#i could potentially study more but :( it is my bedtime...

[theriverbeyond]

news and updates i have ACTUALLY STUDIED ‼️‼️‼️‼️ for perhaps the first or second time this semester. bedtime now 👍

[sapphicbrink]

— sleeping alone . diana t.

sum  :  you  can't  sleep,  but  its  okay  because  diana  is  only  a  few  doors  down.

pairing  :  college!diana  x  college!bestfriend!reader

warnings  :  n/a  ,  maaaybe  angst  if  you  squint  really  hard

a/n  :  first   blurb  on  here  omg  :)  i  love  diana  so  this  was  really  fun  to  write!

౨ৎ . . . tossing and turning was never your forte. in fact, you had a very long and extensive night time routine to prevent this. you stuck to it strictly, no matter how late you were up or any circumstances at hand. even with all that, midterms kept you up, staring at your dorm ceiling and stressing about the next exam. 

you sat up in your bed, your hands coming up to wipe away the grogginess from your eyes. you really had to get to sleep but you had no clue how to achieve that, 

until,

a drunken conversation appeared in your memories.

“you know, my dorms always open for you, no matter how late.” diana slurred, a goofy grin on her face while saying it.

that was your solution, your best friends dorm was only a hallway down and she did say you could come over whenever. so with that, you gathered your sleeping essentials (stuffed animal and water bottle) and padded your way down the carpeted college hallway. even in the dark, you could tell which dorm room was dianas. not only had you been there several times, but she also had basketball stickers on her door that set hers apart from everybody around her.

when you walked up to the door you came to two conclusions,

1. she was alone (no loud ruckus that was usually occurring when there were people over.)

2. she was working (you could hear the soft hum of a rap song through the door, something she only did when she was working on school or playing basketball.)

a part of you felt bad for potentially interrupting a study session, but the other part of you was so desperate to sleep, that you didn't really care. her bed was soft and she was warm, and she would cuddle you with no question. it sounded like sleeping heaven.

you gave a soft knock to the door, and let out a soft giggle when you heard a faint,

“who the fuck?”

come from the other side.

the door cracked open, an upset expression on her face that quickly softened the second she saw it was you. “y/n? isn't it past your bedtime?” she raised her eyebrow.

“oh shut up. i can't sleep, i need cuddles.” you frowned, giving her a pout and pleading eyes.

“come in,” she moved out of the doorframe, holding her arm out to invite you in. you came into her room, it was more messy than usual, but you really didn't mind. as you put your stuff down on her bedside table and sat on the bed, diana quickly put away her various textbooks and turned off the music.

just as quickly, she made her way onto the bed and flicked off the lamp. she laid with her arms out, inviting you in. you cuddled into her, her strong arms wrapping around you. she tucked her head into your neck and gently drew shapes across your arm.

“good night, cariña”

[floralcyanide]

𝐢'𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 - 𝐜𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧!𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫

cillian murphy!oppenheimer x reader

DISCLAIMER: this is fanfiction. it isn’t real. Oppenheimer is a real person, however Cillian!Oppenheimer is not. he is a character. if you have something bad to say just keep it in the drafts (:

“let's all go play Nagasaki, we can all get vaporized. hold my hand, let's turn to ash. I'll see you on the other side.” - 137 by Brand New

warnings: spoilers for Oppenheimer, descriptions of nuclear bomb/ explosion, fear

word count: 1316

author's note: I love Cillian so much, and he did so good in Oppy!! I just had to write about it. please keep in mind there are spoilers in this, don't read if you haven't seen the movie. also, there's only like, one other fic on here for Cillian!Oppy which is sad but I'm sure there'll be more soon. (:

masterlist | add yourself to the taglist here

ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ʀᴇᴘʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴇ, ᴏʀ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀs ᴏɴ ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ, ᴀᴏ3, ᴡᴀᴛᴛᴘᴀᴅ, ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴡᴇʙsɪᴛᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴘᴇʀᴍɪssɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ɪɴ ᴀɪ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀᴛᴏʀs ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀʀᴛɪғɪᴄɪᴀʟ ɪɴᴛᴇʟʟɪɢᴇɴᴄᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ᴛᴏ sᴇʟʟ ғᴏʀ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

For the last few nights, Robert has woken up abruptly from his sleep. He’ll sit upright and pant, trying his best to catch his breath. It alarms you every time he does this despite him acting like it didn’t happen. But you know he doesn’t go back to sleep after because you feel him toss and turn until morning. Test day is tomorrow, and you can feel Robert’s nervous energy radiating off him. This was it- this was the epitome of his life’s work, and if it failed, he would be lost. And you’re torn between wanting it not to work for humanity’s sake and wanting it to work for Robert’s. 

You have worked alongside your husband for many years despite the pushback from society. But he knows your intelligence and insisted you be involved in the Project. He refused to have anything to do with it unless you assisted him. Lieutenant Groves reluctantly agreed, but he still knew just how capable you were to help with the Project. 

You’re very much a housewife outside of work, though. Despite being a knowledgeable person, you still have duties at home. You’re busy folding laundry when Robert exits the bedroom after getting ready for a meeting. It was the last one before tomorrow’s events. Robert doesn’t say much to you before bidding his farewell and heading out. It wasn’t abnormal for him to mumble a goodbye before putting his hat on and leaving without anything else said. He was reserved unless it was necessary to say something. That’s one thing you admired about Robert; he could be cynical and sarcastic yet humble and a man of few words. 

You would attend a later meeting that evening, so it’s possible you may not see Robert until bedtime. You aren’t worried about him not kissing your son goodnight or missing dinner. You mostly worry he won’t sleep enough.

Later in bed, you and Robert both lay on your backs, staring at the ceiling wordlessly. 

“How are you feeling?” you suddenly ask, breaking the eerie silence.

Robert opens his mouth before shutting it again, shrugging.

You sigh, turning on your side to face him, “I can feel you have nightmares, you know.”

Robert cuts his eyes toward you before giving in and rolling over to face you as well, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” you furrow your brow, “There’s nothing to be sorry for. What we’re- what you’re doing is incredibly stressful and world-changing. It’s normal to be anxious over it.”

“That’s exactly why I’m anxious.”

“Which part?”

“The world-changing part.”

You’re quiet for a moment before answering, “What do you dream about?”

Robert’s eyes study yours closely, searching for any instance of potential recoil from what he’s about to tell you. He searches even though he knows he won’t find it because Robert knows that you’d never leave him no matter what. Even if his nightmares were incomparable to even the most descriptive horror stories. What’s worse is that Robert knows no one has ever seen the results of a bomb the magnitude of the one he’s created. So it’s up to his imagination. And his imagination is one of grotesque imagery that he hopes won’t come to fruition.

“Death,” Robert says plainly, with a cold look, “Destruction. Everything in my dreams is obliterated by fire and disintegrates into ash, and even the ash turns into nothingness.”

