too.” Crowley stepped halfway through the gate, gripping the bar so tight it began to bend. “When I wake up, or fall asleep and…and away from you, here, I just…I miss you…but you — you idiot, with your crepes and your — your execution and…and then you smile and I just…” Blast! How could Aziraphale be so eloquent? Crowley swallowed and started over. “Look, m’trying to say…don’t think I can deny you anything. And. If that’s love…yeah. Me too.”

All this time, Aziraphale stood perfectly still, his back to Crowley. But now he turned, blue eyes furiously blinking. “That’s…ah…thank you. I know y-you hate being thanked but…” Aziraphale took one step closer, then another, until only inches separated them. “Thank you.”

“Nh.” He could so easily reach across that last bit of distance. Crowley didn’t know what that would accomplish, what he’d even do, but he wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything. “Now what?”

“I don’t know.” Aziraphale’s gaze fell. “It…doesn’t change anything, does it? You’re still a demon, and I’m—”

“I don’t care,” Crowley hissed, shocked at the fervor in his own voice. “We don’t need to play by their rules. We could — run off, or—”

“We can’t. Crowley, both our sides would — they’d find us, they’d destroy you.”

“I’m willing to risk it.” He reached for Aziraphale’s hand.

“I’m not.” The angel jerked back, putting more distance between them, eyes wide. “Crowley that’s — that’s not a chance I’m willing to take. I’m sorry, but no.”

“Fine,” Crowley growled, pulling away. “What do you want?”

“I want…” Aziraphale shut his eyes, taking a shuddering breath. “I want a shop in London, where I can surround myself with books and foods and everything I enjoy. I want my superiors to trust me, let me bring good into the world my own way, without sending me all over Creation at a moment’s notice and — and punishing me for a few miracles to make my life easier. I want us to go to plays and gardens and balls together, not for clandestine meetings but because we enjoy them. To be openly in each other’s company, without fear of reprisal. And…I’d like you to visit my shop and bring me flowers or sweets. I’d serve my very best wine and…we’d talk all night about…everything and nothing. And laugh together.” His eyes fluttered open and for the first time Aziraphale looked sure of himself. “I want what we already have. Only I want more of it.”

This time he didn’t move as Crowley reached out. Long fingers carefully adjusted the rosebud, standing it straighter in its buttonhole. “Yeah. I…I’d like that, too.”

“And you don’t want anything…physical?”

Crowley snorted. “M’not a human.” But he wondered if Aziraphale’s cheek was as soft as the rosebud’s petals. “I’d like to touch you. Your hand, your face. Your wings. Hear your voice as I fall asleep. Feel your fingers in my hair. Is that…too much?”

“No.” Aziraphale smiled gently. “That sounds perfect.”

“Maybe…” Crowley fidgeted with his glasses, shuffled his feet, but refused to step away. “If we’re careful…”

“The Arrangement is already dangerous enough. You must understand…”

Crowley closed his eyes. “I do. Nothing changes.” Except there were words now, to the feeling he had when he thought of his angel. And that changed everything. When he looked again, Aziraphale nodded, as if he felt the same.

“Right then.” Crowley circled around Aziraphale, sauntering back to the main road. “Let’s see if these crepes are worth risking the guillotine.”

“My dear fellow,” Aziraphale easily kept pace. “One bite of true Breton crepes will silence your doubts forever.”

“Breton, huh?”

“Oh, yes, far superior to any others.”

“If that’s so,” Crowley smirked, remembering Aziraphale in his cell, “s’a wonder you came to Paris. Particularly in such a…controversial outfit.”

“The city has…certain other attractions.”

Something warm and heavy wrapped across Crowley’s shoulders, invisible to his eyes, though he could feel the individual feathers tickle his neck. Aziraphale strolled beside him, hands clasped behind his back, eyes forward, as if nothing were amiss.

Carefully, trying to look natural, Crowley scratched his shoulder, brushing his knuckles down a long flight feather, softer than any mortal bird’s.

Aziraphale smiled ever so slightly and flexed his wing, holding Crowley a little more tightly. An embrace that no one could see, no one could know about, except them.

“Dunno,” Crowley said. “Still seems pretty risky.”

“Yes. But I’m an incorrigible old fool. Sometimes I can’t help myself.”

“Suppose I can understand,” Crowley said as he extended his own wing, wrapping it around Aziraphale’s waist. The angel’s composure broke as he wiggled, burying himself in invisible feathers. Crowley smiled, heat running through him, a warm spring day after a long cold winter. “After all, we’re not so different, you and I.”

[1] De Amore, Andreas Capellanus, c. 1190

So happy to finally share this!

[spooky-nerd]

I Wrote an MSR Christmas Fic in September, Sorry

Christmas comes but once a year, or so he’s been told. Which means that he has 364 days (at least) to strategize. And yet, he never quite manages to be able to escape it.

He’s come close a small handful of times. A mere brush with victory followed by crushing defeat. In 1971 he was hospitalized with appendicitis on December 24. Unfortunately, the hospital gave out little teddy bears with santa hats that year to all of the children. In 1994, he tried lying low in his apartment, but Mrs. Sanders from across the hall had dropped off a fruitcake wrapped in red and green paper with a ridiculously frilled bow. The fruitcake had tasted horrible, but then that had been comforting, because he has never had a fruitcake that didn’t taste horrible and would find the very idea to be unsettling to say the least.

Twice he has nearly managed to avoid Christmas altogether. An almost impossible feat, and a coveted one amongst those who bemoan the holiday like he does.

He is not a grinch, as some would suspect, and his heart is not withered and cold. He does not have a propensity for stealing presents from under trees, and he has never once uttered the words “bah, humbug!”. He just does not care for Christmas.

This had come as a shock to Scully during their first year of partnership. She had whisked into the office on December 23rd in a cloud of merriment, smelling like peppermint and humming festively. “So, what are your Christmas plans?” she had asked innocently.

“Well, I’ll probably microwave some popcorn and watch Plan 9 From Outer Space,” he had said in complete seriousness. In spite of his delivery, she had laughed. Probably at the absurdity of it, which likely was obvious to outside observers, he had realized then. And yet, his world-weary soul had lacked the energy to care.

“You’re serious?” She had dropped the smile, and in its place was that frown of disappointment that he was rapidly becoming acquainted with. For some reason, he had felt a bit sheepish.

“Yeah, I’ve just never been one for the holidays.”

“But Mulder, it’s Christmas,” she had said, her incredulity ratcheting up impossibly higher.

“Oh I know, Scully. Trust me, I know. 104.9 started playing Christmas music in October. My building super put up tinsel in all the hallways on November 1st. I’ve been visually assaulted by this holiday on every street corner since the day after Black Friday. I know it’s Christmas. I just don’t really care.” He had shrugged, in case the rant came off a little too harsh. Not that Scully was easily intimidated. He was quickly beginning to learn that too.

She had shrugged, already poised to drop the subject. “Alright. Enjoy your popcorn, then.”

He had smiled. “Thanks, Scully.”

She had paused, turned back to him. He had gotten a whiff of peppermint again, and wondered if it was a new holiday perfume, or just the everyday magic of her. “You know, November 1st is a little early for tinsel.”

Looking back, it is possible that he had begun to fall in love with her then.

* * *

In the four years that Scully has been his partner, he has discovered that she has exactly one flaw: she loves Christmas. The music, the food, the gifts, the decorations, she eats them all up with a little festively-adorned spoon. At his request, she had refrained from stringing lights up in the office, but in exchange, he is forced to accept one Christmas gift from her each year.

Of course, he isn’t a monster, so every year, he buys her a present, too. Usually something quite ridiculous and useless. Their second Christmas together, he had bought her a mug depicting the entire cast of General Hospital. “It made me think of you,” he had said, to which she had raised an eyebrow and smiled, sliding her own present across the desk to him with false demureness. He had given her a suspicious look and ripped into the gift with exaggerated zeal, just to make her laugh. With delight he had pulled out a tie with little green aliens and flying saucers.

“Scully,” he had said, completely smitten. She had smiled and shrugged. He had decided that is was possible he didn’t hate gift exchanges as much as he had previously thought.

* * *

On December 23rd, 1997, he walks into the office and she is not there. It is not a surprise to him, but it is a blow nonetheless. She should be here, bringing him hot chocolate in addition to his morning coffee, placing a gift on his desk wrapped in ribbon so clinquant and overwhelmingly jubilant that it makes his eyes hurt. She should be here, making him dislike the holiday less and less with each passing moment. And if she can’t be here, he should be there with her. He calls Skinner and tells him he is taking a personal day. He does not explain further but he does not need to.

“Okay. Tell her I said Merry Christmas,” Skinner says.

“Thank you, sir. I will.”

* * *

Within an hour, he is at her doorstep with a hazardously overstuffed plastic grocery bag, a six-foot spruce that is growing heavier by the minute, and a gift wrapped in paper that had been sparkly at one time but has now transferred all of its glitter onto his coat.

It takes her a worryingly long time to answer the door. But she does eventually, looking completely drained, a sweater wrapped around her thin frame. She is cold all the time now and she never complains but it has not escaped his notice. She looks exhausted, but it stops his breath how beautiful she is all the same.

She is surprised to see him. Even more shocked by the one-man window display he has become.

“Mulder? What are you doing?” Confusion, but also a smile in her voice that he can see glittering in her eyes, too.

“I thought I’d bring the party to you, Scully.” He is still a little out of breath, but he smiles, and finally she laughs, melodic and joyful. She lets him in.

* * *

With the muted tones of Bing Crosby playing smooth and unobtrusive underneath, he makes them hot chocolate, dons a Santa hat, and gets to work decorating her tree. She sits on the end of her couch nearest him and opens up the little boxes of colorful Christmas ornaments, handing them to him one-by-one with delicate care. He gets tangled more than once in the Christmas lights, each time extricating himself in a flurry of limbs and curses. It’s worth it to hear her laugh. He wants to close his eyes and listen to the sound and pretend everything is okay.

When he is finished, she holds out her hands wordlessly and he helps her stand up. He wraps an arm around her and they lean against one another, admiring the finished tree. He wonders if she knows it means so much more to him than just a nice gesture. Her grip tightens around him in a brief hug.

“Mulder,” she says softly. “I don’t even know what to say. You really didn’t have to do all this.”

They are quiet for a moment. Bing Crosby sings that it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas. He finds that he agrees.

“I wanted to, Scully. I wanted to be here. The office doesn’t feel right without you,” he says. “Besides, you would’ve done the same.”

She huffs a small laugh. “You hate Christmas.”

“No I don’t.” She looks up at him and he meets her gaze. “I don’t.”

* * *

Exactly one year later, she is safe and whole and mulling over a file, tapping an absent beat on their desk with her pencil. He bounds into the office, over-laden with a diverse assortment of ridiculous Christmas paraphernalia. He dumps it all on the floor in an unceremonious heap, shakes the snow out of his hair, and tosses her a goofy smile.

“Hey, Scully,” he says, out of breath. “Wanna help me deck the halls?”

When they are finished, the office has never looked more unprofessional. They couldn’t be prouder of themselves. Before she leaves for the night, she gives him his gift and a kiss on the cheek. Also very unprofessional, as is the alarming rate at which his heart is beating. It’s just about the only thing he can think about over the holidays, and that in itself brings clarity.

* * *

Her hand is icy where it settles atop his on the steering wheel. He risks only a brief glance in her direction. ‘It’s really coming down out there,’ he had said obligatorily about thirty minutes earlier, squinting into the critical sliver of light their headlights were slashing through the dark flurries of snow.

“Let’s stop for the night,” she says. He nods and gets off at the next exit without question.

They find a motel down a nearly deserted back road that makes them both touch the concealed weapons at their hips just for comfort. The attendant wordlessly accepts their cash and slides them a key.

“You know what’s messed up?” he says as he flops onto the bed after a cursory inspection for suspicious stains.

“What?” she says, rooting through her bag for their toothbrushes. 

“I don’t even know where we are.”

She sighs, a weary sound that he has gotten used to hearing in the months they’ve been on the road. Almost four months now.

“We are somewhere in the southern part of Kentucky. That’s all I know.”

“Scully,” he begins, the word absolutely riddled with guilt.

“Mulder, stop. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be.” They’ve had this small scrap of conversation several times. He keeps waiting for her response to change but it never does.

Silence except for her continued rummaging. Then, a triumphant “Aha!”

He peeks out from under the arm slung across his face. “What-“ He stops at the sight of her wearing a santa hat and holding a lumpy package wrapped in newspaper and held together with duct tape. She smiles and inclines her head triumphantly. The hat tilts adorably and the little pompom falls in front of her face. He laughs in spite of everything. In the spirit of the season, she joins him.

“Merry Christmas, Mulder.”

He shakes his head, in awe once again. “I love you.”

* * *

In an unremarkable house, in an unremarkable room, in an unremarkable chair sits a man. He is unremarkable in some ways and remarkable in others. He is holding in his hand a two-inch long replica of a Louisville Slugger that has been made into a keychain. A gas station trinket, unremarkable in some ways and remarkable in others. He turns it over in his hands and cannot help the smile that spreads across his face. It takes him back to a motel on a snowy night in southeastern Kentucky, and he has a mind to stay there awhile.

She walks in at that moment, wearing the most hideous sweater he has ever seen. After a moment of stunned silence he lets out a loud gut laugh. She smiles, spreading her hands in a silent ‘ta-da’. The sweater is red and green, and knit into it are alternating rows of Christmas trees, presents, wreaths, some colorful blobs that inexplicably might be potted ferns, and a pair of kissing reindeer, both of which have antlers.

“You look horrible,” he says, still chuckling. “I love it.”

“I found it at a Goodwill.”

“An ironic name for a store that would sell such an act of violence.”

She laughs. “I’m thinking of adding it to my regular rotation. I could get you one, too, and then we could match.”

“Well, people in town already think we’re crazy. Maybe it’s time to start leaning into it.”

She heads to the kitchen to make the hot chocolate, and he puts his hand in his pocket for the thousandth time that day, touching the small box like he’s afraid it will disappear. While she putters around the kitchen, he stares at the winking lights of their Christmas tree and gathers his thoughts.

Within minutes she is back with two steaming mugs filled much too full, sloshing dangerously. She sips a little out of both of them, burns her tongue, and hands him his. The mugs are hot. She pulls her sleeves up until only the tips of her fingers are peeking out and holds the mug that way. He watches the entire scene, completely enamored.

She throws herself onto the couch with a sigh and it is a Christmas miracle that she does not spill any of the hot chocolate on that horrendously festive sweater. He settles down next to her and sips gingerly from his mug, contemplating the mystery of those reindeer.

“Is it a misunderstanding of deer anatomy or a political statement, do you think?” she says, clearly reading his mind. He makes a mental note to open up an unofficial investigation into how she keeps being able to do that.

“All I know is it’s my favorite thing you’ve ever worn.”

“Aww. Thanks.”

“I am curious about those potted ferns, though.”

“Is that what they are?”

They wait there together, sipping and talking about everything and nothing until the hour whittles down to nil and the clock strikes midnight, Christmas Day. He puts an arm around her shoulders and marvels at the way her head fits so perfectly in the crook of his neck. He presses a kiss onto the top of her head.

“Merry Christmas, Scully.” He whispers it like a treasured secret.

She turns to kiss him. “Merry Christmas,” she whispers back. Then she is up, grabbing his presents. She is eager for him to see one of them, and has been carrying the secret of what it is around with her for weeks. She hands it to him first, and he makes a show of opening it agonizingly slowly. She rolls her eyes and shoves him gently until he picks up the pace.

“Oh wow, Scully,” he says softly when he pulls the tissue paper aside to reveal a vintage restored Polaroid camera. “Thank you. This…wow.” He runs a hand over the glossy surface appreciatively, and then points it at her. “Say cheese.”

Within moments, the photo of her completely unprepared and squinting painfully at the sudden flash develops.

“Ugh,” she giggles.

“I’m keeping it.” He slips it into his pocket before she can snatch it away. His knuckles bump the small box, and he swallows the sudden lump in his throat. “Okay, now it’s your turn.”

He retrieves the gift from under the tree and watches her open it. “Oh, Mulder,” she says, pulling the typewriter out of its box. He’d had to place an anonymous ad in the paper for that one. They had decided at the beginning of their life on the run that they would use only the most basic technology, which meant burner phones and nondigital alternatives. “It’s beautiful.”

It is. It’s an Underwood, glossy white, impeccably maintained. He’d paid a small fortune to a very old man for this one. They had met in a public park. He had paid in cash. The man had brought it in an old shoebox inside a brown paper grocery sack. The whole transaction had felt vaguely illegal. The man had looked at least 100.

“Thank you.” She gives him a hug. She smells like hot chocolate and peppermint. It reminds him of a Christmas many years ago. A conversation about why he didn’t like Christmas. Oh how things have changed.

“Actually, there’s one more thing,” he says when she pulls away. She raises an eyebrow. She hates to be outdone, especially on Christmas. Incredulity turns into disbelief when he pulls out the small box.

“Mulder,” she whispers. Her eyes fill with unshed tears when he gets on his knee in front of her, and if he’s going to make it through this, he cannot look at her.

“Scully, I-“ his voice catches immediately. He clears his throat. “I know that the past few years have been…well there’s no words for it. You are the only thing that has gotten me through. You’ve been there Scully, since the beginning you’ve been there and I- I can’t imagine my life without you. I want so much more for you. You deserve so much more, and I…I wish that I could give you more. But this is all I have to offer, Scully. This is everything I have. I want to grow old with you and, and love you and support you and laugh with you until the end of time. I promise to be faithful. I promise to have your back and to be there for you always.” He takes a shaky breath. “Dana Katherine Scully, will you marry me?”

He looks into her eyes, and he sees everything there. The love and devotion that had started small and fragile and had grown into something ineffably strong. He cannot imagine a life without this woman. Bing Crosby’s voice floats quietly over from the record player, singing about having a merry little Christmas. He wants a life with her, a thousand more little Christmases just like this one, filled to the brim with ridiculous, garish holiday cheer. She takes a deep breath, the words that will determine their future poised on the tip of her tongue.

“Yes. Of course I will.”

- - - - - - - -

Note: Btw, I wasn’t lying about that sweater

[contemplativepancakes]

abs of steel

the 2.5k story of how Geralt came to have his season 2 armor, with some help from Jaskier, of course. read on ao3 here!

Jaskier putters around the room, with one of Geralt’s dozens of tiny bottles in his hand and a rag in the other. He gives it a half hearted shine before setting it back down and looking at Geralt. 

Jaskier’s not sure how Geralt ever survived without him, honestly, because it seems like finding Geralt in varying states of unconsciousness is becoming a much too common occurrence. He supposes Geralt’s amount of passing out probably hasn’t changed, just the amount of times someone has coming looking for him. Jaskier’s heart does not ache at the thought. 

Geralt’s chest moves shallowly under the blanket, and Jaskier goes to stoke the fire. He had sweetalked the innkeeper into giving them a better room when it had become apparent that their stay was going to be...extended, and he’s glad for it. The room has its own bath tub, and a fire place, and there’s even a soft rug by the bed where Jaskier can sit and compose without worrying about jostling Geralt’s injuries. 

Jaskier casts a longing glance to his notebook, wishing that he could write and make the voices in his head stop whirling, but lyrics have been evading him ever since he found Geralt unconscious and even paler than usual. 

Geralt had just been going after a lesser vampire, had reassured Jaskier that it wasn’t going to be a big deal, and to not wait up, but Jaskier’s glad he did. 

Frankly, he doesn’t know why Geralt tells him not to do things when they both know he’s not going to listen. 

He supposes it makes Geralt feel better. He doesn’t pretend to understand what happens in Geralt’s brain. He imagines it’s a lot of grunting and internal hmm-ing. 

Geralt stirs under the covers, and Jaskier rushes across the room to stand by his side. Geralt blinks up at him, and Jaskier lets himself drift a hand over Geralt’s concerningly warm brow. He’s hot, but he’s not sweating, and Jaskier bites his lip. He gives Geralt what he hopes is a reassuring smile, but he thinks it might be more of a grimace. 

Geralt slips a hand out from under the covers, and Jaskier takes the liberty of reaching out his own. Geralt could have died; he can’t be held responsible for his actions. “What happened?” Geralt groans, his voice scratchy and deep from disuse.

“Good question,” Jaskier says, glaring at him. Now that it doesn’t seem like Geralt is any imminent danger of never waking up again, it’s a little easier to be mad instead of just wracked with worry. 

“It was...a pack of them,” Geralt remembers haltingly. 

Jaskier hums, brushing a hand through Geralt’s hair. He wonders if Geralt would let him get away with brushing it. Maybe he’ll ask when Geralt doesn’t seem so groggy. 

“It’s okay,” Jaskier soothes. “You need to rest.”

“I’m fine,” Geralt automatically protests, going to sit up. 

“Geralt, you are not, your rib is broken and the healer said one of your intestines might be punctured. You could get sepsis.”

“Witchers don’t get infections. I’m fine,” Geralt says again, but it’s even less convincing this time. 

“Just...stay in bed. Can you do that? I know it goes against everything in you to not do your utmost to aggravate me, but listen just this once.”

Geralt lays back against the pillow, his hair spreading out in a halo around his head. “Fine.”

“Don’t look so pleased about it, love.”

If looks could kill, Jaskier would be haunting one very grumpy witcher. “I’m sure you’ll survive,” Jaskier says breezily. “I know, it’s the epitome of cruelty to make you rest. Someone let witcher protective services know.”

“My swords?” Geralt asks gruffly, changing the topic. 

Jaskier rolls his eyes and huffs. Like he would forget Geralt’s swords. “Oiled and put away.”

“Hmm.”

“Don’t be grumpy just because you don’t have an excuse to get out of bed.”

“What about my armor?”

Jaskier casts a nervous glance to the corner. “I’m afraid that’s beyond my talents. They’re a little shredded.”

Geralt follows his line of sight to where his leather armor is in a pile on the ground, blood streaked and torn. 

“Well, I need to get new, then,” Geralt says, attempting to sit up again. 

He stops with a look from Jaskier, and Jaskier gives a hum of satisfaction. “I can get it for you.”

“Jaskier, you don’t even know what to look for.”

Jaskier glares at him. “How long have I been travelling with you for? And you don’t even think I know what you look for in your armor?”

Geralt harumphs. “Fine.”

“Fine?” Jaskier asks in delight. He wasn’t actually expecting to win that battle. Maybe he can get Geralt out of something black, for a change. 

“Here,” Geralt says, leaning over the bed to rustle through his pack. Give the armorer this.”

Jaskier takes the drawing and instructions, and he’s ready to skip to the armorer’s, but Geralt’s expression pinches as he settles back into his spot on the bed, so he hurries back to his side. “What hurts?”

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier says, taking a page out of Geralt’s book. 

Jaskier crosses his arms and stares at him for a solid minute before Geralt relents. “My ribs.”

“That wasn’t so hard now, was it? Now just let me see.”

He peels back the covers, wincing at the mess that is Geralt’s chest. By the time Jaskier had dragged him back to town, most of his wounds had started to clot, so the healer thought it was best to let them breathe, but now Jaskier has to look at them. 

He carefully drifts his fingers over the torn tissue and mottled purple of what’s still intact, watching Geralt’s reaction carefully. 

Eventually, he draws back. “I don’t think there’s anything else I can do,” he admits. “Let me get you something for the pain.”