You purse your lips, gently reaching your hand up to touch Robert’s cheek, running your thumb over his cheekbone.

“I don’t fear for me or for us. I fear for our children,” Robert gives a watery laugh, “And the world they’ll have to grow up in knowing that such weaponry exists.”

You tuck Robert’s head into your chest, “You are merely the creator, darling. You have no control over how they use your creation. And I know that worries you, but you cannot do much about it.”

“I know. You’re right. But the fact I’m the one responsible for such a destructive device,” Robert trails off.

“Your creation is for science exploration and nothing more,” you say, “Remember that tomorrow.”

When you awake at two in the morning to prepare for the test, Robert has already gotten up from bed. You figure he didn’t sleep and has already made his way down the street to prepare. You hurriedly get dressed, grab your son, and walk out the front door. You let your neighbor, one of the wives of another scientist, watch over your son while you and Robert are away. A vehicle has been sent to your home, probably by Robert, to retrieve you. The ride is quiet and bumpy. You figure they would take you to the main hall, but they keep driving into the desert. Everyone must already be at Trinity. 

Trinity is alight, with people who worked on the project scurrying around to find the perfect spot to watch the explosion. You climb off the vehicle and run to the tent where Robert resides with the others. A relieved smile grows on his face when he sees you walk in.

“I didn’t want to see this without you,” he says, pulling you in for a tight hug.

“Did you sleep at all?” you mutter into his shoulder.

“Unfortunately, no. But sleep can come later,” Robert says, returning to the detonation station. 

You cross your arms and walk around aimlessly, watching the scientists scramble to take their places and put sun shades on.

“Ninety minutes,” Robert says from behind you.

You turn around to look at him, a half smile growing on your face, “I’m proud of you.”

“And I’m proud of you, too. Without your suggestions, we may not be here,” Robert plays with a loose strand of your hair.

“I doubt that,” you chuckle, “Your brainpower alone has done the job.”

“I’ll see you on the other side,” Robert says.

After a little under an hour and a half of checking that everything was perfect and prepared, everyone took their places where they wanted to view the test. You’re next to Robert, with goggles on your face that match his. Both of you have ports to get a fantastic view. The countdown begins.

Everyone becomes dead silent as the bomb is detonated. The flash causes you to gasp, your eyes adjusting to the sudden brightness despite the goggles. When the light subsides, you see a mushroom cloud of nothing but fire beginning to rise to the atmosphere. Beside you, Robert grabs hold of your hand and grasps it tightly. 

“Now I am become Death, the Destroyer of Worlds,” Robert says with a haunting tone.

You remove your goggles along with everyone else as you squint against the harsh brightness. Before you is the most terrifying, breathtaking thing you’ve ever seen. A firestorm that is capable of mass destruction. A scientific miracle. But before anyone can relax, the sound of air rumbling and rushing toward the tent is heard. The sound of the explosion hits the viewing base violently. The blast wave smacks everyone as they brace themselves against the high wind. Once the hot gust of air subsides and the explosion tapers down, everyone begins to cheer and clap.

“We did it,” Robert says in disbelief before he looks up at you, “We actually did it.”

You nod, smiling at him proudly before engulfing him in a hug.

“I have destroyed the world,” Robert whispers in your ear, and you pull away to see an odd flash of emotion cross his face.

“You haven’t,” you whisper back, as people begin to approach your husband, “But you’ve changed it forever.”

As colleagues surround Robert and move him outside, you remain in the tent for a moment. You replay the mushroom-looking explosion in your head. You begin to ponder what the Manhattan Project’s creation will do for the world. And whether it’s good or bad.

Either way, everyone has been forever changed.

[lemontongues]

yknow ive been thinking again lately about how i would like to see more realism in batman content, both canon and fandom, but not the Dark And Gritty kind. the kind thats like.

yes actually he is highly emotionally intelligent and does understand himself quite well and has just accepted that he is A Freak and decided to roll with it rather than being so horrifically emotionally repressed that he can barely even acknowledge that what hes doing is based in trauma. hes been in therapy since he was like 9 years old. he studies human psychology extensively both for himself and so he has better odds of predicting whats gonna go wrong and how when hes up against a rogue or negotiating a hostage situation or whatever. he meditates for two hours a day and is fully capable of keeping a healthy handle on his anger 98% of the time. he's nice to people and fun to be around and sincerely caring. if he were just Always Right but super isolated and reactive and cruel and controlling everyone would fucking hate him and no it wouldnt be enough to sustain his crimefighting activities, thats a stupid lone wolf fuckboy fantasy

he has a strict 9pm bedtime that he only breaks for mandatory WE/brucie activities or emergencies. if theres a gala where he needs to rub shoulders with ppl to gather intel or keep his company running he'll do it but hes Not Happy about being out until midnight and cuts out early as often as possible, and when hes chasing the joker around until 3am hes lamenting his poor sweet circadian rhythm that did nothing wrong ever in its life the whole time. when hes batmanning hes expending a fuckton of energy and he needs to make it up and have a well-established routine to counteract the punishment hes putting his body through. on a similar note, this man is building braces and compression into his suit and doing extensive physical therapy exercises every day of his life bc he wants to have helpful little things like "knees" and "shoulders" by the time hes 40, and hes probably eating a small farms worth of assorted leafy greens and several chickens per day

he is simply Never drunk and he doesnt actually have that much sex. hes really really good at faking a) being drunk and b) getting a high priority phone call from lucius the minute someone hes making out with starts trying to get his shirt off. he also does a lot of "hey look i gotta get out of here with my reputation intact, can we help each other out and pretend we're gonna go fuck?" kind of negotiating with ppl (see: his 9pm bedtime, plus sometimes hes gotta slip away from an event to be sneaky), which is how a lot of the more wild stories about him start circulating lol. this is a man who's regularly getting gassed/injected/etc with highly experimental substances created by maniacs trying to torment or kill him, he does NOT want substances like drugs or alcohol in his body that could potentially interact with them, and the last thing he needs is to be dealing with a pregnancy or sti scare. plus if he can play it safe with someone and have them think of him as a nice and trustworthy dude who just has a bonkers reputation, all the better for his batman activities!

idk i just feel like theres unexplored potential in a lot of that stuff bc so much of recent batman mythos is like HES SO HARDCORE AND CAN DO ANYTHING AND HES ALWAYS RIGHT CAUSE HES SO PARANOID AND DISRESPECTFUL OF PPL AND THEIR BOUNDARIES BUT ITS OKAY BC ITS IN THE NAME OF BEING RIGHT and im like. okay. gotta admit that i dont rly find that believable or in line with my values. can we talk about WE's sweet sweet employee benefits package and bruce designing his suit to take most of the impact off his knees when he jumps off a roof. members of the jl discovering that he gives shockingly balanced and insightful advice about their mundane personal problems. bruce printing his own batsymbol envelopes to leave people cash after he misaims his grappling hook and breaks their window. things of that nature.

[swtorpadawan]

Ten Facts About Ulannium Kaarz

I wasn’t actually tagged to do one of these for Ulannium, but I started putting this together as a sort of case-study for him, and it seemed to make sense to do this. Tagging the following people just in case they want to do this for one of their own OCs: @raven-of-domain-kwaad @anchanted-one @actualanxiousswampwitch @grandninjamasterren @sullustangin @cyraniadebergerac @starrypawz @intheinkpot @voidendron @lanabenikosdoormat @dragons-bones @clifford-telegenic @cryo-lily

Fact One – Parentage and Early Childhood: Ulannium Kaarz was born on Coruscant, the son of Ishris Kaarz, his mother, a brilliant research scientist with a Republic pharmaceutical conglomerate, and Luncib Kaarz, his father, a marketing executive and lobbyist with the same company. Both of his parents were very affectionate, Ishits especially. Although she worked long hours, his mother always made time for her son at bedtime, first by singing him Mirialan lullabies, and later by reading to him, fictional stories at first but later more advanced texts such as scientific manuals. Years later, Ulannium would credit his mother’s efforts (and her genetics) with the development of his impressive intellect. By chance, Ulannium’s Force sensitivity was not discovered until he was already six years old. (Possibly a result of his mother’s interference in the screening process.) By then, he was already academically precocious in the extreme, devouring books far beyond his age-level. When he was selected by the Jedi and told he might one day gain access to the full wealth of the Jedi Archives, Ulannium was thrilled at the opportunity. Indeed, if he had an ambition at this point, it would have been to spend the rest of his life in the galaxy’s greatest library. Ulannium had a younger sister, Tharia, who was possibly even more curious about the universe than he. As she was four at the time, he regarded her as a pest who kept stealing his scientific holopads. When the Jedi tested her for Force-sensitivity, it came back negative, much to the relief of her parents who were already giving up a son.

Art by @theoasiswinds

Fact Two – Inspirations: One of my inspirations for the character of Ulannium is George Smiley from John le Carré’s Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. When he does finally confront someone, whether an enemy or even an ally whom he’s trying to persuade, he brings the full force of his intellect to bare on them, and people often find it as overpowering as a force of nature. Ulannium is remarkably proficient at understanding and analyzing most of the people he encounters, including some who others find enigmatic. (Such is the case with Corellan Halcyon. Ulannium understands the Hero of Tython far better than someone like Satele Shan, at least earlier in the story.) On the flip side, a select few people are something of a mystery to Ulannium, and throw him off entirely. (This was the case with Zenith.) Another character who inspired me was Vaegon Targaryen, a minor character from George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire. He could have done a hundred things, including becoming the King. He preferred his books, however.  

Fact Three – Growing up on Uphrades: To avoid potential contact with his family on Coruscant, the Jedi sent Ulannium to their small enclave on the agricultural world of Uphrades. It was a small training cadre; two semi-retired Jedi Masters and eight younglings. To discourage unhealthy attachments amongst the younglings, they were arranged on a tiered-age system. The oldest of the younglings would be around fourteen and would be considered on the precipice of their initiate trials to become Padawans. The next-oldest would be a year or two younger than the eldest, and so on down the line until the youngest child, who would be around four or five. With the age difference, it was hoped that the younglings would be less likely to adopt detrimental attachments to each other.

Fact Four – First Friendship: Two years after Ulannium arrived on Uphrades, the next youngling was sent. The younger child seemed untalented and almost Force-blind to Ulannium, who by then was already demonstrating an impressive sensitivity to the Force. But as the Masters were unwilling to give up on him yet, when he turned six, he was handed a training saber. Within a week, he had surpassed every other youngling in combat, even those twice his age. Within a year, no two initiates could match him. Even Master Sagottoh, once a Blademaster of the Order in his younger years, soon found himself pressed. This youngling - one age tier below Ulannium - was named Corellan Halcyon. When they first met, Ulannium himself thought the youngling was untalented and barely worth his notice. Later, when his martial capability manifested, Nowan Ko Detizu realized that Corellan needed Ulannium’s help to acclimate to the other children, most of whom were intimidated by the young firebrand. The bond the two developed would last them the rest of their lives. In recognition of this reality and her responsibilities, when Ulannium was ready to become a padawan, Nowan Ko’s report to the council would advise them not to assign the two to work together, which is why they were kept separated for the next eight years. Although they were both disappointed, both would ultimately conclude it had been the right thing to do.

Fact Five – Tragedy: When the Sack of Coruscant took place, Ulannium was still far away on Uphrades, reading a text on archaeology. He recalls feeling a deep sense of foreboding in the pit of his stomach, but as he was unable to determine what it was, he soon resumed reading. A few days later once the reports had come in, the Uphrades Masters regretfully informed him that his family had been killed during the attack when falling debris had collapsed on them on the street. The youngling showed little reaction at first, then finally announced his intention to head off to find solitude to meditate. The masters, decided that he needed time to process what had happened, let him. Corellan, recognizing that he needed friendship, pursued him and talked. [I may write about that encounter someday.]

Fact Six – Personality: One of Ulannium’s personality quirks is his tendency to answer a question with a question. This is sometimes a defensive mechanism, and sometimes simply a way to get an individual to rethink their position diplomatically. In the normal flow of conversation, he does this skillfully enough that people rarely even notice. He picked up this particular quirk from Master Nowan Ko Detizu, one of his mentors back on Uphrades. The Cathar Jedi taught him a multitude of simple techniques that aid him in his day-to-day life as a Jedi, diplomat and sometime political and military leader.

Fact Seven – Traits: By the time the class stories begin, Ulannium is already an expert in the fields of biology, archaeology, geology and history, and could probably have earned a master’s degree in any of those areas if given the time and inclination to do so. Although he was appropriately honored to meet the esteemed members of the Jedi Council, he was most excited to meet Gnost-Dural, as the Kel Dor had, by then, been named the Keeper of the Jedi Archives. Ulannium definitely has a strong interest – some might even say a passion – for ancient Force knowledge and would live in the Jedi Archives if he could. One of the most difficult decisions he ever faced was rescuing Laria Taphoni on Taris, effectively sacrificing the holocron the expedition team had found. In making his choice, Ulannium was guided by the principles of the Jedi code and recognizes that it was the correct decision, but nevertheless he had to meditate for a long while to process everything that happened. Although he recognizes that Rajivari’s teachings ran contrary to the Jedi code and had corrupted many ancient Jedi, Ulannium never quite forgot what he had learned of it. He wishes he had spent more time with the fallen Je'daii Master to learn where things had gone wrong.