Geralt grunts in annoyance, no doubt meaning something about witchers being nothing but vessels for pain or some other horrible thing that they ingrained in him during his nightmare of an upbringing. He goes over to Geralt’s bag, looking for the right roots and herbs to concoct his mixture. He pulls out Geralt’s mortar and pestle, grinding the ingredients together until he has a lumpy paste. He carefully scoops it out of the mortar and into a glass filled with water on the bedside table. He mixes it together vigorously and sets it back on the table for a moment while he helps Geralt sit up. 

Geralt tries to wave him off, but Jaskier insists. Once there’s three pillows propping him up, Jaskier hands him the glass. Geralt sniffs at it doubtfully. “I think you might be trying to get ready of me,” he says. 

Jaskier hides his laugh behind his hand. “I wouldn’t go through all this trouble if I was, now would I?”

“I suppose not,” Geralt sighs, grimacing as he knocks the whole thing back in one drag. 

“That wasn’t so bad now, was it?”

Geralt smacks his lips together, gesturing for Jaskier to get him some more water. “Terrible. Possibly life threatening.”

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “You’re welcome. Can I trust you to behave while I’m gone?”

Geralt chooses not to dignify that with an answer. “I’ll take that as a no, then,” Jaskier says. “The innkeeper has children, don’t make me make them come up here to watch after you.”

“I’ll behave,” Geralt says dryly. 

“Good. You better be in that exact spot when I come back.”

“Hmm,” Geralt says, and Jaskier knows that means that Geralt is the one who’s going to be ignoring him, for a change. 

Jaskier just hopes that Geralt won’t jostle himself too much as he steps out of the door and into the hallway. 

He makes his way down the steps and out onto the dusty main road of the village, peeking at the other wares being sold, particularly eyeing a doublet with stunning embroidery that he can’t believe is being sold in this dank little town, of all places. He makes a mental note to come back after getting Geralt’s armor. Jaskier investigates the baked goods, inhaling the scent of bread and surveying the hand pies, looking at their delightfully golden exteriors longingly. 

Jaskier makes it to the armorer without incident, a brass bell ringing overhead as he steps inside. The armorer crosses her arms as she regards Jaskier thoughtfully. “You lost?” she asks. 

Jaskier flashes her a winning smile. “Not at all. I’m here for a friend.”

The armorer stares back at him, unimpressed. “You know, it’s important that I’m able to measure someone to give them the best fit. I don’t want someone getting killed and blaming it on my armor. No, if someone dies, it’s going to be because of their own ineptitude.”

“I’m certain that won’t be a problem,” Jaskier says. “Have you ever made armor for a witcher before?”

Her eyes light up. “Your friend is a witcher? To tell the truth, things have been a little slow around here since the war ended.”

“I’ll pay you well, don’t worry,” Jaskier says, producing the paper Geralt had given him from his cloak with a flourish. 

She practically snatches the scroll out of Jaskier’s hands, her eyes roving over the paper. She mutters something to herself before turning back to look at Jaskier. 

“I still need the measurements,” she says. “It’s even more crucial for such an important client.”

“Of course. Don’t worry, I have them right here.” Jaskier fishes his notebook from his satchel, flipping through until he finds the page with Geralt’s sizes on it. Jaskier swears that Geralt purposely ruins all of his fine clothing between banquets he drags him to, because Jaskier always has to buy Geralt new clothes. 

Actually, come to think of it, he’s never seen the evidence of them being damaged, and it’s not like Geralt just wears them around. Jaskier shakes his head as he realizes Geralt probably just sells them. Jaskier supposes Geralt does always swear that will be the last banquet he ever attends after each one, just for Jaskier to talk him into one more, but that’s no excuse. 

Jaskier tilts his head for a moment as he contemplates how to get his revenge, smirking when the idea dawns upon him. Jaskier sketches a quick picture and pushes it towards the armorer. “How much extra would this cost?” 

She looks down at the page dubiously. 

Jaskier gives her his most charming smile. 

-

It’s been three days, and Geralt is sick of lying in bed. No matter how much he swears to Jaskier that he’s better, that his rib has knit itself back together, he doesn’t believe him.. It’s just a bruised rib at this point, but Jaskier doesn’t take pity on him, just offers a distraction for Geralt in the form of being better at gwent than he has any right to be. 

Geralt sighs heavily, looking at Jaskier out of the corner of his eye. 

“Don’t think that will make me take pity on you, Geralt,” Jaskier says, not even looking up from his composing notebook. “Besides, we have to wait for your armor anyway.”

“What’s taking so long?” Geralt complains. 

“Perfection takes time. Besides, the armorer’s never seen any of your witcher-y things, so you have to give her time to figure it out.”

Geralt groans and sits up, swinging his legs out of the bed. “I can’t take it anymore.”

Jaskier rushes to him, but Geralt brushes him off. “I’m fine,” he growls. 

Jaskier raises his hands and backs away. “Fine, fine. Don’t be so grumpy when all I’ve been doing is taking care of you.”

Geralt glares at him, and Jaskier strokes a hand through his soft hair. “You do deserve it, you know,” Jaskier says. 

Geralt looks down, a bothersome flush creeping up his neck. 

“I think I’ll go check on the armor, since you’re in such a rush.” Jaskier rolls his eyes. “She said it would be done sometime today.”

Geralt rummages through his pack, hardly looking up at Jaskier. “Good. Then we can finally move on. I was talking to the innkeeper about a wyvern a day’s ride away.”

“Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves, here, hmm?”

Geralt grumbles as Jaskier leaves, finding himself excited to see the new armor against his will. He so rarely gets anything that doesn’t already have a crust of dirt on it that anytime he has a sword or armor made, he finds himself looking forward to it. 

Geralt goes to the mirror in the corner of the room and lifts up his shirt, noting how the mottled purple has become large splotches of greenish brown. Everything’s looking good, so he sorts his satchel, shaking his head fondly as he reorganizes his elixirs. Whenever Jaskier gets his hands on them, he always sorts them by color, but that’s not what Geralt likes. He could just tell Jaskier to leave his things alone, but he doesn’t have the heart for it. 

Geralt putters around the room, making the bed and hoping that if he’s ready to go by the time Jaskier gets back, he can convince him to move on. He can smell Jaskier’s anxious energy, anyway; he knows Jaskier is just staying here for his benefit. 

Geralt finishes putting the last of his things into his pack and is just contemplating going down to the stables to see Roach when Jaskier bursts through the door, armor in hand. 

Jaskier hands it off to him with a self satisfied flourish, and Geralt freezes as he looks at it. “You can’t be serious.”

“The armorer and I thought it would make you like quite fetching.”

“Jaskier.”

“What, don’t you like it? It’s a gift, Geralt, I’m offended.”

Geralt rubs his fingers over the indents in the chest plate. He has so many questions. 

“It’s the new fashion,” Jaskier assures him. 

“I’m a witcher, not a model.”

“Why not both?” Jaskier asks airily. He looks around the room. “So, are you ready to go then?”

Jaskier steps forward to help him buckle the new armor in place, Geralt eyeing it dubiously. Besides from the obvious issue of the chest piece, it’s not even black; it’s a dark green that catches and shimmers in the light. Geralt resists the urge to bury his face in his hands. No one is going to take him seriously now. 

He huffs a sigh, trying to communicate his displeasure with Jaskier, but as ever, Jaskier seems immune to his glares. Geralt slings his satchel over his shoulder and steels himself. 

As they walk down the street, it’s not as terrible as Geralt was expecting. Sure, the sun is glinting off of his abs and blinding him a little, but Geralt doesn’t hear anyone snickering at him. Everyone just walks by, looks at him, and quickly glances at their feet, which is par for the course for the life of a witcher. 

Geralt tilts his chin a little higher, thinking maybe this won’t be so bad after all. He has a new spring in his step when he hears someone calling his name behind him. Geralt turns around, thinking it sounds an awful lot like his brother, and he’s proven right when Lambert skids to a stop in front of him. 

“Hey, I’m glad I ran into you; I heard there’s a nest of wyverns a few towns over—” Lambert’s mouth flaps for a second. “What the fuck are you wearing?”

Geralt turns to glare at Jaskier, and he smiles innocently. 

[dickwheelie]

this is a few days late but it’s still technically Hanukkah, so! here’s a fic about Jon and Martin celebrating Hanukkah in the safehouse (shhh timelines aren’t real) because I like to project and I really like the idea of Jon being Jewish. a lot of us are having weird holidays this year, away from friends and family, so the boys having a weird one too seemed appropriate. in particular, Jon not having a menorah because I don’t have one this year either :(

the stuff in this is based on my own experiences celebrating Hanukkah growing up in a pretty secular household, so if you see anything that’s “wrong” then that’s why, lol. the prayer is accurate as far as I know though, it’s the same one my family and I sing every year.

(also this is not a good representation of how to make rugelach! if you really want a good recipe, hmu and if you ask nicely I might share my mother’s 😁)

enjoy and Happy Hanukkah!! 💙🕎✡️💙

___________

“I just feel bad,” Martin said, watching from the sofa as Jon put the challah in the oven. “You’re doing all this cooking, and I’m just sitting on the couch like a lump. And this is supposed to be your holiday.”

“Martin, for the tenth time, it’s fine. Besides, the holiday doesn’t actually start until sundown,” Jon called, cheerfully enough, from the kitchen. Jon liked cooking, Martin knew, and he didn’t really see it as a chore in the same way Martin did. Still, this was a special day for Jon (well, eight days, really), and Martin wanted to be of some use. He’d offered to do everything from peeling potatoes to rolling matzoh balls, but Jon, ever the control freak in the kitchen, had stopped him at every turn. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a bit guilty about not helping out as Jon bustled about, trying to make Hanukkah dinner for the both of them.

More than helping out, really, Martin just kind of . . . wanted to share this with Jon. The way Jon talked about it, it sounded as though he’d had more Hanukkahs alone than with friends or what little family he had. Martin wanted to make Jon feel like he didn’t have to be alone this year, and even if Martin was new to this, he was game to learn. Jon had already told him about the holiday and all the different foods he was making, but there was still some distance there, a disconnect, that Martin knew Jon wasn’t putting between them on purpose. It seemed to Martin more like a force of habit than anything else.

After setting the timer for the challah, Jon nodded, satisfied, and came over to join Martin on the couch. He slouched against him comfortably, and Martin automatically put an arm around his shoulders. Jon had a bit of flour on his nose, and Martin gently swiped it off, which made Jon’s face wrinkle up like a disgruntled cat. Bloody adorable, Martin thought.

“I get a bit of a break before I have to start on the latkes in a few hours,” Jon said. “Got to make those right before dinner so they’re fresh.”

“Can I please help with those?” Martin said, half-joking.

“Fine,” Jon laughed, “yes, Martin, you can help with the latkes.”

“You won’t regret it.”

“I’m sure.”

“Is there dessert?” Martin asked, offhandedly. He hadn’t noticed Jon getting out any sugar or making anything sweet that day. “Do people eat anything sweet on Hanukkah?”

“Well, there’s gelt,” Jon says. “Chocolate coins. But the grocer’s didn’t have any. Unsurprisingly.”

Martin laughed. “Yeah. Probably not a huge priority in the Highlands.”

“People also make rugelach, sometimes.”

“Arugula?”

Jon laughed, not unkindly. “Rugelach. Different from the vegetable. Very different,” he said. “It’s a pastry. A kind of holiday cookie, I guess you could call it. Sweet dough with chocolate or cinnamon inside. It’s simple to make, but I didn’t buy the right stuff for it, and honestly I have enough cooking to do.”

“Yeah? How d’you make it?” Martin asked, innocently enough, though an idea was brewing.

As Jon explained, he waved his hands in the air, miming the process. “You just roll out some pastry dough, cover it with chocolate or cinnamon or walnuts or whatever you like, cut it into strips, and roll them up.” He thought for a moment. “They look a bit like seashells.”

“Huh,” Martin said. “Seems easy enough.” He’d never made dough before, but how hard could it be, really. The hardest part, he figured, would be actually making the things in their tiny cabin and even tinier kitchen without Jon finding out.

Soon after that, the oven timer started beeping, announcing that the bread was done. Martin took advantage of Jon busying himself in the kitchen to slip out the door, giving him some offhand excuse about wanting to get some air, to which Jon waved him off.

In the baking aisle at the grocer’s, Martin quickly realized he was out of his depth. He stared at the display of flour and sugar and baking powder and all sorts of other stuff, utterly at a loss as to what one needed to make pastry dough. He tried, once again, to Google a recipe on his phone, but once again, there was no service and no wifi.

Well, there was always pre-made, frozen dough. Not ideal, but it’d probably work in a pinch. Much faster to make, too, Martin thought as he dropped a couple cans of it into his basket. The filling, at least, he knew he’d be able to handle; he grabbed a few bags of baking chocolate and a shaker of cinnamon, and brought everything up to the checkout counter.

Martin didn’t even know which lucky stars to thank when he arrived back at the cabin to find the kitchen empty, and Jon passed out on the bed in a post-challah, pre-latke cooking nap. Martin gently closed the bedroom door and immediately set to baking.

Going by Jon’s vague descriptions, he rolled out some of the dough into a flat oval shape, but the pre-made kind wasn’t meant to be used all at once, and the end result was a sort of lumpy mass. Digging around in the cupboards, he was able to find some flour, which helped make the dough less sticky, at least. Eventually, he was able to get it flat enough to cover it with the filling, like Jon had told him. Half of the dough he covered in cinnamon, liberally shaking it out all over the dough. The other half he covered with the baking chocolate, which came in little chunks, but he figured it would melt in the oven just fine.

Next, just as Jon had described, he cut the dough into even strips, thin and rectangular, and rolled each of them up, so the filling made a little spiral shape inside. The chocolate ones were a bit chunky and awkward-looking, but, well, it was the taste that counted, wasn’t it.

Martin turned to face the oven, realizing he had no idea how long they ought to bake for, or at what temperature. He checked the instructions on the tins of pre-made dough, deciding to go by whatever they suggested. It wouldn’t do for the dough to be raw, he figured.

Soon enough, the pastries were in the oven, and Jon was still dead to the world, none the wiser. Martin felt quite satisfied as he cleaned up, mentally patting himself on the back for a job well- and stealthily-done. He’d hide them in the oven, he decided, until after dinner, and then he’d surprise Jon. Smiling, he went to join Jon in bed, curling up next to him as he slept, until he fell asleep himself.

Martin woke groggily several hours later to Jon gently shaking him awake, telling him it was time to make the latkes. He’d already got the batter done, a thick, floury mixture of potato and onion, and a pan of oil was bubbling on the stove. Jon showed Martin how to drop spoonfuls of batter into the pan, patting them down to shape them into little fist-sized “pancakes.” He let both sides brown in the oil until they were nice and crispy, before transferring them onto a paper towel-covered plate to cool. It was simple enough, and Martin was able to finish up the batch as Jon set the table, bringing out the challah and matzoh ball soup he’d made, as well as sour cream and apple sauce to dip the latkes in.

Once the latkes were done (and Martin was quite proud to say they’d come out very nicely), Jon retrieved some red wine he’d gotten in the village and poured them both a glass. Then, as Martin was getting ready to sit down, Jon glanced around sheepishly, gesturing at an empty space on the kitchen counter.

“I, ah, normally I’d have a menorah to light. But obviously I didn’t bring one when we came up. And out here, well, it’s the same as with the gelt. No real place to buy one.”

“Oh,” Martin said, heart sinking. He reached out to squeeze Jon’s hand. “That’s a shame. I’m really sorry.”

“Really, I just wish I could show you,” Jon said, shaking his head as he took his seat at the table. “It’s really lovely. You light a new candle every night, and when they’re all lit . . . I’m sure it’d look nice here, especially.” He gestured at the space in front of the darkened kitchen window.

“Yeah,” Martin agreed, wistfully. He’d seen photos of menorahs before, and he could just picture it, he and Jon gathered around, lighting candle after candle as the eight nights passed.

“Well,” Jon said, turning back to face Martin at the table, “we may not have a menorah, but I can still do the blessing.”

“Blessing?”

“Yes. You’re supposed to do it while lighting the menorah, but, well. I’m sure this will do, given the circumstances.” Jon reached his hand across the table, and Martin took it.

“Alright.” Jon cleared his throat, almost self-consciously, and then began to sing in Hebrew, a melodic, practical tune that sounded comfortable and familiar on his tongue, like a well-worn shawl. “Barukh ata Adonai, Eloheinu, melekh ha’olam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav, v’tzivanu, l’hadlik ner, shel Hanukkah.”

Martin couldn’t really sing along to the words, but he nodded along to the melody, and when Jon was done he looked up at him and smiled, and Martin beamed back. They both raised their glasses and drank.

They ate heartily, or at least Martin did, because Jon kept shoving second and third bowls of soup at him, and insisting he finish off the latkes. Not that Martin was complaining, of course; it was all delicious, and Jon did praise him for how nice the latkes had come out.

They left the dirty dishes for later (or, knowing the two of them, tomorrow morning), and after dinner they went straight for presents. Though his options were limited without online shopping or anything outside of the tiny village, Martin had managed to find an adorable little painted china Highland cow in a local antiques shop.

“I know you think they’re cute,” Martin said as Jon lifted it out of the box.

“How did you know,” Jon deadpanned, but he grinned as he brought it up to his nose and stared at its little painted snout. “I love it, Martin, thank you.”

Jon had gone the homemade route, and knitted Martin a scarf. And a pair of mittens. And an entire bloody sweater.

“Oh my god, Jon,” Martin said, staring in disbelief at the mounds of knitwear before him. “How did you find time to do all this? How did you find time to do all this without me knowing?”

Jon looked away sheepishly. “I, uh, I’m a fast knitter.”

Martin shook his head fondly. Unbelievable. But he immediately took off the sweater he’d been wearing and pulled on the one Jon had made. It fit rather well and was as cozy as it looked. “Thank you, Jon,” he said, feeling the sleeves, knowing that every loop and stitch of the fabric had been purposeful. He could practically feel the care and love Jon had put into each one of them. “I love it,” he said, leaning over to kiss Jon at the corner of his eye.

“Well,” Jon said, cheeks darkening, “Happy Holidays, then.”

“Oh,” Martin said, rising from the sofa, “I’ve actually got one more thing. Sort of a last-minute gift.”

“Hm?”

Martin went over to the oven and took out the trays of rugelach. He’d checked them earlier to see if they were cooked through, but hadn’t gotten the chance to taste one yet. “Tried my hand at a bit of dessert,” he said, selecting a couple nice-looking ones and putting them on a plate for Jon to try.

Jon had followed Martin into the kitchen, and was staring at the pastries lined up on the trays. “Oh, well, thank you,” he said, surprised, taking the plate Martin handed to him. “What are they?”

Martin cocked his head at him. “Rugelach,” he said. Wasn’t it obvious?

Jon’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “Ah,” he said, voice strained with positivity. “Of course. Right.”

Martin was starting to get a sinking feeling in his stomach.

Gingerly, Jon took one of the rolled-up pastries, and bit into it.

Martin tried one as well. It was one of the chocolate ones, and it was . . . crunchy. Very crunchy. The chocolate, it seemed, had only partially melted in the oven, and the pastry dough itself was a bit hard to bite through. Besides that, it wasn’t very sweet, the chocolate being too dark and the dough being too salty.

He tried a cinnamon one. Again, the dough was crunchy, and the cinnamon was overpowering without any sweetness to it. Martin considered the possibility that perhaps he ought to have added sugar.

Jon, for his part, was doing his best impression of a person who was very much enjoying the pastry they were eating, honest. “Mmm,” he said, demonstratively, as he swallowed one of the cinnamon ones. “Thank you, Martin, these are . . . delicious.”

Jon was actually reaching for seconds, which Martin knew he was only doing to make him feel better, so he reached out a hand and placed it on Jon’s, stopping him short.

Jon looked up at him. Martin shook his head wordlessly. Jon cracked a smile.

“They’re not good,” Martin said, putting them back on the trays one by one.

“Martin--”

“It’s okay,” Martin said, smiling back at him, “I know. They’re rubbish. I didn’t even use a recipe, of course they were gonna turn out--”

“Well,” Jon said, stubbornly, “you tried. It’s the thought that counts. Thank you, Martin, really,” Jon said, bringing up Martin’s hand to kiss the back of it. “It was very sweet of you to put all this effort into it.”

“Next time, I’ll look up a recipe,” Martin said, bringing one of the trays over to the kitchen bin. Jon was quick to assist him.

“There’s seven nights of Hanukkah left,” Jon said, after a moment’s thought. “We can always try again. Tomorrow, we’ll get more ingredients, and I’ll show you how to do it properly. It really is easy, you just need . . . well. Sugar, for one.”

Martin laughed as he tossed the last of the batch away. “Okay. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

“I mean it, though,” Jon said, looking at him fondly. “Thank you. For this, and for the cow, and for sharing the holiday with me. It’s . . . this has been really . . .”

Jon was gesturing in the empty air, struggling for the proper word, but Martin understood well enough. “Yeah,” he said. “And thank you, for sharing it with me.” He pressed a kiss to Jon’s cheek.

“Happy Hanukkah, Jon.”

[nite-shay]

My Neighbor: Hawks - (Takami Keigo / Hawks x Reader

Funny Idea: Your neighbor is hawks. 

Winged hero: Hawks. One of the fastest and youngest heroes pro heroes. Number 2 in hero ranks and number 1 in most eligible bachelors in all of Japan. 

And drum roll, please! *Drummy sounds* Tada! He is your neighbor! Shocking, I know, right? The title totally doesn't give it away! Nope, not at all!

Anyways, you might be wondering, 'Nite! How did that happen?'

Well.. ya see... that funny story…

Also, sorry for any typo :) 

Enjoy!

Notes: reader is 20+. No warning. Mild rating.

****

"Please be fixed. Please be fixed. "You quietly prayed as you hesitantly reached for the handle that leads to the lobby of your apartment building. 

The leasing office sent out a mass email earlier, letting all the tenants know that the central air was 'currently out of order' and they are 'working quickly to resolve the issue.' At least they were 'extremely sorry for any inconvenience this may cause and appreciate the patience of all tenants.' 

They also explained how per the lease agreements, no discounts would be provided for maintenance issues and that the full rent would still be due. 

I really need to move…

It just had to go out right smack dab in the middle of summer. And on one of the hottest days on record, no less!

You took a deep breath and pushed open the door into what could only be described as a magma cavern. Nope, you weren't on a tropical island; this was just the lobby. Damn, if it was this hot here, you can't imagine what your apartment must feel like.

You trudged your way through the muggy lobby grabbing your mail on your way over to the stairwell. By the time you made up to the very top floor, you were out of breath and drenched in sweat. Honestly, it looked like you just took a dip in a pool. Your clothes clung to every part of your sticky, overheating body. Hell, you were just happy you didn't have a heat stroke by the time you reached your front door.  

You prayed your apartment would be cooler.

It wasn't!

It was giving the stairwell a run for its money. 

Oh, hell no... NOPE! Not dealing with this.

You marched through the doorway, making sure to lock the door behind you, not like it would make much of a difference. You didn't see or hear anyone on the trip up or in the hallways. No doubt the other residences did the smart thing and retreated for someplace much cooler. You tossed the stack of mail on your end table without checking it. You'd deal with it later. More than likely, the postal carrier had mixed them up again with the tenant next door.... again...

Later problem for later me! Cool now!

You barely made it to your living room before you started peeling your sweat-soaked clothes off. Thankfully you lived alone, so you didn't have to worry about shocking anyone as you made your way to your bedroom. Tossed your clothes in the hamper before slipping into the thinnest shorts and tank top you could find. You would have said to hell with clothes in general at this point, but if you were going to cool this place off, you need to get some airflow in this place asap. That means windows and doors need to be open. 