Fact Eight – His Relationship with Nadia Grell: Ulannium doesn’t believe in concepts like “love at first sight”. But when he met Nadia, he generally became more protective of her innocence. Eventually, those feelings evolved into romantic impulses, but even in their early days together, he was somewhat distracted. That was one of the reasons he didn’t immediately pick up on Nadia’s force-sensitivity, which he would have normally understood right from the get-go. As a side note, his relationship with Nadia develops very differently in my story than in the game and does not progress until after she is Knighted almost three years after becoming his Padawan. As a fluffy note, To date, Nadia is the only person who has ever called him “Uli”. She’s usually discreet about the practice, but she did actually let it slip in front of Felix Iresso on one occasion. Ulannium was embarrassed, Nadia was aghast, and Felix was amused.

Fact Nine – Joining the Alliance: After Ulannium and the rest of the Ossus colony rejoined the rest of the galaxy (lining up with the Jedi Under Siege expansion from the canon story), he and Nadia became honorary members of the Eternal Alliance, with Ulannium serving as the Alliance’s liaison with the Council. The Council - when it eventually reformed - did not formally condone or condemn this relationship; they simply pretended that they didn’t know it existed, despite it becoming common knowledge by that point. [Note: This mirrors Revan’s post-KOTOR relationship with Bastilla in the “Revan” novel.] Far from being past his prime after joining the Eternal Alliance, Ulannium achieved some of the most impressive efforts of his career as the Alliance’s top diplomatic negotiator, writing much of the treaty that Corellan and the Alliance would eventually sign with the Galactic Republic. But arguably the most impressive feat of his career was the negotiation of the Treaty of Alderaan, a pact that ended nearly twenty years of civil war and internal discord. Leading the Alliance’s diplomatic corps, one of Ulannium’s top deputies would be the Killik Joiner and former Imperial diplomat and Intelligence operative, Vector Hyllus. Ulannium learned a great deal of respect for Hyllus and his capabilities, which was reciprocated by the Joiner.

Fact Ten - His Legacy: Some years joining the Alliance, he and Nadia had their first child: Maykia Ishris Kaarz. She is named for both of her grandmothers; Maykia on Nadia’s side and Ishris on Ulannium’s. She’s a couple of years younger than Bela and Tasiele, who are friends of hers who I’ve spoken about elsewhere. Her childhood was complicated to say the least, but she eventually fully joined the Jedi order on her own terms as she began adulthood. She wields a double-bladed lightsaber as her mother did, albeit she’s not a true Jedi Shadow. [Note: Maykia is part of the “Future Halcyon Legacy” I’ve been putting together. ]

Thousands of years later, Teela Kaarz, one of Ulannium’s descendants, would be conscripted to work on the construction of the Death Star. Teela and a group of Rebel recruits fled the doomed space station before it exploded. [Novel: Death Star ]

Thank you for reading!

[writingwenches]

Philia 1, agape 3, & ludus 5 for the OC of your choice 💕

OoOoOo! I had fun with this one and used this as a chance to explore my version of Alicent's mother Alaerie Hightower/Florent~ Thanks for the ask! And sorry to took 5ever~

voice inspiration — Bernadette Peters face inspiration — Christina Hendricks themes — Ive been so many people having Alicent's mother "die young" which makes sense, but I wanted to make a version that was an "older" mother because Alicent deserves to have a mother that lived a full life~

content: pregnancy complication discussion

1//Philia — Does your OC have a Best Friend? If they do then how long have they known each other and how did they meet? If they don’t then do they have a close group of friends they love equally? Or are they more of a loner?

There are three relationships that shaped the world around Alicent, through her mother Alaerie Florent.

Mina Flowers — Alaerie's mother died when she was around 4, and was raised by Septas and tutors since. Alaerie's childhood friend, Mina was a noble bastard that Lord Emmet Florent allowed to be raised alongside his daughter in Brightwater Keep. Mina is a bastard of House Blackbar, from Bandallon, a seaside city East of Brightwater. Growing up, Alaerie would defend Mina's bastardry as something that Mina shouldn't be judged on, until Mina found herself pregnant at a young, unmarried age. House Florent threw her out, and Alaerie learned to never trust a bastard. This opens up a fun potential for a Bastard OC around Daemon's age~

Otto Hightower — Alaerie had spent her youth dreaming of marrying a Lord and becoming the Lady of a noble house, prepared to represent her new family in all of their glory. Alaerie spent time during her studies of Noble Houses to dive into the ancient histories of houses she particularly enjoyed, and daydreamed about being the perfect Lady for them. When she met Otto, she was instantly smitten by him, she wasn't even aware. She had planned her whole life to be the perfect Lady, that she was surprised when Otto's offer of being nothing more than his wife excited her. She loved Otto and would consider him her best friend. She found him charming, handsome, and intelligent. But, being a proper pious woman, she was embarrassed by her attraction to her husband. I picture Alaerie as an older mother, having her first child around 30, nearly ten years of marriage. Because of their struggles to conceive, I'm sure there were plenty of Maesters involved in her and Otto's bedtime ~rituals~ which would have embarrassed her to no end. She would often admit to Alicent that her father was quite the romantic, and Alaerie raised Alicent to be excited for true romance in her future marriage. Unfortunately.

Aemma Targaryen — I wouldn't necessarily say they were best friends, but they had a very close relationship. Aemma and Alaerie give off "work colleague" vibes, because they were the only other women/mothers in their world and their kids are best friends. Alaerie was up to a generation older than Aemma, so Alaerie thought of Aemma as the younger sister she never had. Alaerie gave birth to her youngest child, when Aemma gave birth to her eldest child. Both women experience pregnancy struggles and complications. Alaerie struggled more with conception, where Aemma struggled in later parts of pregnancy. Alaerie did not speak often of her miscarriages, and because they were usually early on, she was physically able to "carry on" easier. This gives Otto a warped sense of recovery. Alaerie cheers Aemma on and assures her is Alaerie could have two children, Aemma could as well. Alaerie is very team "GET AEMMA PREGNANT" which could lean into Aemma's wanting to give up trying after her Baelon pregnancy, because Alaerie/her cheerleader has died

3//Agape — To what extent does your OC believe in the value (or even existence) of true altruism? Do they see an unselfish concern for the welfare of others as being naïve or foolish? Or as a moral quality to which people should aspire?

Alaerie was raised as a proper lady of the Faith of the Seven, she judges her family when they fall short, it's not like its hard to follow the rules. Alaerie believes that the church has the answer for "true altruism" and she will follow it as closely as possible, even to the extent that she is embarrassed to be attracted to her husband.

Being a noble, she was raised with a "herd mentality" in reguards to small folk. So, she cares about them as a collective, rather than individuals. The needs of the many out way the needs of the few when it comes to small folk only. High borns are special and chosen by The Gods™ to have a better life than peasants.

5//Ludus — What seduction techniques are most likely to be effective when it comes to your OC? Are there some things guaranteed to get them going? Or are they immune to such things?

Otto is a man from The Reach, he was taught proper etiquette from the best knights in the realm, I would imagine that they are allowed a more ~feminine~ side when around women. So, Otto opening up and being vulnerable with her and only her is so special and sexy to her. Alaerie married Otto, not out of obligation, but because she really enjoyed him, and there were times that he treated her as his equal. He could bring her a coquette of flowers and ask her about her political opinions and she'd swoon. Otto really did enjoy what she had to say, and sought out her opinions..........was he doing this because he actually cared about those opinions? Or did he know that it was the quickest way to get her clothes of?? 🤷🏻 I guess we'll never know....

[snowflowers-ffxiv]

FFxivWrite2024 - 15: Moongazing (Free Day)

In the moonlight the willow sways On this roadside I am but a stone Visions of you come to me

—Tsuki Wo Miteita

How fitting that it would a full moon when night returned to the skies of Norvrandt for the first time in a century.

The celebration was still ongoing in the streets below and it would not surprise him the slightest if it continued long into the night and lasted until the crack of dawn. He could not fault them for it. One Lightwarden. One region returned to night. But it was a start and irrefutable proof that what the people of the Crystarium have been fighting for was not only possible, but potentially within reach.

The Warrior of Darkness has come at last.

The Crystal Exarch did not make a habit of gazing down at the city and its people from above but tonight found himself seeking the tranquility of one of the upper balconies when he caught a glimpse of the moon shining full and bright.

He was not the only one who seemed to have done the same.

On the Source, the moon was the dominion of Menphina, the Lover. In some distant past, a young scholar immersed in the study of Allagan history had been more interested in the existance of the lesser moon Dalamud never had much reason nor desire to offer prayers to her specifically. Here and now, with the very same Warrior of Darkness that brought back the night sky, the Crystal Exarch found himself enraptured by the sight of her bathed in Her light.

As though responding to his thoughts, Estrild looked over her shoulder. “Lord Exarch?”

“Forgive me. I did not realize this balcony was already occupied.” He nodded towards the ground below. “There are celebrations abound, but peace and quiet is a scarcity tonight it seems.”

She let out exhale and he could hear the sound of a slight smile in her voice as she said, “I quite agree with you, Lord Exarch. I thought about retreating to my room in the Pendants, but…” She turned back to look up at the skies. “I have not seen the moon in only a few days. I can only imagine what it must like for those seeing it for the first time.”

“For a hundred years, the people of the First knew only the oppressive light of the sun,” he murmured. “It is inescapable. Domineering. An ever-present reminder of the Flood that brought this land to ruin. The light of the moon is… gentler. A guide in the darkness. Much like…”

“Warrior of Darkness, servant of death, take care of our souls at our dying breath Let sinners and eaters of sin go with three That all may return to the sunless sea.”

Ah, that old bedtime story. He had laid the foundations of her arrival during those years wherein he journeyed the lands of Norvrandt. What had began as sharing the stories of hope that kept those in the Eighth Umbral Calamity going in hopes that they would being a similar succor to the aching souls of the First, had turned into prophecies over time.

“Where did you learn that rhyme, if I may ask?”

She paused for a moment, bringing her hands together and closing her eyes in what could be called a prayer. “A carer at the Inn at Journey’s End by the name of Tesleen. She was Alisaie’s friend and she turned into a Sin Eater when she tried to save a child. We fought her in Holminster Switch. It was her… I’m sure of it.”

“I see. That explains why Alisaie was so…” A moment of grief settled upon them then. Tesleen’s fate was far from unique and the Crystal Exarch himself had been forced to put down someone—someone he had known—who had been turned on more than one occasion.

“Lord Exarch?”

“Yes?”

“I wanted to thank you. For suggesting that we keep my involvement in the Lightwarden’s defeat a secret. I knew it was a pragmatism that drove you, but I would have preferred it that way regardless.”

Pragmatism was not the sole reason for his suggestion, but he nevertheless chose not to correct her on that assumption. Those many, many years ago, when he had met a hero who seemingly walked right out of his childhood storybooks, he had been shocked to discover that in reality she had been rather ill-at ease with her newfound fame. He had always intended to gauge how much that had changed—if at all—before making a decision on whether or not to make her identity as the fabled Warrior of Darkness public and it was a great relief to know that he had made the right one.

“You are very welcome,” he replied. “There are no words to express my gratitude for what you have agreed to do for me—for the people of this world. The least I can do is ensure you are not burdened with anything less that what is necessary.” Though it seemed it was normal for her to take on more than what was asked of her. Not only did she slay the Lightwarden, but she had also tended to the wounded in the aftermath alongside the Crystarium’s healers and chirurgeons.

“I will not let you down.” She turned to gaze back at the moment for a moment before saying. “I believe I will turn in for the night. My battles here have just begun.”

The Crystal Exarch nodded and gave her a low bow ere she could depart. “Goodnight, Estrild. Sleep well.”

[sukirichi]

earned it [05]

Gojo Satoru is a firm believer that if you work hard for it then you shall earn it. But on the other side, he’s not unfamiliar with his own sins. He also believes that there is punishment due for his sins as he’s earned it.

cw. domestic abuse, car accident, slight angst, sexism, suggestive scenes, unedited and my naoya simping is obvious with this one, 

notes. TEAM NAOYA LET’S GOOOO *sighs* finally got this out from my drafts. anyways, here’s an earned it update while i recover from migraines because my schedule was so hectic last week and i’m so tired, might be sleeping a lot these days hence the hiatus :( also ik i keep saying this but future chapters will finally be more...UH SPICY AND MORE DRAMATIC, I guess? this is mostly an angst fic btw so please don’t expect too much fluff of heartwarming romance. there WILL be romance,,,it just takes some time hehe, anways ENJOY...or not :)

series masterlist

Women were weak. Trained to be voiceless, compliant, and unable to fight – Naoya found them weak.

His own mother was the perfect epitome of that. For years, he’d watched her leave his father’s room with dried tears, wiping them away with the back of her sleeves. When she saw a little Naoya standing at the edge of the hallway, she’d immediately usher him back to his room, her tears replaced with a smile so convincing Naoya wouldn’t have believed she’d been crying if he hadn’t seen it for himself.

Naoya wasn’t stupid. How could he be when day and night, he’s surrounded by tutors, expected to take over his clan and lead them all to a brighter future?

How could he be stupid when he can’t sleep at night, for the screams and cries of his mother, the sound of palm hitting cheek resonating just from the other room, accompanied with the insults directed her way by his own father?

How could he be so stupid when he looked up to his mother – who he believed was the only source of light in the rather desolate walls of their manor – only to see that her beauty faded with each passing day, the brightness of her eyes now filled agony, with pain, with fear? She no longer smiled; not even for him. She no longer came around his room to read him bedtime stories no matter how much Naoya pleaded because he’d gotten tired of reciting scriptures and poetry. She no longer kissed him on the forehead as a morning greeting, opting to stay in the sidelines with her head bowed, acting as if she was a servant and not his mother.