And for the next hour, that's what you did. Every window you had was open as far as they would go, along with the sliding glass door that led to your balcony. The breeze that flowed through your home was still hot and muggy, but it was then nothing. You also gather any and every fan you had, even the pitiful little desk fan that sounded like it was on its last leg. If it ocellated or moved air in any way, shape, or form, that bitch was on high!

It took a little bit, but it felt like you could breathe as the temperature started to drop. Of course, by then, you were on the verge of dehydration and also contemplated, more than once, curling up in your fridge until that accursed flaming ball of gas in the sky went down.  

But you had food in there, and you can't waste food. Damn it.

Speaking of food...

You enjoyed a large bowl of ice cream and about three glasses of water. You reveled in the coolness of the sweet treat in your stomach, which gave you motivation for your next venture.

 A nice cool shower. 

You let the cool water flow over your whole body for what seemed like forever. Letting it wash away the stress, heat, and sweat of the day right down the drain. By the time you were done, your fingers were pruney, and the sun had descended entirely.

Damn, you were tired.

You lazily dried yourself and considered just going to bed as you were. You were on the 15th floor of your apartment building, so it wasn't like you had to worry about anyone peeking in your window. But you still didn't feel comfortable sleeping naked with your windows opened, and you really didn't want to close them. 

After a short debate, you settled on a thin tank, and underwear was a good compromise. 

Your body felt sluggish as you made your track to your bedroom. It was still relatively early, but between your job and the heat, you were completely and utterly wiped. 

Bed... Sleep... 

You showed your bed no mercy as you tore the covers off the nicely made bed and tossed them across the room. Then with no grace whatsoever, you let yourself collapse into the cool embrace of your mattress. Between the comfort of your bed and the white-nose of the fans, it didn't take long for drifted off to sleep. 

***Later that night

The summer night air was hot and humid as the Wing hero: Hawks, flew high above the city. Even at the higher altitude, the air was so thick, it felt like he was swimming in a dense swamp rather than soaring through the sky. His whole body felt sore and heavy, so much so that he was actually an effort to keep himself afloat. 

Damn, that villain really did a number on me. One more hit, and my goose would have been cooked.

The shift today had been long and hard, thanks to a tough group of villains that left him banged up and exhausted. He ended up having to get patched up at a hospital. The doc that ended up putting him back together tried to get him to stay, but he managed to talk him into agreeing on releasing him. Though, he would have flown the coupe either way. He couldn't stand hospitals or clinics. Not that there was anything wrong with those places. They just reminded him too much of the commission. Orderly. Sterile. Functional. 

Which is nice for a hospital, not for life. He has almost 20 years of experience with it to make him an expert on that subject. 

Shit got old quick….

Though honestly, it wasn't like his place was much better. It was a simple bed, one bath apartment. Top floor, of course, with a balcony that looked over the inconspicuous neighborhood it was built in. Now being the number two hero, you'd think he makes enough to live somewhere a bit more… well, expensive. But while he did live the high life, it was nice to have a place he could go and just be Keigo, not Hawks.

And speaking of, he could see his balcony coming into view. 

He swooped down over the rallying, stumbling a bit in the landing. It was pitch black, and his eyes felt as heavy as his body. Thankfully, though, he didn't fallout then there. Camping wasn't his thing, and while the balcony was rather spacious, his bed sounded much more comfortable. 

Ahh, home sweet home. 

That's weird. Did I forget to lock the door again?

He shrugged, not giving it much thought. He'd been in a hurry this morning, getting called in for an emergency issue downtown. And it wasn't like the first time he'd forgotten to lock the door behind him. Plus, he lived on the top floor; it's not like he had to worry about people just walking in off the streets. 

Lot easier targets than his humble abode. 

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Damn, it was hot. He must have forgotten to turn the AC on this morning. The apartment was hot and muggy, but he honestly couldn't have cared less. An oven sounded like a good place to take a nap at this point. His body started moving on its own towards the bedroom, stripping out of his hero costume along the way.

Bed. Sleep. Bed. Sleep. Bed. Sleep.

His mind chanted over and over, clothes would be tomorrow's problem. He didn't even bother turning on any lights as he maneuvered through the living room and down the hallway. He'd lived there for over a year, so he knew the layout like the back of his hand.

By the time he made it to his bed, he was down to only his boxers. He was about to pull those down, too, but the moment his legs came in contact with the mattress, it was like whatever energy was left was drained out of him.

He sighed and let his body fall forward across the bed that would give him the sweet relief he so desperately needed. 

Thump!

Huh? Why did his mattress feel all lumpy?

A loud shriek jolted him back to life long enough to realize that he was not alone. That the lumps in his bed weren't his covers, but a body. 

There was a person in bed.

He shifted his weight, forcing himself up as the body under him started to trash and yell.

"Huh? What are you doing in my-" He managed to murmur out before a sharp pain to the side of his head finally did him in, and his mind gave in to the darkness of unconsciousness. 

********

Your dreams were a God sent.

You were in a winter wonderland. Cool snowflakes danced all around. A cool breeze would blow every now again. It was like you could hear the clinking sound of ice hitting the window. Oh, what was that? The sound of heavy snow falling from the tree limbs? How wonderful!

So wonderful. So peaceful. So cool.  

But everything changed when you were jolted awake by something pinning you to your bed. Whatever it was, was large, heavy, and sweaty. 

You shrieked as you realized it was a person! There was a person on top of you! You trashed about trying to push the weight off of you, but you couldn't seem to get them off you. You screamed louder and struggled harder until their weight shifted.

"Huh?" The voice above you was drowsy sounding definitely that of an adult male. Your panic doubled as he shifted again, giving you a little more wiggle room. You still couldn't get free, but you took the opportunity to reach for something, anything to defend yourself with. Like hell, you were going down without a fight! Finally, you managed to wrap your fingers around something large on your bedside table. "What are you doing in my-?" You didn't let your attacker finish as you bashed the lamp into the side of his head.

He let out a loud 'off' as he rolled off the bed, giving you enough time to scrabble to the opposite side of the bedroom, hitting the lights. 

Were those....wings? 

Peaking over the side of the bed was, in fact, crimson feathers.

Who or what the fuck is that?

*******

Hawk's head pounded as he slowly stirred.

Shit, did he get drunk last night?

Slowly he opened his eyes, wincing from the light flooding the room along the memories of the night before. That's weird; he didn't remember turning on any lights.

Was it morning already?

He went to stretch his sore, aching body but quickly realized he couldn't.

He glanced down at himself and saw that yeap he was in his boxers and tied- wait.... were those power cord and... belts?

He blinked. What the hell? His upper body was bound in what looked to be a mix of various power cords and belts. Did someone break into his place and attack him? 

Who in their right mind would break into his house? He was a hero! One of the top in the country! 

He sighed as he tested the 'ropes.' Well, if this was a robbery, it was poorly planned, to put it mildly. The assailant left his wings completely free, and the binding was so poorly tied that he could slip right, with little effort. 

A squeak of a floorboard caused his head to jerk up and glare at his attacker. A person carefully stepped into his view. And well, of all the things he'd been prepared for... you weren't it. And certainly not you, in nothing but your underwear, a tank top, and wielding a lamp like it was a baseball bat. 

Well... this is... unexpected.

He could only stare at you in confusion that years of training couldn't even stop. Huh? You didn't look like a villain, much less a burglar. Honestly, you didn't look like a fighter at all. 

If you weren't a villain, then...

He mentally groaned. 

Great. You were a fan... and a crazy one at that. 

Over his career, he's had a few run-ins with crazy or obsessed fans of his. He couldn't count the number of times he's had to change his phone number or move his safe house. Even with the commission on his side, his info still got out! 

Maybe they should start hiring them instead... 

Well... at least you were easy on the eyes. He thought as he gave you a once over. Your hair was a mess, and was that a bit of drool on your chin? 

Yeap, just another crazy yet fairly active fan.

"Hey there." He greeted you with a warm smile, causing you to jump. He needed to play this out some. Escaping wouldn't be a problem, and he already had a few feathers at the ready in case you tried something. But he was hoping it wouldn't come to that. As irritated as he was at you, he didn't want to hurt you. You weren't a villain, just... confused. "It's not every day, I wake up to beauty like you. How about you untie me so I can introduce myself properly."

He gave you a charming smile as he watched your face go from nervous to confused and then to anger.

"L-Like, hell, I'm telling you my name after what you did!" You took a step forward and raise your weapon up slightly higher, ready to strike. "And don't flirt with me, you creep!" 

Hmm, that usually works.

"My bad. I didn't mean to offend you. If you untie me, I'm sure I can figure out a few ways to make up for it." He winked, keeping his smile friendly and inviting. He needed to figure a way out of this that didn’t involve him hurting you or land him on every news station in the country. 

*****

"You're seriously fucked up in the head, you know that! I am not untying you!" You yelled as a blush slowly crept over your cheeks. You were shocked at the stones this guy had! He broke into your home and attacked you while you were asleep. And now he was flirting with you?! Like this, a date or something! 

Something in his eyes flashes for a split second, and you saw one of his wings twitch. 

Why did he keep looking at you like that?

"D-Don't try anything! The police are on their way!" At least you hoped they were. You hadn't been able to call them, cause stupid you forgot to put your phone to charge when you got home. It was completely dead. You could only hope one of your neighbors who stayed had neared the commotion and called for help. 

"Police?" His golden bird-like eyes went wide for a moment. Did he really think you wouldn't call for help?

"Yes, the police! You broke into my home and attacked me in my sleep! What did you just expect me to call for a parade?!"

"Wait…" You could see the gears turning in his head as he glanced around your room. His eyes suddenly went wide.

"So… you're not one of my fans?"

"Fan? WHY THE HELL WOULD I BE A FAN OF A PSYCHO LIKE YOU!?!"

"Wait! This is just a misunderstanding!"

"How the hell is breaking into someone's home, attacking them in their bed in the middle of the night a 'misunderstanding'?"

"Look, all I remember is flying home. Walking through my…" The man trailed off. "Wait, what address is this?"

"Like I'd give my address to a villain?" You scoffed and rolled your eyes.

"I'm already here like it's really going to make a difference?" He growled before giving you a glare. You watched as his wings poofed up a bit. "Also, watch the insults. I'm a hero, not a villain."

"Likely story." You deadpanned. "You could at least come up with something more believable than that..."

"W-wait... You don't recognize me?" You gave him a once over. "Take a really good look at me." His wings stretched out a bit. "Anything thing ring a bell?" You just stared at him blankly. Granted, he was good looking, and if he wasn't a criminal, he could easily be on the cover of a magazine. "Seriously?"

"Pretty convenient of you to pick the home of someone who doesn't follow heroes, huh?"

"More like, inconvenient. If you did, you'd recognize me in a heartbeat." He sighed. "Look, just check my pants pocket. You'll find my credentials." 

"How do I know this isn't just a trick? Or maybe they're fake." 

"It's not a trick! Look, if you're that worried, just get your phone and google me. I'm the wing hero: Hawks." Huh? Why would he suggest that? He wouldn't know about your phone... so why would he tell you to get it? You could call for help. That should be the last thing he wants. You pondered for a moment. 

****

"Fine, I'll check. But this better not be a trick," You paused. "cause if it is, I got another lamp with your name on it!" He watched as you gradually made your way towards his discarded clothes. While you searched for his wallet, he glanced over to the shattered remains of what he assumed was your first weapon. 

Well, that explains the small blood trail on the side of his head and his headache. 

Finally, after what felt like forever, you found it. You made your way back to him as he watches you juggle, keeping your on him, holding the lamp, and reading his ID. 

"Hero license, Hero: Hawks, Name: Takami Keigo." You mumbled as your eyes darted between the ID's picture and himself. He could still see the doubt in your eyes. Damn, if this didn't work, he was going to have to free himself. Hopefully, he'd be quick enough to do that and subdue you without hurting you much. "Wait… Takami… Keigo.." Your eyes went wide, and he had to admit, his name sounded a little too good coming from you. "Wait! That's the name on the mail that keeps getting put in my box!" A look of realization and shock washes over you. "You're my neighbor!"

"Ah, so you're the one that's been slipping my mail under my door!" He couldn't help but smile and sigh internally. Finally, somethings going right! " Nice to finally meet you! Sorry I haven't had a chance to introduce myself before now. Work keeps me pretty busy."

"You're a hero… and you're my neighbor…." Your eyes were wide as you stared at him. 

"Looks that way."

"THEN WHY THE FUCK DID YOU BREAK INTO MY HOME!"

"It was an accident! I swear! I was exhausted and just flew to the wrong balcony. Honest. The glass door was open, and I didn't even realize I was in the wrong place." He tried to reason with you.

"Didn't you think it was a little strange that the furniture wasn't yours, or how about the fact that I was IN the bed?"

"Like I said, I was exhausted." He just shrugged before mumbling. "And well, let's just say you wouldn't be the first time a fan found where I lived and tried to surprise me in bed."

".... so you thought I was some psycho who broke into your home just to try and sleep with you…" You glared at him, clearly annoyed. "You realize I'm still holding a weapon right now, and remember..." You gestured with the lamp. "I gotta pretty mean swing..."

"Easy there, Chickadee. I'm joking. And I wouldn't call you psycho just... A little touched in the head." That earned him a glare that made him chuckle. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding."

"You like pissing people off, don't you?"

"I've been known to ruffle some feathers from time to time." 

"Look," You sighed as you tried to process everything that just happened. "This is just... too much..." You sat the lamp down finally. "Damn, I'm sorry."

"No worries. This one on me." He made a move to stand. 

"Oh, here, let me..."

"All good, I got it." He stood up, letting the restraints fall off of him like they weren't even there, let alone tied. 

"H-how did y-you?" 

"Oh, yeah. Word of advice, ya might wanna work on knots." He chuckled as he stretched.

"Y-You could have gotten free at any time… why didn't you?"

"Like I said, I'm a hero." He walked forward while you moved to the side, eyes still wide-eyed." If I'd freed myself before you realized who I was, you would have freaked out. Honestly, the last thing I want is for you to get hurt or you to go screaming down the hallway in your underwear." He informed you as your face turned beet red, and you then tried to pull your shirt down. He laughed at the poor attempt to hide. "Well then, gotta say this would make a hell of a story, but I'd really appreciate it if we kept this between us." He could help but tease you more. You looked so damn cute when you're flustered. "Not to brag or anything, but I'm a pretty well-known hero and have a reputation to uphold." He sent out a few of his feathers to help gather his gear while he talked to you. You were so entranced watching his feathers work that he had to repeat himself again.

"I-I-I… Yes!" Your eye finally snapped back into focus on him. "Of course! Just between us!"

"Great! Glad that's settled." He took a step towards you and held out his hand. You finally got the message and handed his wallet back to him. "My superiors and PR would have my tail feathers if this got out." He ginned. "Well, would you look at the time!" He grinned while making his way to the sliding glass door and out to the balcony, his floating clothes trailing behind him. "Best be on my way. I have an early shift in the morning. Sweet dream angle." And with that, he stepped out to the balcony and fluttered over to his.

Damn, what a night!

*****

Extra:

The next morning.

You woke up late, groggy and sweaty. The AC was still out, and your apartment was slowly heating up. 

With a heavy sigh, you forced yourself out of bed, put on shorts, and headed to the kitchen.

Last night was a hell of a night. 

Your neighbor is a hero... 

What are the odds of that?

You reached up into your cabinet and pulled down your favorite cereal.

Whatever, he can't be that good if he made that big of a mistake, right?

You quickly made your breakfast and headed for your balcony. There was a slight breeze blowing that morning, making it almost bearable outside.

Almost...

Huh? What's that?

There was a large brown bag sitting on your patio table.

That wasn't there before...

You sat your bowl down and picked it up. Whatever it was, it was a decent size and heavy. You opened the bag, and the first thing you found was a note.

'Sorry again about last night. Here's a little gift for you to make up for it. 

Bet you could do some real damage with this one. Batter up, chickadee!

Your neighbor,

-Hawks'

You reached further into the bag and pulled out... a lamp?

It was made out of wood and metal, making the damn thing large and pretty heavy. It was well made and couldn't have been cheap! You pulled it further out of the back, and when you saw the shape of the body, you couldn't help it: you busted out laughing. The damn thing was in the shape of a roaster!

Your neighbor... is a hero... and a strange one at that...

********

Thanks for the read! If you want see the other stuff I’ve done, click the link bellow!

MasterList

[everlarkficexchange]

Not today

Written by: @emilia206

Prompt 4: Trope: Jealousy Katniss. Modern AU Katniss Everdeen sees his ex boyfriend as the date of one of her coworkers in the company party. She shouldn’t care, because she broke with him, one year ago and still…. when their song plays, against her better judgements, she finds herself dancing with him. [submitted by @alwayseverlark] 

Rating: Mature

Word count: 8062

British lingo you might be unaware of:

A-Level’s - Last form of examination before students go off to university. 

Ladbrokes - betting shop

Tesco - food store

(If I left anything out, let me know)

A/N: Thank you to my wonderful beta @melting-starlight, on ao3 she’s Starlight_Wren.

Forlorn, she stares down at her lager, it’s the first moment of quiet she’s had since she entered the pub. Plutarch had been the first to drag her away, talking about everything from what his lunch was like to how much the station was missing her shows. She had only been able to nod and smile, making agreeable noises at the appropriate times, but otherwise letting all of his words wash over her. Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, Plutarch had bustled off through the crowd to go talk to another unsuspecting colleague. She had tried to crane her neck over the other patrons’ head, to see if she could spot either Johanna or Annie, the only reason she had relented and come to this thing. But before she could make any discernible recognition, Fulvia, Plutarch’s right hand woman, had sidled up behind her, saying that they simply must ‘catch up’. Ever straight to the point though, she had skipped pleasantries and gone right to the heart of the matter. What had she been doing this past year? 

The answer was a pretty simple one, but for some reason that escaped Katniss, it needed lots of explanation. She had spent close to forty-five minutes getting her brain picked apart. Trying, to no avail, to explain to the silly woman the exact reason she had uprooted her and left everything behind to travel all over the globe. Meeting new people, not many, but some. Enough people, Katniss thought. At first, there hadn’t really been a point in it, other than she had to get away from the shit show that was her life. Five years she’d worked at that stupid radio station, blathering on about meaningless things that made her mind fog up with the mundanity of it all. And all she had gotten out of it was a small damp flat in the north of London, with expensive bills and an insufferable landlord. Five years of only seeing her little sister once, twice if she was lucky, a year. Five years of shattered dreams and a dead end job. And still, this woman could not understand why she would want to leave. Of course Katniss never said any of this to Fulvia, but it had been swimming around her head throughout the entirety of the conversation. Instead, she had given watered down reasons and held her tongue as Fulvia had gone on to say, “But what about that boyfriend of yours? I remember him being so supportive…” 

She didn’t want to get into that, how she had left him behind. It had been a year and the wound that it had inflicted still ran too deep, was too painful to get into. Especially with nosy, judgy Fulvia. So, she had politely excused herself from the conversation, taking to the bar and ordering herself an overpriced pint. Fantastic. It wasn’t like she was strapped for cash or anything. 

Having given up on searching for Annie and Johanna at this nightmarish reunion, she had found herself a quiet corner in the buzzing room, sitting on a lumpy sofa and setting her drink down on an aged wooden table that had ring marks on the surface from drinks overspilling. It wasn’t often that she thought about Peeta, having long since trained her mind to immediately turn and run in the other direction if any thoughts began leading her down that painful path. But now, with Fulvia bringing him up, and being surrounded by people who had all been privy to their relationship, it was only inevitable that she should think of him. Specifically, the last time she had seen him.

 —————————–

His face had closed off, completely shuttering all emotions that would otherwise flick across his face. And still, as he stood, staring blankly at her, she continued talking. Trying to explain herself, explain why she just had to leave.

“Please Peeta, believe me when I say it isn’t you,” she whispered, “I just feel so trapped in my own life, and I feel as if I don’t leave now, I never will get anywhere.”

“What about us?” he replied, tone blank and neutral, but still betraying the underlying anger and confusion.

She shook her head sadly, tears falling unbidden from her eyes. Desperately wanting him to hold her and tell her it would be alright, but needing him to stay well away from her so that she could do this. Finish this, clean and precise as Johanna had told her to do it. 

“Right,” Peeta said, voice hollow.

They stood there, silence engulfing the little flat. It was never silent in there, the generators downstairs always humming, her boiler constantly gurgling away, but it seemed even these held their breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

“I think you should leave now,” Katniss said to her feet, not daring to look up at his face. 

She stood in her kitchen, stock still, as if any movement from her would cause her to break and shatter on the linoleum tiles of the floor. She listened as Peeta collected his toothbrush and spare clothes. Katniss flinched at the sense of finality she felt when the door banged shut.

 ————————-

Their break-up had been anything but clean and precise, and it wasn’t a wonder considering that Katniss had been at the helm of it. It was ironic, really, that for five years, her income had depended on her being able to talk for hours about nonsensical things, always upbeat and on the ball for the listeners chiming in, but when it came to her own boyfriend, she hadn’t been able to get the words out right. She had made him think that it was him that was suffocating her, when in actuality it was everything. She was pushing thirty and already she could feel herself stagnating. 

She wished that she could do it again, try not to make such a mess of it as she had done. How could she have known, though, the profound affect it seemed to have had on Peeta? He had always been so supportive of her decisions, only asking that she open up to him and be honest. Of course she hadn’t expected him to be completely OK with her decision, but she had been hoping that he would at least understand her reasoning. Instead, he had been angry and confused, perhaps even rightfully so, before he had completely shut down becoming cold and distant in the moments prior to him slamming out of her little home.

“Penny for your thoughts?” a perky voice said next to her, pulling Katniss out of her reverie. 

Looking up, Katniss couldn’t help but smile at the big brown eyes that were peering down at her. Rue. Her intern from a year ago. She didn’t look much different,  just a little older and worse for wear. But that’s what this job did to you, lured you in with promises of bigger and better ahead, before getting you trapped and very much stuck. 

“You don’t want to know,” Katniss replied, shuffling over and making space for the young woman.

“Oh, and why’s that?” Rue asked, her lips quirked upwards in a smile.

“Neither thinking, nor talking about it will solve a thing,” she mumbled down at her glass before taking a prolonged drink from it. She reveled in the fizz and slightly bitter taste as it washed down her throat. 

“Well, if you’re gonna be all closed off to me, your favourite intern, I’ll let you in on all of my issues to date,” Rue said, taking a sip from her own glass.

Katniss smirked. It was true that Rue was her favourite intern, but that wasn’t exactly a feat. Most interns that Katniss had been given the responsibility of taking care of had been so awful that they were fired within their first two weeks of working at the station. 

“So, remember how you warned me before you left, that this job ‘will suck me dry of all inspiration and motivation’ whilst also ‘dashing my dreams and love for the craft’ but not before ‘restricting what me on what I can talk about, and instead giving me stupid shows that will make me want to die’?” Rue paused, taking a drink from her pint.

“Yes, I do recall telling you all of those things, I assume you’ve come to the conclusion that I was correct and that you should have saved yourself while you could,” Katniss said, trying not to gloat at the fact that she was at least right about something, and it wasn’t just her overreacting and being dramatic.

 Rue nodded her head vigorously, her corkscrew curls bouncing, “Well, I’ll be honest. At the time, I thought you were just being dramatic, or maybe you were bitter about something, but you really were so right. I can’t get anyone to take me seriously or invest in any bigger show ideas, or get them to take on or promote more obscure artists. The sponsors continuously overlook me so that they can pour more money into presenters who have a body to boot. Even though that shouldn’t matter, ‘cause we’re on a fucking radio, nobody is looking at the face or body behind the voice anyway!”