Naoya wasn’t stupid. As the future leader of the Zen’in Clan, it was his duty to hear and see everything, to be wary of everyone around him and to observe. He knew his father abused her. He knew his father hated her, looked down on her, stepped on her at each moment he could. And as if that wasn’t enough, Naoya found out they weren’t married in the first place.

She had been nothing but a mere concubine whose role was to birth an heir. Now that Naoya had come to life, her purpose to live ceased to exist. And people who had no role in the Zen’in estate had no reason to stay any further.

“Mother,” Naoya cried out, tugging at his mother’s sleeve. “Mother, please don’t go, don’t leave me!”

She was crying again; he wished she’d stop doing that, that she’d stop being so weak. He wanted his mother to be strong and fight back, but she’s not even attempting to wipe her tears away this time, displaying her vulnerability and meek self to him. Had his father been there, she’d be scolded again, claiming that Naoya shouldn’t be exposed to behaviors of surrender and weakness.

His mother cupped his face, trying her best to keep the younger version of himself from dangling onto her robes; the expensive, silk material the last evidence she’d ever been a part of them.

“Naoya, baby, it’s okay. You need to grow up strong and be the clan leader, okay?”

“But why do you have to leave? Why do you never fight back?”

“I’m sorry, dear...” was all she said, finally kissing him on the forehead like she’d failed to do so for the past months. Somehow, it didn’t make him feel any better. Instead, Naoya’s cries grows louder with each minute, loud enough that he caught the attention of his manservants who paled at the Young Master’s wails that was sure to displease his father locked inside his study. His mother sent a glance their way that expressed messages he couldn’t yet understand due to his innocence. Strong arms wrapped around his smaller frame until they dragged Naoya away from his mother, the sight of a luggage behind her turning him weak in the knees.

“Remember, Mother always loves you.”

“No!” he fought against their hold. His servants did all they could to not harm the Young Master’s skin, but Naoya was too strong, too desperate that they were unable to hold him back.

Naoya kept running and running, uncaring of the fact his loose robes hindered him from going at full speed. He didn’t stop, even as his servants had trailed after him, desperate pleas for the Young Master to come back falling into deaf ears. His mother had arrived on a nearby bus from the open roads that led outside the Zen’in Estate’s outer gates, her hand frozen on the doors with her head slightly tilted to the side.

That slight moment of hesitance – to look behind or leave everything behind – was what made Naoya stop in his tracks. He breathed hard, sweaty palms on his knees as he silently prayed to the divine beings to bring his mother back, for her to look at him one last time.

But she didn’t.

And Naoya was frozen in his tracks, everything colliding into one crash and burn that he failed to make sense of everything. He stood there and watched his mother hop into the bus, her decision to leave him behind final and irrevocable. What had rung louder then? The way his heart shattered into pieces, or the loud honking of an incoming car that not even his skilled team of guards could protect him from?

Naoya figured it must’ve been the muffled cries of his mother behind the windows that rung the loudest even if he hadn’t heard it.

Until now, he carried the mark his mother left behind; a gnarly scar running inches from his kneecaps that throbs until now. It reminds him every day what could happen to someone once they’re weak, once they’re vulnerable, the horrifying consequence of not being strong enough to face in this world like a huge slap in his face. In a way, he felt grateful for the scar; at least it was proof he’d done his best to run after his mother, and this injury just taught him it was best to face things head on instead of running away.

This scar would always tell him that running away was never the option, and that was why Naoya felt so strong, so disappointed when he met you. Naoya saw much potential in you – the wrath firing in your eyes and the will to fight back is what pulled him in on the first place – and yet you were already trembling on the ground, your sweat dripping on the floor.

“Stand up!” he demanded, tapping his cane on the ground as he wobbled to his feet. “Do you really think being weak will make you survive in this world?”

“I’m trying!”

“You’re not trying hard enough,” he spat out, matching the intensity of your glare. Had you been any lesser of a woman, a servant, he’d have your eyes gouged out. But to him, you were a vessel of hope, an embodiment of strength he could help you hone that he let you off. Still, he felt extremely let down that he expected so much from you, and you’ve been pathetic so far.

Naoya shook his head as he left. “You’re going to die the moment you step out of here. And to think I actually had high hopes for you. As expected, you women are weak and pathetic. Each one of you is useless.”

He didn’t get very far when his injury throbbed again. Naoya fell to his knees and immediately bit down on his lip to conceal his groans, but it was too late. You’ve rushed to him in an instant, already pulling his slacks upwards to get a good look at his knee. Worry is painted all over your features still drenched in sweat and exhaustion, and he pried your hand away, a frown deep on his lips.

“Get away from me. I don’t need a woman’s help.”

“You’re so uptight, you know that?” you rebutted with a roll of your eyes. Naoya watched as you skipped to the nearest medical kit he always kept in his training grounds (which he rarely used) and popping out painkillers to hand to him. “Just shut up and let me take care of you. Unlike you, I don’t walk around calling people weak, and you having this injury never made you weak in my eyes, but you’re not impotent either,” scoffing at him, you pushed the bottle of water to a very annoyed looking Naoya. “At least let me take care of you every once in a while.”

His whole life, Naoya knew nothing but the familiar bitter cold. Being served tea, scaring his servants with his mere presence, the toxic view that everyone was below them drilled into his own head – that had been his life, and his feelings about it were neither hot nor cold.

To him, it was just the way he’s supposed to be.

But the warmth of your hands, the tenderness of your touch to his scars not because you found him weak but rather you cared for him…it tugged at his heartstrings. That had been at least five years ago and Naoya still remembered that moment very clearly.

He couldn’t understand whether he hated his inability to run away or not, because to be around you confused him to no end. One moment, he saw you as nothing but his one way ticket to fortune, but when he was alone with you, he was beginning to see you more as a woman rather than a pawn to his game. Soon, you became more than that, and nothing had terrified him even more that he let someone in his heart just like that.

Did he love you? No, most definitely not. A man like him didn’t know how to love. But with you – every time he saw you – Naoya is confident to admit that he could somehow understand what love meant.

It had been a hellish trip – one he’d never admit it out loud that he wished to never go on again. He was just happy to be home before he laughed, because home? He’d never thought he’d ever say that, yet there he was, beaming at the sight of you pushing your weight off the limousine.

You looked as stunning as usual, running up to him even with your heels before wrapping your arms around his neck. Usually, Naoya didn’t like public displays of affection since it could greatly deter his reputation, but everyone knew both of you weren’t each other’s weaknesses that he didn’t care whether his people could see their leader grinning as his wife welcomed with a kiss. Naoya balanced himself on his cane to encircle a hand to your waist, pulling you closer and burying his face in your hair.

“I missed you,” you mumbled with your head buried in his shoulder.