 “And as soon as I try to get Plutarch or Fulvia to give me a recommendation so that I can move to something a little more low key and less industrious, they tell me that I shouldn’t leave, that I have so much potential, and that it would be such a waste for me to go do something less mainstream, because how will I ever be recognised then?” Rue finished with a defeated groan, flopping back against the leather cushions. 

Looking up at the ceiling, Rue asked, “How’d you get out? I mean for me, it’s just an endless cycle of early mornings, playing music that makes my ears bleed, and frustration that after all my hard work, I’ve just become another peppy girl on the radio.”

Katniss snorted at this, “Depressing, isn’t it? After all the analysing of different styles of music and poetry, it amounted to this.”

“Fuucckk,” Rue groaned at the ceiling fans, “It’s depressing because it’s so painfully true. Do you know how many hours I spent holed up in my room studying for my Music and English A-Levels just so I could at least get a seven, and now I’m stuck here.”

Katniss nodded her head, “Only ‘cause I did the same thing though. What were we thinking?”

“Ugh, I know! My mum told me that this was an ‘unsustainable career path’. I hate to say it, but I think she may have had a point.”

A crash came from the other side of the room, effectively interrupting their mutual venting session, a clattering of glasses fell to the floor and shattered, causing both Katniss and Rue to jump before turning around to see what happened. A flustered waiter apologised profusely to a skimpy blonde who looked upon him with narrowed green eyes, and a stain that looked an awful lot like red wine spilled on her yellow dress. The few people who had been applauding the waiters slip up began to slow their claps when they realised that the unfortunate woman who now had a stain across the front of her dress, was not taking it on the chin as it were. In fact, she looked like she was a few seconds from throwing a fit.

“Oof, would not want to be that guy,” Rue remarked, “Glimmer looks about ready to go get his ass fired.”

Katniss turned to look at Rue, who was leaning her chin on the back of the sofa, “How’d you know her name?”

Rue made a face, “She’s a presenter at the radio station, she does the show that Annie used to do.” 

“Shit, really,” Katniss said, blowing air through her teeth to make a low whistling sound. “That show was one of the more popular ones.”

“Still is. Rumour has it that the company hired her to replace Annie, who was making noises to leave, so they sent her Glimmer as an intern. Annie left a week later, claiming that the work environment had become insufferable.”

Katniss had turned back to watch as the waiter bent to pick up the broken glass, whilst so-called Glimmer rolled her eyes impatiently at another waiter who was handing her paper towels to try wipe up the mess on her dress. While watching, Katniss listened intently to what Rue was saying, “People weren’t surprised when she quit. Glimmer is quite literally the epitome of a toxic work environment.”

“Oh well, this just makes me all the more glad that I left,” Katniss said. Annie had emailed her when she’d quit, but hadn’t given a reason why. At the time, Katniss had just assumed it was because both Johanna and herself had already left, but this must have been the breaking point for her. 

“Oh, she’s not even the worst of it,” Rue said, a cynical smile touching her lips as they watched another woman with jet black hair and pinched features walk up to Glimmer, she took the paper towels from the waitress and threw them down to the floor, yelling something unintelligible, “That’s Clove. As you can see, she’s got quite a temper on her. She’s the one who replaced Johanna as DJ. The two of them together are quite… formidable.”

Katniss turned in her seat to grab her drink from the table so she could drink and watch this scene unfold in front of her. She would be lying if she said that it wasn’t just a teeny bit entertaining. Taking a sip from her mellowing beer, she almost choked when she saw who was joining the show. Blond ashen curls, broad shoulders, and a slight limp from a rugby injury that had never quite healed. It was Peeta. Her Peeta, consoling this shallow, pitiful, blonde bimbo. 

She could feel Rue’s eyes on her, watching for a reaction. Katniss swallowed painfully, oblivious to the taste, eyes glued to what was happening in front of her very eyes. Maybe it wasn’t him. It couldn’t possibly be him. There was no way, absolutely no fucking way, that the Peeta Mellark that she had known all throughout secondary school, was even remotely affiliated with such a cow. Deep down, Katniss knew that she was possibly being a little harsh, but jealousy, lots of it, was rearing its ugly green head, skewing her opinions.

“Yeah, and then there’s that,” Rue uttered, “reason number fuck knows what as to why I ‘strongly dislike’ Glimmer.”

Katniss breathed deeply, shoving down the irrational, possessive anger that was overcoming her. She cleared her throat, which had become exceptionally tight in the last two minutes, “Are they… an item?”

“I wouldn’t say so,” Rue said, turning around to face the other way again, “as far as I know, they’re just fuck buddies. Who knows, though, maybe he does the wine and dining as well.”

Katniss, following suit, also turned around, sitting stoically, and taking slow sips from her sweating drink. “So he’s fucking her.”

Rue nodded, sighing a little as she did so, “I know it might not be my place to comment-”

“It probably isn’t then,” Katniss interrupted, wanting very much to go back to her hotel room now.

  “But,” Rue continued, “you were really fucking dense to let that man walk away from you. I have no idea what happened between the two of you, but even I can appreciate that ass, and oh my god those shoulders,” she pretended to fan herself, before turning incredulous, “and he’s not even my type.”

Katniss snorted at this, turning around for a quick second, to survey the specimen that was now patting down an incensed Glimmer. She couldn’t deny that he still looked sexy as fuck. He definitely seemed to have fared this year a little better than her. Turning back around, she looked down at what she was wearing. A simple dress that she’d bought from a charity shop when she was sixteen, it was light blue and the material was soft and light, perfect for the humid weather that London summers were, but it did look as if it might be on its last legs. Her hair was loose for once, and hung in ebony waves down her back, but otherwise she hadn’t made much of an effort, as could be seen by her scruffy trainers and mismatched socks. She didn’t need to impress these people anyway. 

“Yeah, stupid indeed,” Katniss muttered. 

They sat there then, silence washing over them, until the unmistakable sound of a speaker system being plugged in echoed throughout the crowded room. Katniss looked up to see her friend climbing up onto the bar, a little wobbly on her feet, but her voice was commanding no less.

“Alrighty, I’ve been asked to do a little set tonight, but because I forgot to set up a good playlist that will please all of you old folk, I’ll be taking requests,” she made to get off the bar, but paused mid-step hollering across the room, “And if I think your song request is shit I won’t play it, feel free to take it personally.”

Katniss didn’t really care much for the offer to request music, she was just relieved to know that Johanna had, in fact, shown up. She had been wondering whether either of her ex-work-colleagues had actually bothered. Knowing that Johanna was here, though where she’d been all night was something Katniss would like to know, meant that Annie was probably here as well. 

Rue, on the other hand, immediately got up. Kissing Katniss on the cheek, she proclaimed, “Oh, I have a song that Jo simply must play.” 

She walked off into the crowd, but abruptly turned back, looking down at Katniss, who was still cocooned in the soft leather of the sofa, “Also, if you get any interesting job offers don’t be scared to recommend me,” with a wink, she waltzed off again.

Alone once again, and trying desperately to distract herself from the ‘pat down’ Peeta was assuredly still giving Glimmer, Katniss gulped down the rest of her pint, before standing to go get another. 

Waiting at the bar for the barmaid to get to her drink, she tapped out a rhythm on the polished wood. Distracted, she almost didn’t notice the familiar opening chords to a song she hadn’t let herself listen to in a year. 

Johanna’s voice sounded over the speaker system, “For all you lovesick idiots here tonight, Don’t Stop Believin’ by Journey.”

Katniss’ breath stilled in her chest, this must have been some sick joke the universe was playing on her. Despite herself, Katniss searched the room for the familiar face that she had once danced to this with at prom. Scanning the crowd, her eyes finally landed on a seemingly just as stunned Peeta Mellark, his face so pale and pinched he looked like he was about to throw up. He, too, looked to be scanning the crowd. He couldn’t know that she was here, could he? She knew  that she should probably shrink back into the shadows, or, better yet, vacate the premises and head back to her hotel room, to avoid any unnecessary drama that she most certainly did not need. Yet, against her better judgement, she stood her ground, not actively looking to be seen, but not hiding from sight either. 

Her eyes stayed on him, noticing with a missed beat of her heart that Glimmer and Clove were both conspicuously absent. The song had already passed the first verse when Peeta’s eyes finally locked on hers. His eyes widened in surprise, but beneath it was still the same warmth and affection that had always been. Her sharp intake of breath told her all she needed to know, those baby blues could still make her knees weak, could still make her feel like she was adrift and untethered in a desolate ocean, with him being the only tether to reality. Their gazes locked on one another as the second verse began;

A singer in a smoky room

The smell of wine and cheap perfume

Peeta’s eyes stared holes into her, and for a moment it was as if no time had passed, as if he was standing on the other side of the school’s assembly hall as an entire year group of nervous sweaty eighteen year olds danced the evening away to overplayed 80’s tracks. Katniss was even greeted with the familiar erratic beating of her heart, wishing and hoping that he’d just bottle up the nerve and ask her already!

That night, she had been the one to walk across the dance floor to ask him to dance, but tonight, it seemed it would be Peeta who would take the first tentative steps towards her.

For a smile they can share the night

It goes on and on, and on, and on

 Drink forgotten, Katniss stepped away from the bar, walking towards the people already congregating to dance on a small open space on the floor. The first chorus sounded through the room;

Strangers, waitin’

Up and down the boulevard

Their shadows

Searchin’ in the night

Streetlights, people

Livin’ just to find emotion

Hidin’ somewhere in the night

They met in the middle, and Katniss looked up at him through her lashes. 

“For old times sake,” Peeta murmured down to her, offering his hand.

She tried not to let his remark sting, that their relationship is in fact in the past. That he had moved on from her, that she should too. But falling into his arms, head resting over his breast bone listening to his heart thumping away, letting him sway them to the music, felt so natural and familiar. The tears stung behind her eyes, and she bit her lip to stop herself from sobbing out loud. She didn’t want to be sad, to mar this song with her regrets, when it was accompanied by so many good and happy memories. Of the two of them messing around in his kitchen, or her bedroom. 

So, she swallowed down her tears, and let herself fall back in time to when things were simpler. Letting the music and words wash over her, rejuvenating her weary soul.

Workin’ hard to get my fill

Everybody wants a thrill

Payin’ anything to roll the dice

Just one more time

Some will win

Some will lose

Some were born to sing the blues

Oh, the movie never ends

It goes on and on, and on, and on

She laughed when he spun her, then recaptured her in his arms. He swooped low, before lifting them back up and spinning them in slow circles. 

Strangers waitin’

Up and down the boulevard

Their shadows

Searchin’ in the night

Streetlights, people

Livin’ just to find emotion

Hidin’ somewhere in the night

She took the lead, moving them faster, along to the tune of the song. Pulling away from his embrace, but holding on to his hands, as she spun herself to lean her back against his chest with his arms crossed protectively over her.

Don’t stop believin’

Hold on to that feelin’

Streetlight, people

Don’t stop, believin’

Hold on

Streetlights, people

As the song began to slow again, and Steve Perry ad-libbed his way through the end of the song, Peeta turned her again so that they were pressed chest to chest. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and their steps became so minuscule they could do it on a pie plate if they wished to do so. She stared up into his bottomless blue eyes, a genuine smile lighting up her face for the first time this evening. 

“I missed you,” he whispered.

Her smile faltered slightly, and she looked down, ashamed at how easily she had let herself fall back into his arms. The moment of magic had ended, and she was thrown back into the icy cold reality of her life. For christ’s sake they hadn’t spoken in a year, and now suddenly they were dancing and laughing on the dance floor!

Don’t stop believin’

Hold on to that feelin’

Streetlight, people 

He turned them one last time. He leant his cheek on the top of her head, sighing quietly as if knowing about the beratement Katniss was giving herself in her head. He swayed them as the song faded out. She pulled away, chancing a glance up at his face. The pain she had inflicted onto him shone through his eyes, and though it killed her to do it, she could only pull further out of his arms, backing away. He watched after her, arms limp at his sides, and she turned, pushing through the crowd.

“Oi, watch it!” Someone called after her as she shoved past people. 

Finally, after stepping on numerous toes and elbowing a few people in the sides, she made it over to the makeshift DJ table. Johanna was leaning against it, chewing on a toothpick as she announced in a lazy drawl the next song. Behind her shoulder she could see Annie leaning heavily into some guy with bronzed curls and tanned skin, Katniss thought that she had seen him before in a couple of Annie’s instagram posts. 

“Ahhh, Brainless,” Johanna called out when she spotted a breathless Katniss standing before the table, “here to make a song request? Maybe another one that you can dance to with lover boy.”

“What the fuck, Jo?” Katniss cried out, “Did you put that song on just to mess with my head? ‘Cause it sure as hell worked.” Katniss ran her shaking hands through her hair, not caring if she messed it up, or if it got tangled. 

Johanna raised her eyebrows in surprise, “Wait, you don’t actually believe I put that song on, do you?”

“Well, who else, Johanna?!” 

“I didn’t even know you were here up until five minutes ago, let alone him!” Johanna spat out, incredulity lacing her voice, “And besides, I’m only taking requests this evening. I did let everyone know,” she sniffed, rolling her eyes.

“Ok fine, if it wasn’t you, then who?” Katniss hissed, “Because I will start throwing arms if I have to, Jo.”

“Jeez, don’t get your knickers all in a twist, it was only a little dancey,” Johanna teased. Looking at Katniss’ bemused face, she relented, “If you promise to not beat the living lights out of her, I’ll tell.”

“‘Kay fine, I promise,” Katniss said, her anger subsiding a little. Whoever it was, it wasn’t their fault that she couldn’t just leave when she definitely should have, “Just tell me who.”

Johanna nodded her head in the direction of the bar, Katniss followed her gaze, eyes greeted with an apologetic looking Rue. Rue grimaced a little, apparently having watched Katniss’ outburst. At least she looked sorry, Katniss thought. 

Her anger having dissipated, the feeling of regret and sadness settled cold and heavy in her stomach. She deflated against the table, feeling very tired all of a sudden, “I need a smoke,” she muttered, “Lighter,” she held out her hand.

Johanna grumbled under her breath, fishing through her pockets for a lighter. “Give it back after,” she warned, slapping it into Katniss’ outstretched palm.

Katniss weaved her way through the crowds once more, being a little more careful to not piss off so many people this time, until she got to the coat rack next to the door. The coat rack itself was leaning over under the weight of all the coats draped over the top of it. After some digging around, Katniss found her light jean jacket and pulled it out from underneath the mountain of others piled up on top of it. Pulling it on, she pushed open the door to the pub and stepped out into the night. 

It looked like the sun had just gone down, streaks of orange fading into the sky as dusk settled over the stinking, sweltering city. It had cooled off quite a bit from earlier, and Katniss huddled herself further into her jacket, trying to leech off any residual warmth from it. She walked down the shallow stone steps,  found herself a place to light her cigarette. Leaning against the cold brick wall behind her, not caring if she got her coat or dress dirty. She fished a loose cigarette out of her coat pocket, and lit the fag, taking a long drag from it, breathing it back out into the cooling air.

“Those things kill, you know,” A voice sounded from behind her. She scowled at how it made her heart leap hopefully in her chest. 

“I know,” she almost growled, wanting him to fuck off back to Glimmer already. She couldn’t deal with having him thrust back into her life, pretending like nothing happened between them. Like she hadn’t irreparably fucked up their entire relationship, just because she felt ‘claustrophobic’.

“I thought you were quitting?” Peeta asked, walking to stand next to her and pulling out his own cigarette. 

She passed him Johanna’s lighter, “You can’t talk,” she snorted as she watched him light his, “And anyway, I am. I just keep emergency ones in all of my coats, and in a few of my trousers.”

Peeta laughed at this, “Yeah, sure does sound like you’re quitting.”

“Hey,” she protested, “I never keep a lighter on me, that way I have to ask someone, and then they’re also accountable for my inevitable lung cancer.”

Peeta’s eyebrows rose at this, and he took a puff from his own cancer stick, “Oh yeah, and how long did it take you do that mental gymnastics.”

Katniss only rolled her eyes, and they both stood next to each other staring out at the street. They watched as a bus pulled up at the stop, and an old man stumbled out, hobbling into the Ladbrokes opposite. A siren blared somewhere in the distance. Two extremely drunk men sat on the steps a good ten metres away from them, but were loud enough for their slurred words to reach the two.

“Listen Katniss, about before,” Peeta started, breaking their comfortable silence, “I didn’t mean to make you feel crowded or guilty, or anything like that.” He looked to her, but she stared resolutely ahead, taking slow small puffs from her cigarette.

“It’s fine,” she finally said, “forget about it. I probably shouldn’t have even danced with you in the first place, what with you being with Glimmer and all.”

“Ah, shit,” Peeta breathed out, “I didn’t think you knew about that.”

“Yeah well, I do,” Katniss snapped. 

Peeta looked as if he wanted to say something, but Katniss cut him off before he could, “I really don’t want to know.”

Peeta nodded his head. They were quiet for a moment.

“I mean, it’s not like you’re not allowed anyway,” Katniss said, scuffing the toe of her already scruffy trainer against the cracked pavement.

Peeta huffed out a bemused, short-lived laugh, “Care to explain that, whilst we’re out here talking civilly?”

“What?” Katniss asked, “Are you asking why I broke up with you?”

Peeta nodded his head once more.

Katniss sighed, “I feel like I’ve told myself and everyone around me the same explanation about a million times, but standing here it doesn’t feel like enough.”

“Well, that’s convenient,” Peeta whispered.

Katniss sighed, trying not to sound too exasperated. What’s it to him anyway, she thought. “Look Peeta, I told you before, and I’ll say it again. It wasn’t you.”

“Doesn’t mean I’ll ever stop asking myself if I did something,” Peeta said.

Katniss finally turned to look up at him, as he stared up at the darkening sky, searching it for the few visible stars, “We’re not even thirty yet, Peeta, I’m not ready to settle. I wasn’t last year, and I definitely am not this year. And I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if you told me you weren’t ready yet either, and you’re allowed to be with whoever you want, even if it is someone as silly and shallow as Glimmer. I guess it’s better to get your mid-life crisis out the way now,” she said with a smirk, before sobering and adding quietly, “I’m not completely oblivious Peeta, it’s not like I don’t see her appeal.”

Peeta looked down at her, opening his mouth, she was sure, to deny that Glimmer’s big boobs were the reason. She held up her hand to stop him, “Who knows though, maybe someone’ll convince me to come to this thing again next year, and I’ll see you again. Hopefully with someone other than Glimmer. And just like this year, I’ll steal you for a dance, and then lure you outside for a smoke, and we’ll catch up,” she paused for dramatic affect, stealing herself for what she was going to say next, “After that, you’ll kiss me, right up against the cold brick wall,” she watched as Peeta’s eyes widened at her bold statement.

  Maybe it was her pint of beer that had made her so free and uncaring with her sentiments. Though Katniss would never describe herself as a lightweight, she admitted to herself that it had been a good six weeks since she’d had a proper drink. On second thought, she remembered the last time she drank before tonight being a little over a week ago, and it had been a cider. She grimaced at the thought. Fuck, she mused, when did I become a lightweight? Peeta cleared his throat uncomfortably, prompting her to continue, but unsure of whether she was finished or not. Katniss mentally shook herself before finishing in a low, sultry voice, “Just like you’re going to do this year.”

 “Fuck,” Peeta breathed out, and Katniss watched him visibly struggle to swallow. She tried, and failed, to suppress her smug little smirk, that she could still affect him like this. It eased the green beast within her, the one that had wanted to stamp her foot and cry out earlier when she had witnessed Peeta wiping down the front of Glimmer’s dress. She shook her head. She didn’t want to think of Glimmer, Peeta was out here with her now, that must count for something, right?

“Are you, umm - being serious?” Peeta stuttered, and despite herself Katniss grinned at how flustered he was getting, the pink staining his cheeks betraying how agitated he really was, “Or are you just pulling my leg?”

Katniss took a long drag from her fag, sucking on it until it was down to the stub, “Do I look like I’m joking, Mellark?” 

She watched as his pupils dilated even more in the darkening night, until the blue of his irises were only thin rings around the black pits of his desire. She reveled in being able to do this to him still, after all this time. It comforted her, in a weird, possessive, unhealthy sort of way.

 “No,” he whispered, voice hoarse and barely audible. He dropped his cigarette on the floor, not even bothering to stamp it out before stepping forwards. Large hands came to a rest on her waist, pushing her further back against the wall. She bit back a slight moan at the way he seemed to shelter her, the stark contrast of the cold wall behind her, nipping at the backs of her legs, and the heat that enmantend from his body and radiated onto her. She took a deep shuddering breath, pushing her chest upwards against his. Her hand shook slightly as she stubbed out the remnants of her cigarette against the wall next to her, before letting it fall to the ground as well. 

Their faces were so close now, their mouths only a hair’s breadth apart, all it would take is for one of them to lean in, to close the tantalisingly small space between them. “Tell me you want me to,” Peeta uttered, breath fanning her face. She bit her lip, a sly grin gracing her features.

She leant up on her tiptoes, tracing a path to his ear lobe with her breath, “Peeta Mellark, I want you to kiss me up against this brick wall, until I’m breathless and my knees are weak.” 

 He groaned loudly, and she was about to tell him to be quiet when his lips descended greedily on hers. Knocking the breath right out of her, as he sucked and bit tenderly against first her top and then her bottom lip. She whimpered, admitting to herself that she had missed the way it felt to be kissed by someone who cared. Who didn’t just do it as a way to get into her underwear. 

It was his turn to smile smugly, he pulled away from her, and she chased his lips with her own. Wanting them back, wanting him to plunge and plunder. She huffed out a frustrated growl when he moved even further away. She opened her eyes, taking in his face that grinned with feigned innocence down at her, “What’s the matter Everdeen?” He asked teasingly, “Knees not weak enough yet?”

She glared at him, he knew exactly what he was doing, and she wasn’t having any of it, not tonight. Lifting her hands to his hair, she played with the blond locks, smiling up at him demurely. She would tell him what she wanted step by step if necessary, but she didn’t think it would be. Cocking her head to the side, she mirrored his look of feigned innocence, before tangling her fingers into the shorter hairs at the back of his head, and pulling his lips back down to hers. He grunted against her, and she opened her mouth ever so slightly in invitation. 

It took her all of two seconds to lose all inhibitions, Peeta’s hands moved up from their resting spot on her waist, one cradling the back of her neck and one stroking up and down her back in a motion that made Katniss giddy with desire. Their tongues met in a dance, reacquainting themselves. Peeta’s dove into her mouth, rediscovering everything he already knew about her. 

Peeta placed his leg in between her own, which had opened a little of their own accord, bringing it upwards slightly, daring her to grind up against it. Stubborn as ever, though, Katniss refused to take the bait. Knowing him, he would probably tease her, pull away before she could really get going. But when he tugged on her bottom lip with his teeth, she relented. She could feel her knees turning into jelly, forcing her to slump down onto his leg. She ground down on it experimentally, the rough material of his jeans rubbing up against her boy shorts. Katniss swore into his mouth, and did it again, letting the motion stimulate her throbbing center. She was almost glad that he couldn’t feel the intensity of the heat that seemed to be pouring from her core, but another part of her needed him to know that he could still do this to her. Could still drive her to do halfway insane things, like letting him ravage her up against a wall with all of her ex colleagues a mere few metres away. Pulling his head down further, she held him there, desperate to drink more of him in. 

“Katniss,” he whispered against her mouth, before diving right back in. 

It was her turn to grunt at the power in which he started almost devouring her mouth, she could only cling to the locks of hair wrapped around her fingers, in hopes that she wouldn’t just crumple to the floor. She was rocking against his leg in a steady rhythm, each stroke of his rough denim trousers against her center making her more frantic, desperate for more. Her nerve endings felt frayed, threatening to short circuit and send her spiralling through the abyss. Peeta continued to busy himself with her mouth, pulling away before delving back in, more thorough and rough each time, so that she could only whimper helplessly into his mouth.

It was when the hand that had been stroking leisurely circles into her spine crept towards her front before meandering downwards, that Katniss came somewhat to her senses. She stopped his hand with one of her own, before it could get to the hemline of the skirt to her dress. She pulled away from his lips that had been stroking soft sublime on hers, and looked at him. Eyes blown wide, lips swollen and red from kissing, blond hair tousled and mussed from all her incessant tugging. She was sure she was mirroring this disheveled appearance back at him. He lowered his leg from where it had stayed resting against her, but his hand stayed trapped between their two bodies. If it weren’t so painfully obvious how much they had missed each other, it would be comical how fast and hard they’d fallen back into heated touches and frantic kisses. 

She took a deep breath, wondering if she should apologise, or at least explain, but her brain was still fogged with arousal, and she was finding it very hard to look him in the eye. Instead, she got back on to her tip toes and brought her arms up around his neck, pulling him close to her for a hug. She rested her head against his shoulder, and he slowly brought his arms around her waist, holding her to him as well.

“One day, Peeta,” she began, talking into his neck, “one day…”

“But not today,” he finished for her.

She nodded and squeezed him tighter, a hundred memories of them together flooding her mind, and for the second time this evening she had to fight back the urge to sob. She could only be relieved that he had understood, understood why she couldn’t let him do that, not now, and certainly not here. 

He squeezed her back, and she swore she felt him inhaling her smell, at any other time this would have turned her on beyond reason, but now it only saddened her. How had she managed to fuck it up again? He pressed a quick kiss into the juncture of where her neck met her shoulder, before releasing her from his grasp. 

She wobbled, still a little unsteady on her feet, but managed to start walking in the direction of her bus stop. As she walked past the two drunk men that were still sitting on the stone steps to the pub, she heard one of them call out to her.

“Is the show over, sweetheart?” he asked, sarcasm along with whatever he’d had to drink lacing his voice, “That’s a shame, me an’ Chaff here were really startin’ to ge’ into it.” 

Katniss turned to look at the man who had said it, scathing reply waiting at the tip of her tongue, but before she could say anything, the other man, Chaff she assumed, slurred out;

“Won’t you give an ol’ man a kiss before you go?” The two men guffawed as he made kissy faces at her.

“Arseholes,” Katniss muttered under her breath.

The man with salt and pepper hair down to his shoulders called after her again, though all traces of amusement were gone from his voice. He sounded surprisingly sober when he told her, “I see the way you have him wrapped around your finger, sweetheart, you could live a hundred lifetimes and still not deserve what he gave you tonight,” he burped loudly and continued, “One day he’ll realise that, he’ll realise that he’s better than tha’, be’er than you.” 

 Katniss tried to ignore his words as she waited at the traffic light for the little green man to pop up so she could cross the road, but they still made her blood run cold, because maybe he was right. She turned her head to the side, waiting impatiently for the cars to come to a slow at the T-junction, when the old man, who had since left the betting shop, added his own snarky comment to the fray. If she had known how many people were watching them, she wouldn’t have let it get that far, or go on for so long.

“When do you think he’ll notice the exact degree of your indifference?” He asked in a voice that was weathered and old, but still demanded her attention. He had posed his comment as a question, but he said it as if he already knew the answer. She wasn’t indifferent, she thought, but doubt coursed through her. Hadn’t she just used him to prove a point? A stupid petty point, that she was better than Glimmer. She shook her head at the notion, it had just been a drunken mistake, nothing more.

She turned her head to face the decrepit old man, biting out a response, “Those are some awfully big words for a filthy old beggar, let’s hope you don’t choke on ‘em.” 

The old man threw his head back and laughed, his cracked voice making it sound more like a cackle than anything. To her surprise the man actually did start choking, on his own blood. He bent forwards, crouching low as he spat blood to the floor. 

“Gross,” Katniss muttered, before hurrying across the road. To hell with the traffic, she thought, she just needed to get the fuck out of here.

 The shame and regret were already starting to curl themselves around her, and she felt almost sick with it. She was once again being reminded of how easily being around Peeta could fuck with her head, how it could make her do things that she otherwise wouldn’t do. That she’d sworn to herself wouldn’t happen again. Because, yes, her drink might have had something to do with it, but it was also him, he was intoxicating. The moment she had noticed he was in the room, she had wanted him, needed him. And it might be true that she could make him feel the same way, but people never seemed to see that he was just as good at it as she was. He was always the sweet golden boy, who had had the misfortune of falling in love with the likes of her.

She looked across the street when she arrived at the bus stop. The pub was pouring light from it’s windows and she heard the music playing. Peeta had already disappeared, and Katniss wondered how much he had heard. She hoped none of it. The old man was shuffling into the Tesco next door to the Ladbrokes, and the two men were still sat outside the pub, drinking from flasks. She looked up at the timetable that the bus stop provided, and cursed under her breath when she saw that her bus wouldn’t be arriving for another seven minutes. 

She was about to start walking down the highstreet, so that she wouldn’t have to stand, waiting like a sitting duck, when her phone vibrated in her coat pocket with an incoming message. 

Pulling it out of the pocket, she read what it said.

Johanna Mason [Sent 10:21pm]: Where are you? I’m hungry and bored, wanna get smth to eat?

Katniss considered ignoring the message, but her stomach rumbled in response to the thought of food.

Katniss Everdeen [Sent 10:22pm]: At the bus stop across the road. Don’t you have a set? 

Johanna Mason [Sent 10:22pm]: Ofc you are. Yh I do, but any moron can do this. These song requests are driving me insane tho, so… food?

Katniss Everdeen [Sent 10:23pm]: Yh alright, what tho?

Johanna Mason [Sent 10:24pm]: I could really go for a kebab… and a smoke. We’re leaving now.

Katniss looked up from her phone. Shit. Johanna’s lighter. Peeta still had it. She watched as Johanna banged open the doors to the pub. Trailing after her was a wobbly Annie and the man from earlier. Katniss looked around her, hoping one of the many corner shops littering the street were still open, but they were all depressingly closed. Katniss glared at the closed signs on all the shop doors as if their existence offended her eyes, because in that moment, they really did.

She’d get that lighter back - she turned and saw the group crossing the road - though, maybe not today.

[marisol-000]

No Place Like Home

Ch 2

         Jeremy Fitzgerald had just gotten home from work, where he did (whatever idc). He lived in the house-turned-apartment building called The Purple Palace. And now, it seemed, so did someone else. Someone new, of course, he hadn’t lived alone beforehand, none of them had. But now it seemed there had been newcomers, a new car in the parking lot when he’d gotten home the day before, lights on the night prior. 

         The blond man wondered what the new neighbors were like, if they were a family, or friends rooming together, he wondered if they’d stay long.

         Putting those thoughts out of mind for the moment, he gathered the tools he used for gardening. The palace had a huge but poorly maintained garden behind it, where dead plants and thorned roots laid. At least they had before he’d gotten there, ever so slowly Jeremy had picked and cut and planted, carefully making his way around the stone pathways.

         Finally, putting on his gloves and sunhat, he made his way out to the grounds. If the new neighbors had kids he’d need to start cutting the rest of the thorns sooner rather than later.

.

         “Come on, he said we could!” Gregory groaned, trying desperately to convince the girl to go outside.

         “What if we get lost? Or hurt? He won’t be back for another hour!” Chrissy cried.

         Gregory, who had been bored of the house since yesterday was eager to start exploring the outside of the Purple palace. Mike had even said they could, granted they go together.

         Chrissy on the other hand was not so easily convinced. If something happened to them no one would be there to help while Mike got groceries from the store, it would be a while until he got back, much less til he could find them once he realized they were gone.

         “It’s fine! We won’t go far, I just wanna find the well!” he argued.

“You don’t even know where that is, how would you know if it's far or not!” she snapped.

         Gregory, realizing he wasn’t going to win this argument, huffed and stomped to the door.

"I'm going out, if you wanna stay in this dumb house you can!" he snapped before yanking the door open.

         Chrissy gasped and spun to him, "Hey! He said we have to stay together! Gregory! Gregory!" she ran out to follow him… only to find he'd stopped on the porch, looking down at something. "Huh? What's that? We have to stay together you know!"

         Gregory bent over to poke at the lumpy thing wrapped in gift paper. When nothing happened he knelt down to unwrap it. Chrissy, distracted from their argument, leaned over his shoulder to peek at whatever the thing was. She gasped and her eyes widened.

         Gregory too was dumbfounded at their "gift", as there was no one else it could be for. He held up in each hand a doll, one had short brown hair, a small frown, and black button eyes. The other had curly blonde hair, a sweet smile, and blue buttons.

         The boy had a blue shirt and shorts, the girl had a pink dress and hair ribbons... there was no mistaking the outfits they had worn just the day before.

         He silently passed the Chrissy doll to her, feeling very uneasy. ‘Who would make dolls of us, why?’   and,  ’We wore these yesterday that's so creepy’. But, turning and seeing the absolutely endeared expression on Chrissy’s face, he realized this was his chance to get her outside without a fight, and resolved to tell Mike about the weird dolls later.

         "C'mon! Lets go play with them!" he shouted, yanking her along, the girl now following without question.

.

         It had turned out to be a sunny day after all, and Jeremy was very grateful for his hat. He’d cleared out a large chunk of the thorny thistles, and had taken a break for some water. Just as he pulled his gloves back on and leaned in to the spiky weeds again, there was a loud shout above him.

         “HEY! Do you know where the well is?”

Jeremy squeaked and jumped a mile high, nearly cutting his arms on the brambles. His head snapped up to the stone bridge above the concrete bowl he was standing in.

         Above him leaned two curious children, they must have been watching him for a while. He didn’t recognize them and wondered if they were the new neighbors’ children.

         “Uh, uh, wha-? Um,” Jeremy took a moment to look down and compose himself as the two giggled quietly. “Uh, the uh well, I know where it is, um, Its kinda far though, you shouldn’t go alone.” he said, now looking up at them just as curiously.

“Uh, I’m Jeremy. Jeremy Fitzgerald, are you the new neighbors?”

“Just tell us where the well is!” the boy demanded, as the girl said “We’re new!”

         “Oh, well, the uh, I’m, uh-” he stuttered, unsure which one to respond to. “Um, are your parents here? You really shouldn't go alone.” The two looked at him silently, then turned to each other, arguing quietly.

,

         “I told you it’s too far, we should go back to the house.” “There's nothing to do at the house, we’re almost at the well anyways, he knows where it is!” “We’re not supposed to go with strangers!”

         Jeremy watched them argue, deciding their parents weren't home and wondering what he was supposed to do with two unsupervised children.

         The girl leans back over the edge of the rail to look at him.

         “Are you a stranger if you’re our neighbor?” she asked.

         “Uh…” he supposed not, but somehow he didn’t think their parents would be pleased to find them hanging out with a man they didn’t know.

         “You can take us to the well then!” interrupted the boy, apparently very determined to go for whatever reason. Supposing he couldn’t let them wander off alone he sighed and started climbing out of the garden bowl.

.

         On the walk there the two introduced themselves as Chrissy and Gregory, Chrissy turned out to be very chatty, telling him all about the rooms they’d found, and what books she’d read recently. While Gregory walked behind quietly.

         “-and look! Someone gave us some dolls today!” she exclaimed, eagerly holding hers up for him to see.

         To their surprise he recognized the craftsmanship.

“Oh! You got Mari’s gifts!” he smiled, “How do you like them?”

         Both kids turned to him in surprise. “Who’s Mary?” “Why’d she make us into dolls?” they asked in usion with sudden intent. While Chrissy loved the cute well-made dolls, she too had her concerns. And Gregory, of course, was always suspicious of others.

         Jeremy blinked, suddenly aware he’d said too much. 

“Uh, um, Mari’s the uh, owner of the building. T-the Purple palace?” as if there was another one nearby.

“He loves to give gifts to the children that… c-come by,” he finished lamely, suddenly sure he wouldn't be able to hide any more from the twos oddly keen eyes.

         “Is Mary a boy?” “Why’s he spyin’ on us?” 

Looking around desperately for a way out of the conversation, Jeremy realized they were almost at the well.

“Come on! The well is just this way! Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!” he quickly corralled the two towards an open area covered in mud.

- (Do we really need a well scene?) -

.

         Mike, meanwhile, had just made it home after a very confusing grocery trip.(i dont care to describe it)

He shut off the car and carried the produce in both arms, juggling them to his left as he tried to unlock the front door with his right.(did they lock the door when they left?)

Finally getting the door open, he walked through and bumped it with his heel, calling out to the other inhabitants of the house.

         “Chrissy! Greg! I’m back!” he entered the kitchen to put things away, then paused, not having received a response. 

He listened for creaking or shouts but heard nothing. Had they gone out after all? Or had something gone wrong? Had someone gotten in the house while he was away?

         Mike focused on controlling his heartrate, knowing he had a habit of being unreasonable, and jumping to conclusions.

He put the few cold foods and drinks away before walking to the base of the stairs.

         “Chrissy! Gregory!” again no response.

He finally thought to check by the door, where they’d left their shoes the day before, and found them gone. The kids had simply gone outside after all.

“Psycho.” he chastised himself quietly, wondering how long they’d been out. Resolving to put the rest of the groceries away later, he pulled out his keys and left the house again.

.

.

         Mike caught up with the trio as they entered the gardens again. Spotting the kids first, he waved to them. 

         “He’s home!” Chrissy cried, and both kids rushed towards him. Chrissy jumping into a hug and Gregory grabbing onto his arm to slow himself down. 

“Gregory made us go outside and we got new toys and we made a friend and we went to the well-!” the girl rattled off, eager as always to share how her day went.

“-And I got poison ivy!” Gregory exclaimed, showing Mike his already red hands.(he holding the doll?) 

         Mike chuckled in relief, glad they weren't hurt… other than the ivy, they would definitely need to put something on it later.

“I’m glad you had fun, we have food at home now if you two are hungry-” Mike cut himself off abruptly as he noticed the stranger standing some paces behind the kids.

         Caught off-guard he glared harshly at the stranger, wrapping his arms around his children, trying to determine if he was a threat or not.

         … Judging by the way the man squeaked and looked terrified the answer was likely ‘no’... 

         “-and that's Mr. Jeremy he likes cleaning the plants behind the house and took us to the well so we wouldn't get lost and he said the dolls are from -'' Chrissy explained as Mike realized she was still talking and tuned back in.

         So, ‘Jeremy’ was a neighbor... he really needs to stop overreacting.

Embarrassed by his behavior he relaxed his arms and smiled sheepishly at the other man.

“Hey… I’m Mike.”

Eyes widening behind his round glasses, the gardener stumbled to introduce himself and explain what he was doing with someone else's children.

“OH, hi! I’m um Jeremy, oh, she said, um Fitz-fitzgerald, is, ah, I was just, um- I wasn’t-!”

Relaxing entirely, Mike took pity on the man and laughed. 

“It’s fine,” he said, “they needed supervision anyways. So, do you live in the Purple palace?”

[themadlostgirl]

When It’s Cold (7)

*I have a vague inclination of where this story is heading. I went into this without an ending in mind so we’re letting go of the wheel and seeing where it takes us.*

~~~

After I showered and got changed I went downstairs. Felix had made an easy lunch of sandwiches and popcorn and set up the living room to play whatever movie I wanted to watch. I chose a nice comedy and sat down next to Felix.

Images of what we had done this morning still danced shamelessly in my head. How could Felix sit there so calmly? All we were doing was watching a movie, something we did quite frequently, and yet I couldn’t keep my thoughts straight. Even the slight touch of his thumb mindlessly stroking my arm was sending me into a tizzy.

I was hoping that after our escapades this morning that I would be cooler and more collected around Felix but it was ten times worse. I had gotten a taste and now it was all that I wanted. All I could think about. So again, how was it that Felix was sitting there so calmly? How was he not as infuriatingly turned on and jittery as me?

I kept my focus on the movie and my mind moved away from anything dirty as I started laughing at the group of dinner party guests running about a huge mansion in a paranoid craze on the TV. I made a joke to Felix about how if we ever hosted a dinner party it would most likely end up just like this. Hopefully with better food since that entree looked like a creamy, lumpy mess.

“Naturally,” Felix said, “I mean what kind of dinner was that supposed to be? Barely an hors d'oeuvre, a bland soup, skipped salad and appetizer completely and then served a gross main course, then no one partook in dessert. It’s a complete disaster!”

“You seem very passionate about this.” I chuckled. “Is there a guide to big fancy dinners in those cookbooks of yours?”

“Yes actually,” He shrugged, a tint of pink in his cheeks, “I get bored easily so reading about dinner etiquette is a step up from nothing.”

“Oh, so you know a lot about big fancy dinners?”

“Am I to suspect that you want me to make you a big fancy dinner now?”

“Well why not? I’ll even take a bit off your plate and make dessert so you don’t have to.”

“So all I have to do is make the other five courses, is it?”

“Yes.”

“Does this mean you’ll dress up for me too? Since it is supposed to be such a fancy feast?”

“Want to see me in a dress?”

“That one Yvette was wearing would look very nice on you.”

“You mean the maid uniform with the short skirt and stiletto heels?”

“Or something,” He laughed as I hit him upside the head.

“Would you get dressed up too? I think you’d look rather nice in a suit.”

“I don’t know, those ties look awfully constricting.”

“Yet the bust that pushes my boobs up to my ears is less constricting?”

“Okay, how about this,” Felix pulled me into his lap, “You buy a nice dress that you like, I get to wear something comfortable, and one of these nights I’ll make you that big six course dinner.”

“Candlelight and rose petals too?” I teased.

“Don’t push it,”

“Fine, fine,” I kissed him.

I wouldn’t go on about how excited I was at the thought of having a grand dinner. Sometimes Felix flourished on meals but this was going to be a whole event. It even gave me an excuse to buy a pretty dress. Something I didn’t really need but secretly kinda longed for. I know that per our arrangement that Felix was going to be dressed more comfortably which no doubt meant casually but I still would have liked to see him in a suit. I’ve seen him in his Neverland clothes, I’ve seen him in modern era clothes, and I’ve even seen him naked at this point. Dress clothes were the only thing that was missing. Maybe I can cram him into a suit a different day.

We cleaned up from lunch and I decided that the day was still young, I was going to go into town and look at dresses. I wasn’t gonna buy anything but I was gonna peruse. Try some things on. Figure out what I like. Cause I’ve never had a need to buy a dress before, I certainly didn’t have the funds for it before. But now I had to find out what I liked and what looked good on me.

I rode into town on my bike and entered the clothes store Felix and I had gone to the day after we found the mansion. I headed over to the dresses and started looking at the different styles and colors they had. There were a lot of options and I wasn’t sure where to start. I decided to just grab whatever was my size and headed to the dressing room.

I have no idea how long I spent trying on dress after dress and contemplating how I looked in all of them. I didn’t like anything too tight or short and with any low cuts anywhere. Big bold patterns also weren’t really my style. I like the skirts that swished around me when I spun and hit near my knee. I know I said I didn’t like anything low cut but I was finding that I liked anything that showed off my shoulders and collarbones and if it happened to dip in the front a bit that was fine too.

If I got something off the shoulder though then I’d need a bra that could be worn strapless which were none of the comfy ones I had at home.

I put all the dresses back on the rack and made my way over to the underwear section. As I was looking for a good strapless bra, just in case I decided to get a strapless dress, I accidentally wandered into the lingerie section of the underwear. I had never understood the obsession with these flimsy things of satin and lace. I guess they were more for looks than practicality.

Would Felix like if I wore something like this?

I shook the thought from my head and dropped the panties back with the others. I need to get out of here before I fall into the horny mess I had just crawled out of. I left the store without buying anything and got back home. Felix was sitting in the dining room with three different cookbooks and a notepad spread before him as he scribbled down dinner ideas.

It was cute to see how seriously he was taking this dinner. I came up behind him and looped my arms around his neck. “How is the meal planning going?” I asked.

“Well enough. There are a lot of recipes in here and I’m having a bit of trouble organizing it all. I’ve already bookmarked five recipes just for soup that I have to choose from.”

“Want my help?”

“Thanks darling, here, look at these recipes and tell me which sounds best to you.” He slid the notepad over to me.

“Hungarian Mushroom Soup,” I circled it, “Sounds different and like I might like it. I know you also really like mushrooms so how about that?”

“Mushroom soup it is.” Felix flipped the page over, “And now I have about a dozen ideas for appetizers.”

“Oh dear,” I laughed. I sat down next to him as we filed through recipe after recipe. We had to call a quits as it got late and we needed to get dinner for tonight. We decided to order out and Felix left to pick up some pizza. We didn’t trust anyone to deliver to us since we were still worried that someone would force us out of the mansion if they found out we had commandeered it.

The house felt entirely too big without Felix around. That was expected since it was a huge mansion but still. Without Felix then it was just me in a big house with nothing to do and no one to talk to. I went to the window and looked at the sky. It was quickly growing dark and I could see stars start to peep out as the sun set. I found the star that lead back to Neverland. My time as a Lost Girl seemed so far away now.

I wonder how much Felix misses Neverland. I know we talked and he said that he would stay with me whether I chose to go back to Neverland or not if the choice was given. But that didn’t mean that he still didn’t miss it. Neverland had been his home for years. Then he gave it all up because I asked him to follow me.

I will forever be thankful that Felix came with me. I don’t know if I could have survived this world with my sanity if he hadn’t been along. It was in these moments when I was alone in this house and it was so painfully quiet that I came upon a realization. I like quiet but I do not like silence. I enjoy being left alone but I do not enjoy solitude. This house, this mansion, as grand a blessing it may be, would be just as cold and harsh as the forest if I didn’t know that Felix also resided within.

It is such a strange thing to be so attached to someone. I never feared loss. My whole life had been plagued by it. Lost my family. Lost Pan. Lost Neverland. And yet, not a one of those bothered me as badly as the thought of losing Felix did.

Felix came home and with his return my troubled thoughts ran away. We sat down to eat our pizza and watch another movie. I was starting to nod off but Felix made sure to get me up to my room before I fell asleep this time. Felix bid me goodnight with a quick kiss before returning to his own room. It pained my heart to watch him leave. I guess I thought that after this morning we could have spent tonight together again. Seeing as how embarrassing the wake up call had been though it was probably for the best that we were separated. We were just starting our intimate relationship after all. I didn’t want to push too far by demanding we sleep in the same bed together.

One day though. One day.

~~~

Today had been amazing as far as Felix was concerned. It had started rough but the rest of it had turned out far better than he could have ever imagined. He thought that things between you and him had taken a bad turn that morning when he explained that he desired you. It was one thing to know that you desired him in private but it was another to admit it directly.

Then you showed up in his doorway. You opened your heart up and told him that you wanted him too. You didn’t want to run away from this growing intimacy between the two of you. Then you said you wanted to give him a handjob and he nearly popped a blood vessel. You and your wide eyes full of trust, lust, and curiosity.

It took every ounce of his remaining brainpower to help guide you along his body. The feel of your small soft hand wrapped around him, your lips on his chest, your voice softly pleading for him to cum. He was lost to you.

As nervous as he was having you touch him in such a way it was nothing to the pure excited terror that occurred when it was his turn to please you. You trusted him so easily to make you feel good and he wanted nothing more than to meet, maybe even exceed your expectations. Inch by inch your body had been exposed to him. Something he had envisioned a hundred times before finally laid out before him and he was allowed--nay--encouraged to touch all of it.