Naoya’s smile wasn’t any less affectionate. “I missed you more.” And he did – a whole lot. Even as you both made it inside the limousine, the tablet passed to him per the usual to update him on what happened on the few days of his absence, Naoya couldn’t keep his hands to himself. His cane balanced between his knee and the door, while his free hand intertwined with yours, mindlessly caressing the matching rings that symbolized more trust than love.

“How did it go?” he brought your knuckles up to his lips and kissed it, his attention still focused on today’s stock market. “Did you convince him to lend us the lab?”

“Yes, my love, everything is under control. I told you I had it.”

“Cunning little minx,” he smirked at the confidence and triumph dripping from your voice. Naoya shut his tablet off with a click, hauling you until you were resting on his lap. Giggles erupted beautifully from your lips as you pressed your forehead to his, both your smiles equally mischievous. “Did you sleep with him?”

“No. Satoru is still hopelessly in love with me, so it didn’t really take much to push him to the edge with a few tears and white lies,” you smiled at him, soon dropping from your face when Naoya’s eyes darkened with an unreadable – no, unfamiliar hint of worry behind them. “Naoya,” you caressed his leg, “I don’t care about him anymore, you’ve got nothing to worry about. I just want to survive and put everything behind,” you cupped his face and forced him to look you in the eye, making sure he heard every bit of sincerity in your voice. “You know I love you, right? I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth. Him coming back doesn’t change a thing.”

“I know that,” he said, although deep down, in the dark recesses of his heart, something agonizing stirred within.

You were a smart woman – too intelligent that he may have feared you had he been any lesser – who could easily read through him, but Naoya wanted to be a step ahead of you that he caught your lips to stop you from seeking beneath his soul already. He knew that if you looked a little too close, you’d see everything, and that would be the last thing he wanted.

Snaking his tongue past your lips, he greedily swallowed your moans. Naoya’s touch was possessive as he gripped your thigh, seconds away from ripping off the material of your dress. He only stopped once he saw his driver pale in awkwardness, and he chuckled to himself, squeezing your hips to stop you from grinding on his thigh.  

“You’re always so good for me,” he praised, “I might just reward you once we get home.”

Home. Prior to meeting you, home had been nothing but a word in his extensive vocabulary. Home had been nothing but something that carried a meaning but no significance in his living, but now that he’d met you, home felt familiar. Home smelled like rose-scented shampoos, it resonated of bubbly laughter and curious hands finding its way to its belt. Home…you’d just given him something to lose.

As per the plan, you managed to sneak past Satoru’s defenses. Naoya had once said that your secret weapon was not your tempting nature as a woman, but rather your intelligence that sometimes put his to shame. He’d shamelessly announced his plan to use you again with the goal of taking matters into your own hands, looping Satoru into the picture until you have him wrapped around your finger again.

It turned out to be easier than expected. Truthfully, you wanted to refuse. It wasn’t because you were worried you’d beat yourself in your own game and fall for Satoru again, but because it felt so uncomfortable to hold him like that, to kiss him like that.

Each second you spent with him just served as a painful reminder of how he’d mindlessly pushed you to the side from a failed plan of ‘protecting’ you.

However, you couldn’t complain nor deny Naoya’s wishes. He wanted to use your abilities to the fullest of its extent and bring out your potential. Besides, you trusted him wholeheartedly that you’d never question his motives, even if it included seducing Satoru with crocodile tears and a faux broken heart to get him to bend and move at your will. After all, your will was also Naoya’s, and that was what made the both of you so dangerous together.

Standing here now in Satoru’s laboraty, sending him phoney desperate glances as you clutched your husband’s hand, the game had just begun.

He was giving you both a tour of what you could use from his laboratory, and Naoya had kept silent the whole time. The whole drug manufacturing was more your expertise than his. He simply observed everything with watchful eyes, his gaze darting between Satoru’s longing ones and yours. It was a play pretend of push and pull, everyone in the room except for Satoru unaware that soon, you’d bare your fangs to rip his neck apart, and then you’d stand aside and let Naoya finish the business.

You would’ve laughed had Naoya not tightened his grip on your hand. Both you and Satoru paused as Naoya desperately shushed you up, his eyes wide and floating from one corner to another.

Suddenly, a loud explosion came out of nowhere. The blast crushed half of the building to bare rubble and concrete and you saw nothing but black, inhaled so much smoke that your lungs quivered. The ringing in your ears didn’t stop as you wobbled to unsteady legs, waving the smoke away and coughing whatever filled your system. Satoru was right beside you, his long limbs quicker than yours before he hauled you up, checking to see if you had injuries but you were too scared, too desolate to care for his worry.

For your husband laid under a pile of rubble, an arm and his head the only parts of his body saved from the explosion.

“Naoya!” You screamed and pushed Gojo away, taking your heels off before darting straight to where he was. Jumping from broken debris to one another, your feet scraped and burned with each contact, the ringing in your ears growing louder along with the pounding of your heartbeat.

“Naoya, baby, no!” you tried to pick up the heavy slab of concrete that had crushed his body, tears blurring your vision until Naoya’s blond hair swiveled with his dark clothes. “Don’t leave me, don’t leave me, don’t you fucking dare-”

“Gojo,” he choked out blood. You fell to your knees as you cupped his face and grasped his hand all the while, your entire body shaking. His name kept falling from your lips as you asked him to stand up but he pushed your hand away, not sparing you another glance as he glared at the shock still man behind you. “Take her someplace far – somewhere he won’t find the both of you. It’s T-Toji.”

“No, Naoya, please! I’m not leaving without you!” It was too late. Satoru had easily carried you and threw you over his shoulder, running away from the scene because that was what he was best at. You pounded at his back as the smoke enlarged and covered the entirety of the building that had fizzled with chemicals inside, your husband starting to disappear from view. “Satoru, let me go! We can’t just leave him there!”

“Listen to your husband! He knows what he’s doing!”

As the smoke cleared for a split second, your world stilled. Naoya’s face was smothered with dirt and stains, pain evident on his twisted features, and yet – he was smiling. “Go,” he mouthed, hands outstretched far enough for your matching rings to glint under the sparkling lights. “Live.”

You slumped into Satoru’s arms. It was too late.

You couldn’t comprehend the events that happened afterwards. Satoru had pushed you inside his car before taking off to who knows where. All you knew was that you’d left your husband behind, and you stared emptily at the streets that flashed by, unable to feel or understand anything. It wasn’t until Satoru dragged you out by the wrist and a plane whirring before you snapped you back to life, your feet turning heavy as you plant yourself on the ground.

Satoru looked back at you.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you shook your head, “I’m not leaving him behind, Satoru, he’s all I have. I need to save him – even if it means I die.”

“You’re not going to die,” he starts off slowly. Satoru moves to place his hands down on your shoulders as if to brace you, even going as far as to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, but you couldn’t really listen, not when the plane hummed to life and remnants of the explosion still clung to your skin.