Listening to the noises you made as sparks of pleasure lit your body was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. His hands shook slightly as he held you and he prayed that you didn’t notice how nervous he truly was as his hand slid beneath the band of your panties. The feel of your slick arousal as he rubbed your clit was nothing compared to how it felt to have your hot, wet, cunt clench around his fingers.

He was making you feel good. You were moaning his name and begging him to do more. It was far better than any fantasy he had created in his head. He watched your face closely as you came and made sure to burn it into his mind. You were just so beautiful when in the throws of pleasure. He would have kept you there in his bed all day but after your reaction to his comment about devouring your pussy he figured he should slow things down.

It was hard not to show how much he wanted to drag you back to the bedroom while you were watching the movie but he knew that you probably needed the breather. He said he was gonna go at your pace so he wasn’t going to try anything until you told him it was okay.

The dinner planning helped take his mind off of it. He had been thinking about making a fancy dinner like he had seen in his books for you one day. Seemed that day was coming sooner than expected. If he was gonna make you a fancy meal then he was gonna do it right. You had been gone for so long in town that you had missed his initial frenzy as he tore through the cookbooks and combed over every recipe at least three times trying to figure out what you would most like, what would impress you.

It felt like there was a lot riding on this. He was able to whittle down his ideas a tad and that’s when you showed up again with your innocent smile and warm laugh. His anxiety eased and he breathed easier having you next to him again.

When night fell and he said goodnight to you he meandered back to his room. His big, dark, cold, and lonely room. He thought of how it felt to fall asleep next to you and wake up beside you. He didn’t realize how big his bed was until you weren’t next to him and in his arms.

It wouldn’t be a big deal if he asked you to sleep next to him, would it? It wasn’t like he was inviting you to his bed for anything explicit. He just wanted to fall asleep next to you again.

After about an hour of tossing and turning unable to fall asleep Felix had enough. “I am risking looking like a desperate idiot,” Felix muttered to himself as he swung out of bed and went to his door. He pulled it open and was shocked to see you waiting on the other side.

“Oh hi,” You said, the hand you had raised to knock quickly dropped back to your side, “I was um...I was wondering if you were still awake.”

“I am,” Felix said. No shit! She can obviously see you are awake, genius. Felix’s mind chastised him. “Did you need something?”

“I was--well I had been thinking--I was wondering if you--” You were stammering, your gaze lost to the ground as you tried to find the right words to say.

“Do you want to know why I am up?” Felix asked, deciding to take pity on his poor girl.

“Uh...yes?” You said, finally peeking up at him through your long lashes.

“I was coming to see you.” He told you, “I couldn’t fall asleep and I was wondering if I could tempt you to spend the night with me.”

“Really?” Your eyes widened in disbelief and glee.

Felix smiled. “Yes, really,” He laced his hand with yours, “Was that something you’d be open to?”

“Yes!” Came your immediate reply. “I mean um, yes, that sounds very nice.”

“Come here little girl,” Felix pulled you inside and gave you a kiss. He tugged you along over to the bed and let you nestle yourself in. He got under the covers as well and reached out to grab you and pull you next to him. Your head tucked under his chin and your body melted against him.

“Goodnight, darling,” He whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“Goodnight, Felix,” You sighed happily. It wasn’t long after your soft snores filled his ears that Felix fell asleep as well. The warmth of your body curled against him banishing the loneliness of his big empty bed once and for all.

---

(Previous) (Next)

[jaskiersvalley]

Your writing is DEVASTATINGLY lovely, thank you for sharing it with us!

Catch me tearing up at this, Nonnie. You are far too lovely and kind. Have a little thank you ficlet which I hope you enjoy <3

If you haven’t played Witcher 3 or read the books, this will contain major spoilers about Ciri!

To say that Geralt wasn’t friendly could be taken as a bit of an understatement. Somehow Jaskier had either missed that memo or he straight up didn’t care, sticking around until he became part of Geralt’s everyday landscape. Then Ciri came along and Geralt stopped fighting destiny. They were in Kaedwen when another figure turned up at their camp, looking dishevelled and exhausted. Cahir had been running north, away from Nilfgaard and hoping to help protect Ciri. Not that Geralt was having any of it, he gruffly tried to warn off the interloper on their camp.

“It’s you!” Ciri exclaimed. “I see you in my dreams.”

Politely baffled, Cahir offered her a hesitant smile. “I only know you’re Emhyr's daughter and I firmly believe that under no circumstance should you fall into his hands."

Being everyone's friend, Jaskier struck up conversation with Cahir. However, Geralt couldn't help but feel like they were being fooled, given a sob story of someone who grew to resent the empire they led an army for. It was just too perfect, like something Jaskier would make up to sing a heart-warming song about to bring everyone together on a dreary night. Still, Geralt wasn't in the habit of being aggressive with humans if he could help it. But he could still make things unbearably awkward so they didn't stick around. That had always been the case (with Jaskier being the exception) so Geralt kept to his tried and tested method.

Nights were spent on the cold forest floor. While Geralt would meditate and keep guard, Jaskier curled up with Ciri under all the blankets they had in an attempt to keep warm. It was too risky to have a fire. Only, Cahir wasn't allowed to curl up with them, even as he passed over one of his own furs when he saw Ciri shivering. That night, Geralt watched as the rather strange human huddled against a tree, tucked under as many of his paltry belonging as possible to stay warm. Even more strangely, he slept as if he trusted Geralt to keep him safe for the night.

"How long will you travel with us?" Ciri asked innocently a few mornings later. She didn't seem to notice the way Cahir was flexing his hands to try and get some heat back into his fingers. Not that Geralt cared, he had seen the hand flop out from under a cloak as Cahir had turned in the night. It served him right, the fool that he was for thinking he could just travel with a Witcher and his family of choice and Destiny.

"I don't know," Cahir replied, the honesty raw in his voice.

Ciri didn't waste time, smiling at him as she declared, "You should come with us! Geralt said Kaer Morhen is big, so there will be room for you too."

Such simple, childish logic. Geralt wished Ciri hadn't opened her mouth though. Judging my the hesitant look Cahir was casting him, it was quite evident the invitation wasn't taken to heart. Until Jaskier joined in too.

"Yes, come with us! It will be nice to have another boring old human among the beefcakes of Kaer Morhen." He must have seen Cahir looking at Geralt because Jaskier scoffed out a laugh. "ignore his sour demeanour. He's just a grouch until he gets home."

The trek to Kaer Morhen was slow and several times Geralt wondered whether he could guide then in a way that meant he could keep Ciri on Roach, a hand on Jaskier and if, by some mishap, Cahir slipped, they could all say it was an accident. However, Geralt had a moral code that was better than that, as much as he cursed himself for it. But they made it to Kaer Morhen as a quartet. Introductions were made swiftly and Geralt showed everyone to rooms. Jaskier would share with him, Ciri would be near by. However, he led Cahir to a further part of the old keep and opened the door to room that was still functional but it was definitely not, by any definition, nice. To Geralt, the further Cahir was from him and his family, the better.

"This is your room."

He didn't expect the large eyed awe and gratitude.

"You sure? I thought you'd put me in a communal room."

There were no communal rooms but Geralt didn't want to say that. Instead, he shrugged. "This room is yours now."

It wasn't like it had much, a lumpy, straw filled mattress, a rickety chest of drawers and a fireplace. Not much more would fit in there really. Yet Cahir seemed almost overwhelmed by it.

Everything Geralt tried to do to make Cahir less eager to stick around seemed to backfire. The pass was still open and Geralt hoped Cahir would try to go back to his masters and perish along the way. One less threat to Ciri that way. However, Cahir eagerly took to kitchen duties, saying he wanted to earn his keep. He also willingly joined in with training, even sharing some of Nilfgaard's fighting styles and dirty tricks with the others.

All of Geralt's pushing had an interesting side effect. While Cahir tried to give him space while living up to expectations, he got closer to the other Witchers. Especially, Lambert and Eskel. However, like with most things not in his immediate interest, Geralt decided to stick his head in the sand about it. It didn't concern him so it wasn't his problem.

He was making his last rounds of the keep, something he didn't feel the need to do quite so often anymore. However, a soft, very human snuffle from the stall next to Roach had him suspicious. Silently peering into the stall, Geralt's eyebrows rose to see Cahir under his cloak, curled into some straw.

"Something wrong with your room?"

The words startled Cahir and he jerked, staring wide eyed at Geralt. There was straw stuck in his hair.

"Sorry. No. The room you gave me is very nice and really generous of you." That should have been an absolute lie but Cahir didn't seem to be anything but honest. So Geralt stayed quiet and allowed him to fill the awkwardly lengthening silence. "It was so quiet, I'm not used to it. The army is noisy, even when it sleeps. And I missed the stars. It's been years since I've spent more than a couple of nights indoors at a time."

Life on the road was something Geralt could understand. But it sounded like maybe Cahir had been without creature comforts for a lot longer than a Witcher. At least Geralt had a home to return to. With Nilfgaard's aggressive spread, he could easily imagine Cahir being at the forefront of that. That realisation didn't sit well with Geralt, it gnawed away at him for some reason. So he did the only thing he was capable of, he grunted and left.

However, the next day he mentioned the encounter to Eskel, hoping that he or Lambert would have a better solution. They did, but not the way Geralt had hoped. He was the one to much out the stables that week. Mostly confident that the others had sorted his little problem, Geralt didn't think much of the noise he was making. At least, not until he walked past what should have been an empty stall. Twin sets of amber eyes glared at him from within. More straw had been piled into the stall, a few more throws and furs brought in too and Cahir was nestled between two Witchers, sleeping more soundly than Geralt had seen him before.

That should have been the worst of it but, that night, Geralt found his partner missing from their shared bed. Assuming Jaskier was singing to Ciri, he crept closer, puzzled by the silence. Her room was empty too. There weren't many places they could have gone, so Geralt headed down to the kitchen, determinedly not panicking. A Witcher didn't panic, especially not in his own home. He only encountered Vesemir who looked over him once.

"Ah, you're here. Take this to the others." Geralt was handed a tray of six steaming mugs. Vesemir was holding a seventh. At the hesitation in Geralt's posture, he rolled his eyes. "Take that to the stables."

Something akin to dread curled in Geralt's chest as he approached the stables. He hadn't been good to Cahir, so he wasn't likely to be welcomed into the group. So he'd just put the tray down and make a hasty retreat.

"Drinks!" Jaskier declared with a cheer and the others in the stall all seemed to brighten too. It looked quite cosy in an odd way. Ciri was between Jaskier and Eskel but she wormed her way out to grab a drink, eyes closed as the steam wafted over her face.

"You have the best ideas, thanks," she declared.

One by one, Geralt handed out the drinks until one more was left on the tray. Everyone stared at him until Cahir took pity.

"We have room for one more if you'd like to join."

Hesitant, Geralt settled down and let out an "oof" as Jaskier snuggled in on one side and Ciri vigorously claimed his other. It was nice, a little odd but not as alienating as Geralt had feared. Though Cahir's words had been a little bit of a lie, as Geralt found out the following year. There wasn't room for just one more. Because, against all odds, they managed to somehow squeeze in a Cat Witcher that Lambert had dragged home too.

[broccoliboix5peepeeman]

for a writing request, could you do tddk attempting to cook (attempting to because well, shoto is an absolute kitchen disaster)? :0 your writing is really good, thank you so much !!

Of course thank youuuuuu! Sorry this took so long! (@randomstuff7739)

I have a hc that Izuku's favourite food is katsudon because it's also Inko's favourite and they'd eat it a lot. When he was little, they used to cook it together and they'd both smile and laugh, and Izuku would feel truly happy. It's one of the happier memories of his childhood, so whenever he has katsudon now, he feels warmth in more ways than one. <3

It was Inko-san's birthday, so she had special permission to come up to UA so Izuku could spend time with her and cook her favourite meal. Now, obviously Shoto had insisted on helping him out because Inko-san was a wonderful woman and he really wanted her to like him.

Today had to be perfect.

Izuku had a solid plan in place and Shoto was adamant not to fuck it up.

The only problem was that - as much as he didn't want to admit it - Shoto was absolutely atrocious at cooking. Ever since he had cremated a clove of garlic while making egg-fried rice, he hadn't been allowed anywhere near a wok, let alone been allowed to cook on his own.

He had quickly learned that Izuku would not be deterred by that though. His boyfriend had planned it out; Shoto was to make dessert under his supervision, while his boyfriend cooked katsudon. They were to use the common room kitchen, so other students could intervene if necessary.

Shoto thought it was a perfect plan.

'Okay, so I made the chocolate ganache dipping for the churros last night to save time, so don't worry about that for now. You just have to focus on making the batter for the crepe cones, then we'll separate it out and add more flour to the churro batter. Okay, Shouchan?' Izuku called out as he took all the necessary ingredients out of their various cupboards. He had already begun preparing the katsudon - because apparently that took longer to make - and was at a point where he could get everything ready for Shoto to start on the dessert.

'Got it.' Shoto nodded from his place in the centre of the kitchen, holding up a spatula that he had no idea what to do with.

'Good! I-' Izuku placed the flour and milk on the counter and turned to look at him, his smile quickly turning into a confused frown. 'What are you doing with that?'

When Shoto merely shrugged in response, his boyfriend wandered over, carefully took the spatula from him and put it back in the drawer. 'You only need that after you've made the batter.'

Izuku then took Shoto's hand and slowly led him to the countertop he had set up for him. 'Okay so here's the mixing bowl. First you wanna put the sugar in, then add your eggs. I've already measured out all your ingredients so you should be fine, but you need to crack your eggs. Do you think you can do that?'

'Do you really have that little faith in me, Izuku?' Shoto raised an eyebrow, pointedly ignoring the fact that his boyfriend wasn't answering. 'I've cracked eggs before.'

'Okay, okay.' Izuku raised his hands defensively with a half-smile. 'After you've added them, mix them together. When you're done, add a little bit of the flour, then a bit of milk, then mix and repeat until you run out of both, okay?'

Shoto nodded slowly, eyes flickering across the counter as he processed what had been said. He spotted two mixing jugs, one of them was labelled with 'MILK!' while the other had 'FLOUR :)' printed across it.

'Got it.' He announced, only feeling a little bit patronised. He couldn't be annoyed though, not when Izuku was beaming at him like he was the happiest person in the world.

'Awesome! We'll leave it there for now. I'm going to bread the pork while you do that, so let me know if you need a hand!'

'Okay.'

His boyfriend stood on his tiptoes to plant a quick kiss on Shoto's cheek, before dashing past him to his own counter, which was much less organised. Shoto watched him go, before noticing a flash of pink out of the corner of his eye. He turned to find Ashido grinning at him from one of the sofas.

When she wiggled her eyebrows suggestively and tapped the left side of her head, Shoto suddenly noticed the little flames that had started to dance along the crimson half of his hair.

He sighed with exasperation and extinguished them - the last thing he needed was the smoke alarm going off before he had even started - then turned back to his worktop.

Okay, Shoto. You got this. Sugar first. He eyed the cup on top of the weighing scales that said 'Sugar that's not as sweet as you ;)'.

Shoto blushed at that and swallowed thickly, before quickly taking the cup and pouring it into the bowl. Easy enough. Right, next I need to crack the eggs.

He spotted an open box on the side, with two large eggs sat snugly inside. Shoto was thankful that Izuku hadn't put a label on that one and took the first egg. He stared at it for several moments.

Lob it at Bakugou. His mind suddenly suggested.

If it weren't for the limited supply, he might have listened, but alas, he was on a mission not to disappoint Izuku on his mum's birthday.

Shaking his head, Shoto focused back on the task at hand. While he had cracked eggs before, he hadn't been very good at it. Maybe this time would be different?

He eyed the glass edge of the mixing bowl and nodded, before tapping the egg against it with enough force to crack it, but not enough to open it. Shoto furrowed his eyebrows and stuck his thumbs into the crack to finish the job.

It worked, he reasoned, he just coated his hands in more egg than he had expected in the process. He fished out the three bits of shell that had landed in the bowl, before cleaning himself up and picking up the second egg.

Okay, a little harder this time.

He smacked the egg against the bowl, sending its innards flying out everywhere.

Fuck...

Shoto quickly scrambled to catch it all before plopping it into the bowl with a wet squelch. Resigned to his fate, he poked his sticky hands back in to remove the nine bits of shell that had made their way in that time.

By the time, he had thrown out the egg shells and washed his hands, Izuku had already finished breading his pork and was now chopping his onions. Shoto tried not to let his mind wander and grabbed a spoon to mix the sugar and eggs together.

It didn't take long and he stood back to look proudly at his work.

Positively disgusting. Okay, what's next?

He looked around the counter and spotted the flour. Izuku said add the flour then the milk.

He picked up the jug, regarded it for several moments, before pouring the entire contents in the bowl. He stared at his creation, before wielding his spoon once more and mixing the flour in.

Three minutes and one sore wrist later, Shoto was pouring the milk in. However, as he tried to combine the bowl's contents, something didn't seem right - there were these weird lumps poking out that he just couldn't get rid of.

Shoto spent the next five minutes trying to remedy the situation but was evidently unsuccessful. Finally admitting defeat, he picked up the bowl, plodded over to Izuku and tapped him on the shoulder.

'What's up, Shouchan? Are you finish-' His boyfriend stopped short when he finally noticed the bowl. 'What did you do?'

'I mixed the sugar and eggs. Then the flour, then the milk.' He recited, praying to All Might that he was right.

'You put the flour in all at once, even though I said add a bit at a time along with the milk?'

Fuck.

'Perhaps…' He narrowed his eyes.

'It's gone super lumpy.' Izuku furrowed his eyebrows and placed a contemplative hand to his chin as he began muttering to himself. Shoto immediately felt guilty, but before he could apologise, Izuku held out his hands. 'Pass it here.'

Nodding slowly, he transferred the bowl over and watched, intrigued as Izuku began mixing it. With each rotation, his pace increased, until emerald and scarlet lightning danced across his skin and his movements became too fast for Shoto to see.

The glass clinked slightly, and a few drops escaped the mixture, but when Izuku handed it back to him, now lump-free, Shoto could do nothing but stare at him in awe.

'Are you magic?'

'No, I'm Izuku.'

'And I am single.' Shoto quipped back, smiling slightly at the affronted gasp his boyfriend made.

'That wasn't very Plus Ultra of you, Shoto-kun.' Izuku placed a hand to his chest in mock hurt. 'Lucky for you, you can't get rid of me that easily.'

'Hm.' Shoto smiled, gazing at his boyfriend adoringly. He'd never want to. 'What's next?'

'Stand there and look pretty while I finish chopping these onions.' Izuku winked, before turning and picking up the knife. Shoto tried not to freeze the bowl to his hands.

When his boyfriend finished, he led Shoto back to the countertop and added a bit of water. Shoto didn't even bother to ask why and just stood there, watching as Izuku nodded to himself and started to separate out the batter.

There were now two bowls of mixture. 'Okay, so the one on the left is for the crepes, the right is for the churros. I'm gonna put some more flour in the churro one along with some cinnamon, then we can leave it for when mum gets here.'

'Sounds good to me.'

With Izuku taking the lead, they quickly managed to get the dessert sorted and stored in the fridge. Shoto decided to do the washing up while his partner continued preparing the katsudon.

Izuku had just put the lid over the wok when Aizawa-Sensei entered the common room with Inko.

'Mum!' Izuku exclaimed, bouncing over and throwing his arms around her shoulders to hug her close to his chest. 'Happy birthday!'

Shoto slowly dried his hands with a towel and wandered over to the two Midoriyas. When Izuku finally pulled away, both of them had dried tear trails on their cheeks that Shoto had quickly learned was a completely normal occurrence.

'Happy birthday, Inko-san.' He came to a stop in front of her and bowed. 'It's an honour to see you again.'

'Oh my, so polite!' She smiled playfully, stepping forwards and taking his hands. 'It's great to see you again, sweetie. I hope Izuku hasn't been getting you into more trouble.'

'Mum!'

'It's my birthday, I'm allowed to say what I want.' Inko pouted at her son, before flashing Shoto another smile. 'I hear you're helping Izuku with dinner?'

'Yeah, I'm helping with dessert.' He nodded awkwardly, hoping she'd let go of his hands soon because he was feeling rather warm. 'Izuku is doing the-'

'It's a surprise, Shouchan!' Izuku suddenly interrupted, scrambling to clamp a hand over his mouth.

Shoto hummed around his palm before sticking his tongue out to lick his hand, eliciting a surprised screech from his boyfriend, much to Inko's amusement.

'Okay, you two.' She glanced at them knowingly. I'm going to say hello to your friends while you finish your special surprise.'

'Inko-saaaan!!!!' Uraraka exclaimed, thoroughly distracting her and allowing Izuku to pull Shoto back into the kitchen. When they were out of earshot, Izuku turned to him.

'Okay, so you don't actually have to do anything except maybe get me some bowls, but I figured I'd give you the chance to take a breather. You looked a little flustered back there.'

'I thought I looked fine…'

'You looked beautiful, but I know you really want to impress mum - even though she already loves you.' Izuku smiled warmly at him and winked. 'So be a dear and get the bowls so you can say you helped me plate up.'

Another day and Shoto would've had a witty retort for that, but today he was just thankful to have something to do to calm his nerves. So instead, he turned on his heel and gathered three bowls from the cupboard, including Izuku's All Might-themed one, and set them on the side.

His boyfriend flashed him another smile, before they began serving the katsudon.

☀️🌙

'That was absolutely fantastic! Thank you, my favourite boys!' Inko beamed at Shoto from across the table, whilst capturing Izuku in a side hug.

Shoto didn't know how to respond to that. After all, he didn't do any of the katsudon.

'I didn't-'

'There's still dessert, mum!' Izuku laughed, thoroughly content with having the life squeezed out of him.

'I couldn't possibly!' Inko shook her head, finally relinquishing her hold on her son. 'I've been watching my weight recently and-'

'Shoto-kun made it though!'

'I think you look fine, Inko-san.' Shoto chimed in. 'And your weight is perfectly normal for a mother who has such a stress-inducing son.'

'Hey!'

'Your words have tempted me, Todoroki-kun.' Inko winked, ignoring Izuku's unintelligible protests. 'In that case, I'd love to try your dessert.'

Back in the kitchen, Shoto retrieved the two bowls of batter from the fridge, whilst his boyfriend set up the frying pan and the deep fryer.

'Okay, so while I'm deep-frying the churros, you can make the crepes. I've put oil in the pan. Wait until it's hot, then it's the same as making a pancake. Sound good?'

'Everything you say sounds good.' Shoto replied easily, placing his bowl on the side.

'Flirt.' Izuku teased affectionately, before turning away to start piping the churro mix.

Shoto smiled softly and watched him go, before quickly glancing back at Inko, who was still sat at the dining table. When their eyes met and she smiled knowingly at him, his cheeks flooded with heat and he quickly turned back to the oven.

Eager to look busy, he poured the first bit of batter into the pan. Halfway through, realisation set in and he lowered the bowl to look at his creation with horror.

Fuck, I didn't wait for the pan to heat up.

Looking back on this day in the years to come, Shoto could say with absolute confidence that this moment was when it all went downhill.

'Er…' He frantically looked around for a solution, adamant not to bother Izuku. His eyes eventually landed on his hands and a thought crossed his mind. 

If I can heat up the pan faster, maybe it'll be fine?

Shoto stared down the pan, before picking it up with his right hand and placing his left underneath. Fire burst out from his palm, as hot as he could reasonably conjure. It was going great, he reckoned; the oil started sizzling and the batter started to brown.

Nodding to himself, Shoto extinguished his flames and moved to flip the crepe. However, it wouldn't move. No matter how hard he tried to shake it around in the pan, it was glued to the spot.

Not wanting to admit defeat just yet, he put the pan down and used the spatula to separate it. Impatient, he ended up ripping the crepe in half, flipping it over to find that it had completely blackened.

'What's that smell, Sho?'

Fuck. 

He glanced to the side. Izuku had started walking over, concern written all over his face.

In retrospect, Shoto should've really just told the truth. However, at that moment, his pride couldn't take it.

'Nothing!'

Scooping up the entire crepe onto his spatula, he shoved the entire thing in his mouth to hide any evidence. His eyes immediately started to water and he quickly cooled his mouth down to prevent any second-degree burns, albeit his tongue was definitely going to feel numb for the next few days.

Composing himself, Shoto turned to find Izuku staring at him, eyebrow raised and hands on his hips. He didn't miss the worry in his boyfriend's eyes though.

'You didn't give the pan time to heat up, did you?'

Oh, he caught me...

Unable to speak, Shoto nodded his head and chewed sadly.

'What am I going to do with you, eh?' A calloused hand came to rest against his scarred cheek. 'Are you okay? You burn your mouth?'

Shoto swallowed the last of the crepe and shivered, the taste of charred batter lingering.

'Just my tongue. I'll be fine.'

Izuku hummed softly and opened his mouth to say something.

However, whatever he was about to say immediately died on his lips, because at that moment, the deep fryer decided that it had been neglected for too long and that now would be the perfect time to catch fire with a dramatic fwoosh.

'Holy motherfucking shit!' Izuku exclaimed, scrambling away to fetch something to extinguish it with. 'Fucking cheap pile of worthless-'

'I got it.' Shoto raised his right hand and shot out a chunk of ice.

'No!' Izuku practically screeched. 'You can't use water on an oil-!'

It was too late, a layer of frost sat on top of the fryer, smothering the fire… For a solid two seconds, before the entire thing exploded into flames.

'Oh fuck.' Shoto muttered, watching as the blaze grew, turning the walls black and filling his lungs with smoke.

Luckily for him, Momo was on standby. She quickly created several wet-chemical fire extinguishers and together, her and Izuku got to work, while Shoto stood with Inko and watched from the side. 

When the threat had been averted, Shoto continued to stare as Izuku and Momo sorted the carnage. 'I am so sorry, Inko-san. I ruined your birthday, didn't I?'

Inko chuckled and moved to hug Shoto's right arm.

'It's okay, sweetie. You haven't ruined my birthday… Although I take it dessert is no longer happening.'

When Shoto nodded solemnly, she squeezed a little tighter. 'If it makes you feel any better, I thoroughly enjoyed today. Any time spent with you and Izuku is a gift, I rarely see him nowadays.'

She didn't sound particularly sad, but Shoto still felt bad for her. He knew his own mother had found it difficult being alone for so long. He couldn't even imagine how Inko was feeling. From what Izuku had told him, the two of them had been best friends his entire life. To go from seeing each other every day to once every few months must've hurt.

'It must be difficult.' He looked at the floor.

'At first it was, but not so much now.' Inko smiled at him when Shoto chanced a glance at her. 'I used to be so worried back in your first year. He'd throw himself into everything and get hurt. I swear I aged ten years.'

'You and me both.' Shoto muttered.

'Oh hush, you.' She giggled. 'But he's grown so much and he's got wonderful people around him, like you, and I know you'll protect and take care of each other.'

'What about you?'

'Me?' Inko seemed amused at the question. 'I have people around me too, don't you worry.'

Now was Shoto's perfect opportunity.

'Is it All Might?'

Inko's lip wobbled and she burst out laughing, eliciting an embarrassed blush to cross Shoto's face.

'All Might is one of those people, yes.' She wiped a tear from her eye. 'But I'm friends with your mother too, remember?'

'That's true.' Shortly after his mother had been released from the hospital, Inko had reached out to her and the two had become fast friends.

What was it about the Midoriyas always going out of their way to befriend a Todoroki?

'So don't worry about me, honey.' Inko continued, as they watched Izuku pour the blackened churros into the bin. When his boyfriend caught them staring, Inko waved at him as if half the kitchen wasn't in utter chaos.

She chuckled. 'Worry about your cooking instead.'

[warpriest-writings]

Red eyes on Grandmother's grave. 

    Sticks broke under her feet, running as fast and hard as she could but it felt like running through jelly, her feet caked in heavy mud. 

“Someone! Help me!!! Please!” She cried out but couldn’t hear her own voice.

Before her was the pair of sharp, red eyes out in the middle distance. She couldn’t make out a face; she wasn’t even sure if the eyes were attached to anythin, just floating there, haunting her. Those hungry, starved eyes that wanted to devour her. The eyes just hung there as she sat there frozen. 

“What do you want!?” she screamed out, but again her words came out silent. 

The sharp, red eyes narrowed, then rushed towards her as a hand reached out at her.

With a difficult, almost pained, inhalation of breath, Patsy woke with a startled jump, accidently knocking her kitty out of bed.

She gasped, “Bean! Come here. Mweh, mweh.” She made kissy noises to her large Maine Coon. Rubbing her fingers together as she did so attempting to soothe Bean and entice her to come back into the bed. Not that Bean needed much convincing; no one in the Desoto household could remember a single night that cat hasn’t slept in Patsy’s bed. By the time she got Bean back in bed and started petting her, Patsy had almost entirely forgotten her nightmare about the...was she running? Regardless, after several minutes of kitty snuggles, she checked her phone, loathing to discover that it was 5:53, merely thirty minutes before her alarm would have gone off anyway.

Of course, she wouldn’t have been lucky enough to wake up from her scary dream at a reasonable 1:17, or even a moderate 3:32. Good, god given times in the early morning a girl could go back to sleep too. Patsy sighed and entered an anxious state of contemplation, debating getting in the shower now and getting that out of her morning routine or laying there, blissfully enjoying the time before she had to get up for real. An absolute miserable time that went on in her head until her alarm went off. Ah, yes, neither productive nor relaxing. Thank you, Anxiety.

Getting out of bed with a less than encouraging groan, Patsy began her morning routine. Feeling emotionally and mentally exhausted by 6:45 AM, Patsy walked briskly down the stairs while putting her long and bouncy kinky hair into a ponytail.

“Morning, Mom!” 

Her mom, Elana, looked back at her as some toast popped out of the toaster, “Hey, Sweetheart!”

Joseph, her dad, poured two cups of coffee before handing one to his wife as she handed him the plate of now buttered toast. “Hey, Pats. Finished your homework last night?” Giving Elana a quick kiss.

“Course, Dad,” she said, silently beaming that her parents were still happily married after nearly sixteen years; it was more than could be said about several of her friends at school.

Her mother was the manager at a local small diner, it was a nice little place, near enough to her school that Patsy would usually walk there at the end of the day and hang out with her friends or finish her homework before her mom’s shift ended at six when the night manager came in. Her father worked from home, and studied. Technically, he was still a student at the University of Illinois, but he worked a lot of sub contracted programming and coding jobs on the side. Once she asked him why he was still in college and his reply was, “Sometimes people are just...nervous about getting out there, and sometimes you just so happen to be very good at filling out grant applications. Your momma has a steady job that takes care of us, and my work on the side makes sure we stay in the green.” 

“Need a ride to school today, Pats?” her dad said, snapping Patsy out of it.

“I’m good; I kinda want some time to just think,” she told him.

“It’d be nothing, it’s getting colder out and I love driving my babygirl to-”

“Joseph,” her mother interrupted.

He backed down, “Alright, alright. Letting Pats be all independent.” 

“Thanks, Dad. I think I’ll have breakfast at school today, I’m going to get going,” Patsy said.

Joseph began reaching into his pocket, “Need money?”

“I’m good, I still have twenty from helping out at the diner.”

“Now hold on, that’s your money. It’s our job to feed you,” he said, and offered her a five, “Take it, and make sure you grab an apple or an orange or something those school food scientist freaks can’t turn into half-baked prison sloop."

Patsy nodded, “Okay, okay.” She took the money, then gave her dad a quick hug and kiss on the cheek, “Love you, mom. Love you, dad.” Then grabbed her backpack from a kitchen table chair and made her way to the door, only partially catching what her dad was saying about Patsy being braver than he was for voluntarily eating school food.

From her house it was roughly a twenty-minute walk to school. Normally, she would have jumped at the opportunity for a quick ride to school, but her mind was still preoccupied by that dream. Most of it was lost, faded just beyond her consciousness’s reach. Those red eyes; Patsy could still see them crystal clearly in her mind. She could almost feel them on her back now. Patsy shuttered at the thought.

As she walked she barely heard the wizzing of bike tires until they were right behind her, lost in her thoughts Patsy made a sound reminiscent of an “Eek!” and jumped off to the grass beside the sidewalk. The biker slowed to a stop, “Miss. Pascala, are you alright?”

He knew her name? Patsy looked at the biker, as she had been largely looking at her moving feet up until that point and the fact that from her perspective the biker was right in front of the morning sun, she had to squint and couldn’t really make out his face, “Uh, yes. I’m sorry, who are you?”

“Hmm?” he took off his helmet, revealing quite the head of curly locks, “Miss. Pascala, a little out of it this morning?”

As her eyes adjusted she suddenly realized, “OH! Mr. Morales, sorry. It was all sunny, and I was kinda lost in my thoughts, and I’ll just stop talking now.”

Her history teacher looked at her with a bit of a raised eyebrow, “I shall see you in the third period, Miss. Pascala, have a pleasant walk. Homework is due by the end of class.” He awkwardly coughed and rode off, quickly moving into the bicycle lane of the road.

Sometime later, after what is by all rights and definitions a poor excuse of a breakfast that would send Mr. DeSoto into a rambling state of disbelief that this was the best that taxpayer money could do for feeding America’s youth, as well as Patsy’s first hour math class (math first period of the day, she was convinced that the school gods hated her) and her second period economics class where they learned..something, Patsy was sure of that. She remembers taking notes and everything. There was a presentation with slides and everything, so they must have learned something...So after econ was her history class with Mr. Morales.

She liked Mr. Morales, more than her math teacher that’s for sure. “Math is the language of the universe.” She was taking English and French and frankly didn’t feel like she had time for a third language course. Mr. Morales was different, he got swept away with the subject sometimes and seemed to have a real love for it.

“We can learn much from history, but the people who made it weren’t trying to teach morals, and they weren’t thinking about just how important that what they were doing took place in 1776, or during the first or second half of the twelfth century. The past is made up of the actions of people who were concerned with living their lives, and if what they were doing was the right thing to do, or the right thing for them.” Mr. Morales said on the first day of school. He was also just a bit odd. His thick curly hair, a trait he described as indicative of his strong greek heritage, was peppered ever so slightly. Otherwise he held onto his youth remarkably well. looking closer to mid twenties rather than late thirties.

After the class ended, Patsy went up to her teacher, “Uh, Sir, excuse me.”

Mr. Morales looked up from his tablet from which he often powered through novels, “Hmm, yes, Miss. Pascala?”

“I was just going over that pop quiz you handed back today and I would have gotten one hundred percent if you didn’t mark my answer for question two wrong.” She said,

He set his tablet down, “That is usually how people do not get full marks. Allow me to double check that.” He held his hand open.

Patsy handed him the paper, “You see, I’m certain the correct answer is B and I’d like to get full credit.”

“Third century B.C. Yes, you are correct. I’ll be sure to update the gradebook and parent portal to reflect this. Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Miss. Pascala, I imagine I marked everyone else who answered as you did as incorrect as well.”

He handed her back the quiz after remarking her score and immediately wrote a note he then stuck to his computer monitor.

She excused herself and left with a bright smile, making her way to her next class, and then on and so forth with her day. As she was heading towards her computer typing class after lunch (which was not notably better than the breakfast, it is a wonder that these children survive long enough to eat microwaved ramen in college dorms.) She accidentally bumped into the Principle as she was turning a corner.

“Ooft!” She said, feeling like she walked into a lumpy brick wall.

Principal Robertson cleared his throat and looked down his nose at the young lady, “It is not becoming to run down the hails and blindly around corners.”

He had been the principal at her school for well over fifteen years now, and he seemed to live for it. Participating in school spirit events and playing along with the dress up days, at least he did last year. No one wanted to really mention it but over the summer he lost a lot of weight and his skin got paler...greyer was almost more accurate. Hushed rumors said he was diagnosed with some cancer or another but refused to stop working while on chemo and Patsy wasn’t sure what to think of it all. Looking down at her now she wasn’t feeling very comfortable.

“I, uh, I really need to get to class.” Patsy said

The sickly Principal sighed a heavy breath, “Just slow down.”

“Right, of course. Thank you Mr. I mean, Principal Robertson.” With that she took off, carefully walking not-to-quickly.

Passing around the next corner and with her computer lab in sight Patsy let out her own sigh of relief. The bell ringing just steps away, “Whyyyyyyy?” Patsy said in a hushed, exasperated tone.

She quickly rushed into the room and to her seat, hoping maybe she wouldn’t be marked late. The class lesson began and she got to work with her typing program. 

“Hey, Patsy,” Her friend Abby said, “Think your mom would give me a ride home after her shift at the dinner?”

“Course, Abbs.” She replied, “You getting anywhere with these?”

“Not really, my hands know the keyboard but my words per minute is garbage.” Abby said.

“My words per minute is fine, but I have to force myself to type the way that we’re supposed to. It doesn’t help that at home I always just type with my pointer and middle fingers.”

“You type a lot at home?” She asked, “Are you writing something?”

She nearly jumped out of her skin, “No! of course not...I just look up a lot of random stuff when I’m bored.” She must never know.

Abby raised an eyebrow, “Mhm, right.” 

Over the intercom the school receptionist called out, “Pascala DeSoto to the Principal’s office, Pascala DeSoto to the Principal’s office.

Abby winced, and tried to give her a reassuring smile.

She tried to return it, her thoughts were racing. Surely she wasn’t being called down to the Office for accidentally bumping into the Principal in the hallway was she? Why wouldn’t he just take her there right after she did it then? Maybe it wasn’t about anything she did at all. Oh God...what if her dad accidentally started another grease fire trying to make home fries? What if Mom got into an accident on her way to the dinner? Her mind was a beehive that someone just punted halfway across a football field. 

The receptionist must have noticed the worry on her face and gave her a very sweet smile, “Don’t worry about it too much, Sweetie. Just keep your chin up and remember none of this will matter in ten years.” Reassuring words, either her parents were fine or she was just as unsure why she called down Patsy as she was herself.

Bracing herself mentally, Patsy opened the door and pushed it to the magnetic door stopper that held it open.

“Closer the door behind you, Miss. DeSoto.” Principal Robertson said.

Her stomach did an uncomfortable flip, she wasn’t sure why she was feeling so destressed over this. She hadn’t done anything as far as she could remember or mentally justify. She closed the door, getting a last glimpse of Mrs. O'Riley, the nice receptionist.

Run! Every nerve in her body screamed out but she moved forward to sit in the chair opposite Principal Robertson at his desk anyway. He spoke up; she only saw his lips move, the words not landing correctly in her ears.

“I’m sorry, Sir. Could you say that again?” She asked.

His brow furrowed, “I do not care for repeating myself, Miss. Desoto.”

She sank in the chair. “Sorry.”

“And do not mumble. Speak clearly or not at all!” 

Patsy sat back up in her seat in shock, “Principal Robertson, I don’t think you’re allowed to speak to me like that.”

“Do not speak back to me, you’re the one in trouble here.” He said venomously.

Trembling she stood up, “I need to go.”

He got up as well, “I think not, DeSoto. You’ve been hiding really well, tricked everyone but not me.” He licked his upper lip.

A full body chill ran through her entire being and oddly, in retrospect she felt, Patsy really wanted her kitty Bean there. She said, “Principal Robertson, you can’t be serious right now!? Think….think about your wife!”

Robertson frowned hideously, “That bint isn’t important.” He smiled, which was so much more disturbing to the young lady, “not like you, DeSoto, you have been worth all of my effort and patience.”

He reached out for her when the door opened, “Principal Robertson,” called out an all too reassuring voice, “I was wondering if you had the chance to look over those field trip papers I….” His hand less than two inches away from her, Patsy’s whole body was trembling but she couldn’t make her legs run.

Mr. Morales stood in the open doorway, his eyes moving quickly from Patsy to Robertson. “Miss. Pascala, behind me.” He said putting himself between them.

The Principal scowled in frustration, “I’m not entirely sure what you think you are doing, Linus. You are acting like I am some sort of threat to the girl.”

“This doesn’t look good, James.” Mr. Morales replied.

Robertson scowled deeper, and Patsy in that moment of fear and confusion thought his scowl pulled unnaturally at his skin. 

Mr. Morales raised his hands defensively, “What are you?” Striking a serious tone with his voice that she had never heard from her history teacher before. It was a cold voice that set her skin on edge almost as much as Principal Robertson had.

Before her eyes the late fifties Principal of clear declining health grabbed Mr. Morales  and threw him against a glass case containing various trophies for academic and sports accomplishments. Patsy left out a loud scream and Mrs. O’Riley’s own scream wasn’t far behind. 

Later the police officers that responded to the Receptionist's call would ask Patsy what happened next, and she told them the truth. It all happened so fast she wasn’t sure what exactly happened. Mr. Morales, who had bruised ribs, and some cuts from the glass but was thankfully otherwise alright, shouted something that didn’t make sense to her at Robertson and the Principal ran off. She didn’t get to hear what Mr. Morales told them but they questioned him for a good long while. 

School was cancelled early and parents were furiously calling the school board and the district for answers. There was a warrant issued for Robertson, and some people were threatening to pull their kids altogether. No one wants their kids to go to the school where the principal threatened a fifteen year old girl and assaulted a teacher. 

Superintendent Wilkens sent a parent portal wide email that a warrant was formally filed against Mr. Robertson and the police had opened an investigation. In addition to Resource Officer Thomas three more Iron county police officers would be stationed at the school for security and rest assured that school would be open again Friday.

“No, no...this is ridiculous. My daughter was threatened by that man.” Patsy’s dad said to the Superintendent’s secretary. “Don’t put me on hold! ….Yes, I believe that you do have another call coming in. I….” he sighed heavily, and tossed his cellphone into the living room sofa.

“Sweetheart.” Elana said, putting her hands tenderly on Joseph’s shoulders.

“We worked with that man in the ice cream socal last year, Laney.”

Just out of their sight, sitting against the hallway wall Patsy hugged Bean. Now more than ever the tridactyl kitty gave her some comfort. She kept replaying it over in her mind, Robertson’s face looked so...uncanny valley. Elana had tried to reassure her that it was just her mind playing tricks on her, wanting to think that he was somehow less than human because of how he was acting. 

Her phone buzzed, touching the wall it tapped rapidly and loudly and Patsy reactively tried to grab it before her parents noticed.

“Pats? Babygirl, I thought you were laying down.” Her dad said, walking over to her, flipping the hallway light on. “Well, I thought you were scrolling through your phone, pretending to be laying down.”

She gave Bean a little squeeze like when she was littler, “I tried, but I couldn’t take a nap.”

“It’s okay, Pats. How'bout I make up some of my famous root beer floats?”

She slowly nodded, “That would be good.”

“Come on, Patsy.” Elana said, “We can sit at the table while your father makes us a feel better treat.” 

She got up and walked over to the kitchen table, Bean closely trailing her like always. “Hey, think I could maybe sleep in your guys' bed tonight?”

Elana quickly glanced at her husband, the pair of them sharing a whole conversation in a moment.

“Of course, Pats.” Her dad said, “I’ll sleep on the couch tonight.”

“It’ll be like when you crawled in my bed when you were little after a nightmare woke you up.” Elana said.

Her father was scooping ice cream into three tall milkshake glasses as Patsy pulled Elana into a hug, “Thank you for being my mom.” she said softly.

Elana returned the hug, remembering the first time Patsy told that to her and felt the sting of tears in her eyes. She was Pascala's mom, there wasn’t any doubt of that. She didn’t give birth to Patsy though. Her birth mom and Joseph’s first wife passed away when she was less than six months old, an oncoming driver didn’t stop at the red light as she was going through the intersection on her way home from work. Elana was her birth mother’s best friend and Patsy’s godmother. After the funeral she just kept helping Joseph out with Patsy, eventually moving in with them. Joseph and Elana married when she was seven, but she had really always been her mom.

As frustrated as he was with the situation, Joseph did his best to cool down and help Patsy feel better, telling his corny dad jokes he spent hours and hours looking up at his computer desk. 

He spent almost a half hour that night checking and double checking that every door and window was locked that night, as well as making sure their security system was armed. Unlike Patsy, who almost couldn’t sleep without Bean snuggled next to her, Elana found the heavy cat overly warm but she gritted her teeth through it for Patsy’s sake.

The next morning, Thursday, the day after her high school Principal threatened her, assaulted a teacher and just disappeared. She woke up to the smell of her dad making eggs, over cooking them. Elana always made them a little runny. Everything seemed to run by a little slowly. Like she had been jerked out of a deep daydream and couldn’t pull herself entirely out of her own head.

Around noon she and her mom were watching a cartoon as Joseph entered the room on the phone, “I see, well, thank you, Linus. Yes? I’ll ask her now, we were planning on going to the diner for lunch anyway.” He pulled the phone slightly away from his face and turned to the pair on the sofa, “Pats, Mr. Morales is out of the hospital. He asked if it would be alright if he met us at the diner today.”

She let out a huge sigh of relief hearing he was out, that meant he was okay, “Yeah, that sounds good!”

Joseph put the phone back to his face, “She’s okay with it. We’ll see you there at one. Yep, bye, it was good hearing from you too. And...thank you, Linus.” he hung up and put his phone into his pocket. “He said the superintendent pushed the school’s opening back to Monday, I guess we angry few can make a difference.”  

Elana pulled her legs onto the sofa and sat cross legged, turning towards him, “That’s great! I think that’s what WIlken’s should have done from the start, but hey. So we’ll be eating with Patsy’s english teacher?”

“History teacher.” Patsy said, correcting her.

“Linus is also one of my work associates, but yes. He just wants to check in with Pats.”

She nodded, “Alright, I’m going to take a quick shower before we go.” 

She gave Joseph a quick kiss on the cheek as she left the room, her husband replacing her spot on the sofa.

Patsy gave her dad a big hug. “So Mr. Morales is alright?”

“Some cuts and bruises but he sounded alright, he didn’t talk about himself much.” Joseph said.

Before long they were sitting down as Margret, one of the servers at the diner, was bringing over a pot of coffee for Joseph and Elana and a Shirley temple for Patsy. “Hey, Patsy.” the retirement age waitress said, “How’re you holding up?”

“I’m okay, Margret.” She said, putting on a cheerful voice.

“That’s the spirit, I’ll be sure to bring you over the biggest slice of cake.” She said

“Yay cake!”

Elana laughed a little, “We’re going to wait to order, Margie. We’re waiting on another person.”

The older waitress nodded her head slightly, “Sounds good, Laney. I’ll be back in two shakes with your refreshments.” With that she was off to serve some of the other customers, or guests as corporate would like they be referred to.

The three of them chatted while they waited for Mr. Morales, while they did Patsy’s thoughts drifted to the bizarre notion that when you see someone you only ever see at school, or school related events that when you see them out and about in everyday life the person is suddenly almost unrecognizable. Like in those children sitcom shows where someone says “Wait, you mean teachers don’t live at school??” or something else mildly insulting to the audience about their perceived intelligence. Still, Patsy wondered if it was going to be super weird seeing Mr. Morales not just outside of school, but on purpose outside of school. He normally dressed in clean but not ironed dress pants and some sort of long sleeved shirt, either a button up or a sweater; would he be wearing a rock and roll band t shirt and shorts? What if he wears his curly hair in a manbun outside of work? The horror.

It was almost a disappointment when Mr. Morales showed up in tan dress pants and a blue sweater, as well as a sling that held his left arm, some bandaging on his cheek with some purplish bruising around its edges.

“Linus,” her dad said, “Glad you could make it.”

“We’re both just so grateful for what you did yesterday.” Elana said as her husband scooted further into the booth, making room for him.

“Oh, I only did what any good samaritan should have in the situation.” Mr. Morales said, sitting down. “Ah!” He smiled at the pot of coffee sitting on the table, “May I? I’m afraid I skipped my usual morning cup...come to think of it, skipped most of my usual morning routine today.” 

“Go ahead, refills are free.” Patsy said.

“Are they?” He asked with a smile, awkwardly pouring himself a hot cup.

Margret returned, prompting her mom to say that they’ll probably need a few minutes for Mr. Morales to decide what he wants.

“Oh, go ahead.” The teacher reassured, “ I know what I want, a short stack of pancakes, and two pieces of bacon on the chewier side.”

“Oh, alright!” Elana said, “Brunch it is then, I guess we’re ready to order. Patsy, you go first.”

Patsy put in her order, a belgian waffle with strawberries and a lemon poppyseed muffin. Her father ordered the same as Mr. Morales, but he wanted his bacon crispy. Elana ordered two sunny side up eggs and some toast to dunk in the yolk. With that Margaret took off again.

“It just seemed so...out of nowhere.” Patsy said, suddenly.

Surprised, Elana reactively gave her a side hug, “No one ever expects these sorts of things to happen, Sweetheart. All that matters is that you’re safe.”

“Principal Robertson wasn’t...normal, right?” She asked, addressing her teacher.

Mr. Morales avoided her gaze, looking down into his coffee.

“Pats, Robertson wasn’t the man we thought he was, or he changed or something messed up.” her dad said.

“You saw his face too, right Mr. Morales, you asked him what he was.”

Her parents, worried for Patsy, then looked to the teacher they invited out.

“Miss. Pascala, I don’t know what had gotten into him, or what had become of him. That certainly wasn’t the man I have worked with for over two years now, but rest assured. He wasn’t some abnormality, he was a man, a man who revealed himself to be quite the monster.” Mr. Morales said finally, just as their food arrived.

To her parent’s relief, Patsy dropped the subject. They ate and her dad asked Mr. Morales how she was doing in his class.

“She is an ideal student” he told them, “Attentive, curious, she has a mind for nuance, and seems to genuinely want to understand why people did what they had done in the history lessons.” Which unfortunately made her quite uncomfortable, like she was in a parent-teacher conference all of all of a sudden.

As Patsy began to withdraw into herself, Elana asked her, “So, Patsy, is there anything else you’d like to do in town today before we head home?” She hoped to bring Patsy back to the surface of her own mind.

“Huh?” Patsy asked, she heard what her mom said, but her brain hadn’t really processed it yet. Something it usually would do about a split second after someone repeated what they said to her. “Oh, uh...well I was hoping we could go swing by grandma’s grave?” She stated her request with the inflection of a question. Her grandma wasn’t buried very far from where they lived. However, she knew that her dad always had a hard time going. He stayed in the car when they visited her grave a couple weeks before school started.

Joseph swallowed hard, but nodded, “Of course, babygirl.”

Mr. Morales raised an eyebrow, “I didn’t realize you had family buried here. I was under the impression that your family moved here from Louisiana.”

“We did, but Joseph is from here originally, we moved back here after his mother got sick.” Elana explained.

Mr. Morales turned his gaze back to his coffee, “I see.” Patsy could see his eyes darting swiftly like he either realized something or was thinking very swiftly. She felt like she could relate. “Miss. Pascala, Joseph, Elana. Please do not take me for overreaching but I’m not sure it is safe for the three of you to go to a location like that right now. If Robertson is following you it would be quite the place for an ambush.”

“Linus, don’t speak like that in front of my daughter.” Joseph said, something of a warning in his voice. 

“No, dad, it’s alright.” Patsy said, “Mr. Morales, do you really think it’s a bad idea to go to the cemetery?”

Mr. Morales looked to Joseph, who wore an expression that clearly said “Be careful how you say things.” He looked back at Patsy, with a small sigh, “I think, perhaps you should at least wait under after school starts up again Monday? Thank you all for this lovely meal, but I think I should be going. This should cover my food.” He swiftly got up and pulled his wallet out and with just his right hand awkwardly pulled out some bills. Leaving forty dollars on the table as he took off.

“I think you scared him.” Elana said simply, pouring herself another cup of coffee.

They ultimately didn’t go to the cemetery, to both the annoyance and relief of her father. In fact they stayed in for the rest of the day. Watching TV, playing a popular kart racing game which Joseph began quite smuggly. Only to lose to his daughter because of an npc driver launching a nuclear option that blasted him back to third place less than half the track away from victory.

Patsy told her parents that she felt comfortable enough to go to bed in her own room that night, and Elana made chicken parm hero sandwiches. All in all the day drifted by quickly after their lunch with the odd Mr. Morales. It was almost 10 at night when she finally told her parents she was going to bed, and they reaffirmed their own tiredness from the day and wouldn’t be up much longer themselves.

Of course, Patsy wasn’t really going to bed.

She stayed up for hours, just to be sure they had actually fallen asleep. Her dad. Patsy disarmed the security system and left the house, heading straight for the cemetery. She had to see her grandmother’s gravestone. Something about how Mr. Morales reacted just didn’t sit right with her. It had to be around 1:20 in the morning now and it was very dark and while it was brisk out during the day her fingers quickly started going numb and she could see her breath.

The ground of the cemetery was hard and bumpy from thawing into wet muddy ground under the sun during the day. Patsy walked through the cemetery at a brisk pace, wanting to get to her grandma's grave and back before her parents could wake up to find out she snuck out of the house...or worse she was taken by Robertson. The made her stomach clench up, and she began regretting this whole idea. There was a rustling in the bushes and she began to sprint, she felt like running home and forgetting all of this but she was painfully aware she was heading right towards the grave.

She came to a quick stop, looking down at the engraved stone. Ellinore DeSoto, 1961 to 2017. She knelt down, tears building in her eyes. Deep down she knew coming here now was a mistake, her grandma wouldn’t want her sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night, especially not under the current circumstances.

She sniffled, alright she got to the gravestone and proved exactly nothing. Time to get home as fast as she possibly could and swear off stupid impulsive decsions forever.

The wet smacking of lips that made her skin crawl.

“Pr.principal Robertson?” She tentatively asked, standing up and turning towards the gross sound. Her eyes widened in grotesque terror as she looked at the swollen thing that only scarcely held the appearance of her principal, the purplish grey skin stretched uncomfortably tight as the creature smiled wider than nature as she knew it allowed.

“Pascala Desoto,” It still spoke with Principal Robertson’s voice. “So courteous of you to come to me, now we may continue your...disciplinary measures, young lady.” The creature stuck out it’s purple tongue which extended down past its belly.

Patsy wanted to run, scream, anything, but her legs refused to move. Her body frozen. It walked up closer to her, and it’s foul breath was like a thick miasma that made her lungs clench up and burnt her throat, she couldn’t even tremble in fear.

“Speechless, DeSoto?” It leaned in and inhaled deeply by her hair, it chucked out as it spoke, “Yeeheeehesss. Your flesh will do, your form will do.”

Over the creature’s shoulder Pascala saw another, and the ghoul’s smile turned into a scowl. Apparently it noticed him as well.  It wrapped it’s unnaturally large hands around her, its index finger on her shoulder and its pinky on her waist. Turning to face him it snarled out, “This is my Witch, get your own.”

The man stepped out of the shadows into the moonlight, the beams catching on his glasses, “Let her go, Corpse eater.” He held a revolver in one hand, and an old medieval looking sword in the other. His arm wasn’t in the sling anymore and he didn’t look injured at all.

“Morales, I knew I should have crushed your throat when-”

Her teacher cocked the pistol and aimed it right at his head.

“G...go ahead. I am not something you can kill with a bullet.” The ghoul said smugly.

“In your state it will hurt, it’ll be a whole world of agony.” Morales said, calling the monster’s bluff.

It took a slight step back, balking out a grunt in some fear. “We can split her! I don’t need her blood!”

Patsy’s eyes widened at the suggestion.

“Don’t worry, Miss. Pascala. This thing won’t harm you...and survive.” His voice was cold again, and she couldn’t help but feel an intense fear. Maybe from the slight tremors she felt through the ghoul’s hand, but somehow she knew that this thing that used to be her Principal was terrified.

“I can’t go back to the corpses people bury, they poison them, and every time I feed I whimper in agony for years, only to need to feed again, the cycle is torture! Have mercy!” The ghoul begged.

“You do not want my mercy, Corpse eater. It is at the end of my sword.” He began walking forward.

The ghoul released Patsy and pinched her throat, “Another step and I’ll break her neck!”

Reactively she reached up at the monster’s finger’s “I don’t want to die!” she sobbed, were she in a more clear headed situation she may have realized she can move again.

Mr. Morales paused, scowling back at the hellish beast. 

“That’s right! You...you have a fondness for her, your student, HAH! So long as I have her in my grasp you won’t risk harming her.” The ghoul grinned hideously in it’s little victory.

Her history class teacher inhaled sharply, then said, “If you are going to do something, now would be the time!”

Principal Robertson the ghoul frowned, “What are you playing at?!” 

Out from the bushes a large orange cat ran up much faster than Patsy had ever seen in her life and pounced on the ghoul’s forearm, clawing and tearing at it. The ghoul released her and she dropped, quickly and frantically crawling into an upright sprint several yards away from the monster.

Bean used the ghoul as a springboard and sprinted over to Patsy. The Ghoul was screaming and clutching the wounds the cat had left on it, as Morales lunged forward and with a clean swift strike cleaved the monster’s head from it’s shoulders.

Patsy’s breaths were short, and she pulled Bean into her arms as she tried to calm down. Morales wiped his blade off on the grass before sheathing it and steeping over to his student as he holstered his gun.

“I’m sorry, Miss. Pascala.” He said, “Are you alright?”

“What, what was that!?” She asked, looking at the ghoul’s limp body.

He paused, like he was unsure he could answer, “...Is there any world where you could accept that this was all a bad dream?”

She shook her head, “No, I have nightmares all the time, this is real.” Patsy looked at her teacher and gasped, she tried to step back but only fell backwards. “Those eyes!”

Mr. Morales sighed, and pulled his glasses from his face. His eyes were a hungry deep red. “Please, Miss. Pascala, I mean you no harm. You have my word, my oath as a man who has spent his very long life guiding the minds of the youth, and protecting everyone who I find in need of help.”

She tried to steady her breath, with Bean in her arms she felt much bolder and confident, “Those eyes, I’ve seen them in my nightmares, I trusted you and you’re another one of those things!” She pointed to the ghoul.”

He was taken aback, and gestured at his face, “You’ve seen these eyes in your dreams? Miss. Pascala, I assure you I am not a corpse eater.” He grabbed his lip and pulled it up, revealing a long and sharp fang. “I am a vampire, and amazingly you seemed to have augured my presence in your dreams.”

She stared at the fang with wide, slightly horrified eyes. “...Huh.”

“Huh. That...is a first.” The Vampire said, “I imagine you have questions, and you deserve answers. Especially if you refuse to accept this night was just a bad dream.”

She nodded, “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to, trust me I’m trying. Still here, next to my vampire history teacher.”

“Very well, Miss. Pascala. This ghoul was hunting you because you are a Sorceress, and whoever gave you that cat was as well. Seeing as how that animal is a Familiar, your Familiar.” He said, “Monday, come to my class after school, and I will tell you more. For now just go home, you’ll be safe there with the cat. I need to clean this up before anyone comes by and finds it.”

It was be a difficult thing to believe that Patsy would just accept things at that, that she would just go home and enjoy her long weekend with her folks, and she could just scratch Bean behind the ear knowing she was some magical protector her Secret Sorceress Grandma had given to her as a little kitten. That she could be nearly eaten and just go back to bed. All that can be agreed upon is that Patsy got out of bed the next morning around 10:30, that she took a shower and had slightly runny scrambled eggs for breakfast. Another thing that can be certain is that Patsy would never doubt what happened, what she saw and what she heard, and that the story of Pascala DeSoto, The Sorceress of Illinois had only begun. 

End Chapter

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Space Between [Aizawa Shouta x F!Reader x Yamada Hizashi] [2/9]

EraserMic x Reader

Part 2/8

Warnings: depictions of PTSD, one (1) mention of vomiting (nothing graphic), very brief mention of violence (also nothing graphic), your friends being concerned about you, hugs

You wake up the next morning with a very sore, very stiff neck. You appreciate your friends putting you up for a while, but between the two of them they had terrible taste in furniture. In fact, you’re pretty certain their couch is the same couch you three shared when you first got your own place together…

You sit up on the lumpy cushions, wincing when your spine crackles. When you move to stand you find that you can’t, held in place by previously unnoticed twin weights on your blanketed legs. Your heart rate speeds up for a moment, before you realize it’s just a pair of cats sleeping on you.

You carefully finagle your way out from under them, taking extra care not to rouse or wake them. One of them chirps and stretches, and you pause, but she quickly falls back to sleep, tucked up against her companion.

Once you’re free, you wander towards the kitchen to find something to eat. Hizashi had offered to order takeout last night, but you were nearly dead on your feet by the time you walked into the house. You’d gone straight to bed, and now you had to deal with the stomach cramps.

You search around in the pantry and fridge for a while, finding few things more than rice, bread, condiments, and a couple canned goods. It made sense, considering how busy your friends were, but it was also a little ridiculous.

“You’d think two grown men could handle some grocery shopping,” you mumble, and settle on some rice, eggs, and toast. Not your ideal breakfast, but it was better than nothing.

You prepare the rice and set a pan on the stove in a haze, still muddled with sleep. Once both are sufficiently rinsed and warming, you set the rice off to cook and plop down at the kitchen table, where you notice a folded paper sitting. With your name on it.

Curious, you flip it open, instantly recognizing Hizashi’s messy writing.

‘Sho and I had to head out early, but we didn’t want to wake you. You were tossing a lot in your sleep.’

You think briefly back to the dreams you’d had, if you’d even had any. You usually had nightmares, but oftentimes you didn’t remember them, only waking with a hollow and sinking feeling in your chest.

‘You’ve got free run of the place, so use and eat what you want. Be warned, there’s not a lot in the fridge…we don’t really eat at home much. If you need the internet, Sho’s laptop is in the office across from the bedroom. See you tonight around ten!

-H’

You smile at the note, the signature consisting of a single letter, with a poor rendition of a cockatiel and a cat beside it.

You’re glad they have each other, you decide, and glad they’ve gotten together. It shouldn’t have been so much of a surprise to you, Hizashi was always more interested in Shouta than he was you. Sure, he doted on you when you were kids, but when Shouta came into the picture his attention shifted. You admit you had been a little jealous in the beginning, but now…

Maybe you’d just supposed it would always be the three of you together. You’d never bothered with dating or relationships, aside from the feelings you harboured for your best friends. You never saw the point, always content and happy to be with the two of them, even if it wasn’t romantic. They had been your rocks, your safe place, in years past.

You hadn’t comprehended that your interests could be so drastically different.

“C’mon, shake it off, stupid. They’re happy together, don’t ruin it with your feelings.” You run your hands down your face, sighing deeply. The rice would be ready soon, so you might as well get started on the eggs.

You butter a piece of bread and cut a hole out of the center, dropping it in the frying pan and cracking an egg into it. 

Egg In A Hole, one of the first things you’d ever learned to cook. You were seven when you’d first tried it, and Hizashi had been there as well. You’d been at your house after school and he’d claimed to be hungry, and you -ever wanting to impress him- had set a stool in front of the stove and made him the fanciest meal you could think of.

Looking back, you’re amazed you didn’t burn or undercook anything. He had claimed it was the most amazing thing he’d ever tasted, and for years it was a staple whenever you hung out… he’d hopped off that train by the time you were twelve, but every so often you’d still made him Eggs In A Hole.

Now it’s more of a comfort, more of you holding on to a time long passed. Things were different now, you were different, your friends were different-

“Shit!” you hiss, as the toast starts to burn in one corner, smoking up the kitchen. You turn the fan on and flip it over to cook the other side, sighing in relief when the egg doesn’t splatter everywhere.

You’re glad you weren’t sent undercover as a cook on your mission. Your skills in the kitchen are sub par at best, and where you’d been, nothing less than perfection was accepted. Anything burnt or under-seasoned would have been air for punishment; fingernails ripped off, palms cut up, thumbs broken. Anything that would further hinder work…and result in more punishment.

That was just the kind of person your target was. A rich american woman with a taste for torture, and a quirk that allowed her to feast on and destroy the hope in others. She had ‘hired’ you as a silent killer, despite the fact that she could easily kill people herself…or make them kill themselves.

You squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep breath, willing the thoughts away. You weren’t there anymore. You were here, with Hizashi, with Shouta. Safe. Safe.

You scoop the eggs and toast onto a plate, but your stomach has already turned. Memories didn’t pair well with breakfast, it seemed.

Once the rice is finished cooking, you wrap everything up and set it in the fridge for later, and continue going about your day.

—-

Ten PM rolls around before you know it, and your friends walk through the front door. You’ve stolen Shouta’s laptop from the office and moved it to the couch, where you now sit staring intensely at the screen.

The two of them watch you for a moment. If your stillness, posture, and bloodshot eyes are anything to go by, you’ve been like that for a while.

“You’re gonna hurt your back sitting like that,” Shouta says, kicking his boots off and wandering further into the house.

“In a second,” you reply, waving him off.

Hizashi sighs dramatically, crossing his arms. “She’s not even paying attention, Sho. We could be making out right now, and she wouldn’t even notice. Hey, watch this-”

“Hizashi,” you threaten, not looking away from the screen, “if you pull your pants down, I’ll shave your head while you sleep.”

“No fun.” But he removes his hands from his jeans anyways.

Shouta meanders up behind you, leaning over the back of the couch to see what you’re so intent on. “What’s got you so focused?” he asks, scanning the page you’re reading, “You were never like this in school.”

You remain stoic, missing the joke completely. “Conviction trials,” you explain, “I want to make sure every single one of those rich pricks I outed gets put behind bars. I’ve been scrounging news outlets since five.”

“And?”

“Nothing.” You sit up straighter, stretching your back and rubbing at your eyes. “I gave the commission enough information to put these people in prison for life! Why haven’t they been brought in yet!”

“You’ve only been out for a little while. These things take time.” His tone is gentle and concerned, but to your addled brain it feels more patronizing.

You fist your hair in your hands and tug. “I gave them hideouts, names, faces, addresses, bank numbers, concrete evidence against these people! A few days should be enough time to find them! They’re top priority criminals! They should be caught by now!”

A warm hand rests on your shoulder, jarring you violently out of your thoughts. You tense beneath the touch, electricity prickling down your arm, and you look up at him with wide eyes.

“Breathe,” he says.

You breathe.

He squeezes your shoulder slightly, comfortingly. “It’ll happen. Give the media time to catch up.”

You look away from him, finding a spot on the floor to stare at, and slump forward in defeat. “If it gets out that I was the snitch, too…”

The room is quiet for a couple beats as your words register, and the hand on your shoulder rubs soft circles into your skin. “Your partner…they were killed, weren’t they.” It’s not a question, merely an observation.

You nod.

“I can’t let them find me, Shouta. The way these people kill their targets-”

“You’re safe here, Y/N. Always. The chances of these criminals getting into the country undetected is between slim and none. Their faces will be plastered on every single no-fly list, every district wanted list.”

“They can do whatever they want, as long as they have the money.” You turn back to the laptop, continuing to scroll around various news outlets. “Even once they’re in prison, they’ll have outside connections. If they find out it was me who outed their whole operation, I’ll have a target on my back for the rest of my life.”

Shouta lets go of your shoulder, and walks around the couch to take a seat beside you, knees bumping against yours.

“There are…resources,” he begins, choosing his words carefully, “for heroes who’ve been undercover. To help them readjust to everyday life-”

“I don’t need a therapist,” you hiss, scowling. “I need…I need-”

A pair of hands scoops the laptop out of your grip, flipping it closed and setting it aside. But before you can complain, your now-warmed-up plate of food from that morning is set in your lap, and Hizashi takes a seat on your other side.

“If you don’t want a therapist, then at least take care of yourself, okay? Eat.”

Your scowl persists as you chew.

—-

You jolt awake on the couch at an unbeknownst hour of the morning, covered head to toe in a thin sheen of sweat. Your head is spinning and your ears are ringing, and you barely make it to the bathroom before you’re dry heaving into the sink. Nothing comes up, save for bitter bile, but you’re exhausted once the short wave of nausea passes.

You rinse your mouth and the sink out, and splash some water on your face. With any luck, you won’t have woken anyone, but when you exit the bathroom you nearly walk face first into Shouta, who’s leaning beside the door.

“It sounded like you were getting sick.” His tone isn’t accusing, but his posture puts your guard up.

“Nothing came out, so it’s fine.”

You wander back to the living room, hoping to leave the conversation, but he only follows.

“Why were you getting sick in the first place?”

“I dunno,” you grumble tensely, “adrenaline reaction maybe? Who’s to say why people puke.”

He’s quiet for several moments, observing you, your fidgeting, your agitation. You feel like you’re under a microscope, with the way he’s looking at you.

“What happened to you out there?” he asks.

“Stuff,” you mutter.

I got people killed.

“Stuff that gives you nightmares every time you sleep?”

“I don’t need a therapist.”

I don’t deserve to come back from this.

“Your sleep-yelling woke me up. You’re lucky Hizashi wears earplugs.”

You turn away from him and grab your water bottle off the coffee table, plopping grumpily onto the couch. Shouta hesitates for a moment before finding a seat beside you again. Warmth radiates off his body, which is pressed comfortingly against your side. You can feel the tension easing out of your shoulders in his presence.

“What’s so bad about therapists, anyways?” he asks, genuinely curious. “Lots of people need them. Hizashi and I have both seen a couple over the years.”

“I don’t need someone to tell me there’s something wrong with me.”

Shouta sighs. “That’s not what they do, and you know it. What’s the real reason?”

You silently curse his ability to read you like a book, to always somehow know when you’re lying. But…you’re not sure you could tell him the truth.

“I just…don’t like the idea, okay? Leave it at that.”

He watches you silently, searching in your averted gaze for any willingness to open up, but he finds only sadness…and shame. “I should head back to bed, then. Early morning, and whatnot. Try and get some more sleep.”

He rises off the couch, and without thinking you follow suit, and quickly envelope him in a hug.

“I’m sorry,” you sniffle, burying your face in his chest. He’s surprised for a moment, but is quick to wrap his arms around you, holding you tight while you tremble against him. 

He pats small circles into you back, keeping you close until your breathing begins to even out. “Just…don’t let this go on for too long, okay?” It’s the closest you’ve ever heard him to begging, “I don’t know what happened to you out there, but you’re obviously suffering.”

You pull away slightly, tired and defeated, and nod. “I’ll look into it. Those resources you mentioned. Okay?”

You release each other fully, and he gives you one last pat to the head.

“Okay. Now, really, try and get some more sleep.”