“Listen, Naoya is a smart man, okay? You know that yourself. He’ll survive, you just need to trust that he’ll make it. Now we have to go before Toji catches up to us and we end up all dying here!” he shook you back to life when your sobs overpowered his speech that fell on deaf ears, and you cried harder, much less like a little girl who quivered in his arms. Satoru sighed, perhaps just as broken from seeing you this way. “He told you to live. Naoya isn’t asking you to die for him, he’s asking you to live and if you don’t get on the plane, we can’t fulfill his wish,” he convinced, but you only bit your lip, still looking back at the car. You could steal it – one punch to his nose and you could easily get away, get back to Naoya, until he said, “You love him right? So respect his wishes.”

You love him. You love Naoya. He would’ve wanted me to live. He asked me to live.

That was the only consolation you could give yourself as you allowed Satoru to take you inside. His right hand man, Geto or something, quietly closed the cabin doors behind you. He was making sure his boss was situated, who in turn was fretting over you. All it took was one last warning glare sent Satoru’s way before he backed off, raising his hands in surrender and falling back to his seat.

Sooner than you’d like, the plane had took off, leaving your heart right behind with each passing second. The higher you flew up in the air, the number you became.

“Where are we going?”

“I have a base in Italy. We should be safe there for a while. Gather resources, plan our next move, contact friends...we’ll be fine,” Satoru pinched the bridge of his nose. It was hard to believe things would be fine when he too seemed restless; whatever happened between him and Toji must’ve really left a scar; not that you cared. You huffed away from Satoru and stared outside the windows instead, your heart dropping the farther Japan was becoming. “Hey. You should get some rest. You’ve had a long day.”

“Whatever,” you snapped at him. You couldn’t stand his voice, not even if he’s saved you.

The only thing that mattered now was living up to Naoya’s wish, and as much as you hated it, Satoru was right. You had to hope he would survive.

The chances of him making it out were low, but knowing Naoya, low chances weren’t zero. As long as he had a little bit of something, he would keep pushing. You just had to place your trust in him.

Kissing your dusty ring, you wiped away your tears one last time, eyes shut tight as you chanted over and over, live, live, live for me! Live! Naoya couldn’t give up that easily. You both had a long way to go, still so many places to travel, thousand more enemies to conquer and defeat. He promised you the fun was just beginning and that you’d get your revenge soon, and Naoya never broke his promises. So you had to trust, had no other choice but to believe that soon he’d be right beside you. He may not be able to completely walk anymore, though none of that mattered. You just wanted to be with him again.

You didn’t realize you’d fallen asleep until Satoru’s hushed whispers woke you up. Sitting up straight, you saw him scowling to whoever he’s talking to on the phone. He looked grim, long, slender fingers caressing his forehead as he sighed. Whatever he heard, it couldn’t have been good, and curiosity got the best of you before you could help it.

“What is it?” Satoru stilled at the sound of your voice, having not expected you to be awake. He refused to meet your eyes as he shut his phone. It angered you further and you stalked his way, slapping a palm down the table before him. “I said, what is it?”

“It’s Naoya...” he said through clenched teeth, still refusing to look you in the eye. “He didn’t make it.”

notes. team naoya...let’s go...cry 😭 when I said I would write more gojo x reader scenes and that they’re still the pairing, I meant it, I just had to take a dark route anyways DO YOU GUYS UNDERSTAND WHY IT TOOK SO LONG FOR ME TO UPDATE THIS, I DIDN’T WANT TO DO THIS TO NAOYA BAE 😭 but on the bright side, italy arc is gonna be SHEESH

taglist open (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @sixeyesgojo @shingekiyofeels @q-the-rockaholic @whatthefuckisthatthing @rogueofbullshit @kat-su-ki @kellyyween @sebootyforlife @asshxcm @charlie-xo @aoi-turtle @ladywaifuuwrites @savantsoulfinder @my-reality-is-in-my-head @hannya-quinn @90s-belladonna @tinyfrogsinmybrain @kinekyuroo @evesmores @ambiguous-something @lilith412426 @kakashiharusohma @aizawap @yumeneji @dora-the-grownup @jotazinha @themrsgojo @d34r-s4t4n @marai-t @toji-bee @hai-cool @badsadbby @stesphy @peach-buns-unicorns @misslezah @riri-marley @gracefullyfallinglikeanime @iwaplant​ @mikiminaccch​ | bolder users cannot be tagged

[moonlit-tulip]

I grew up in an environment where there was a lot more reading-things-out-loud going on than I have the impression there is in most places. Particularly, although not exclusively, from my father.

There were bedtime stories when I was a kid, both before and after I learned to read things myself. There were the various textbooks my father used as bases from which to do homeschooling from childhood up until college, where our pattern was largely "we sit together on a couch or a bed with a pile of books, he reads from the books out loud, I ask nitpicky questions, we go off on long conversational tangents based on those questions, and learning happens thereby", sometimes with interludes of me reading things out loud instead (e.g. for language-learning, or when we were covering plays for English and each took on one or more characters per scene). There's the Passover seder every year, where the standard pattern is "for each logical-chunk-of-content, my father reads it out loud in Hebrew, then translates it to English, then pauses for discussion". There's his pattern when studying the Gemara or other such books with others (which: he ~always has a nonzero number of study groups going on in that general area), which is very similar, reading the original Aramaic out loud, then translating it, then going into discussion about it. Et cetera.

Thinking about those later ones in particular—the ones with translation packed in as part of the reading-out-loud—it's occurred to me: that could make a pretty good format for a Let's Play! Find some untranslated-to-English game (or visual novel, or book, or whatever); go through it piece-by-piece; for each piece, first read the text in the original language, then give it an English gloss; and, thereby, allow people who don't speak the relevant language to experience it alongside you and Basically Get It.

I'm kind of considering doing this myself, even, once I progress sufficiently along the path of Learning To Read Japanese to be able to do so in any substantial way. Bringing untranslated VNs to the masses! Or at least to whatever small not-particularly-massed niche exists of people interested in that sort of thing. It seems potentially fun, and it's a valuable niche which it seems like not nearly enough people are trying to fill, right now.

[jawllines]

“You’re really gonna go in there?” Y/N queries gently, and Harry only nods his head in response, reaching for the door handle. An urgent, delicate touch of Y/N’s hand startles him, looping around his wrist and dragging his attention toward her, “Shouldn’t we have a game plan if something is behind the door?” She asks, her hold on him tightening just a little, and Harry notes how soft her palm feels against his skin, “Like, let’s say we open the door and a behemoth is standing there, what do we do?”

“The only behemoth that could fit in this tiny room is the band from Poland, Babe, and I reckon they have better things to do on a Thursday night,” he retorts, clenching around the knob and tilting it down, “Now unless you want to hold hands in there. . .”

She lets go before he can finish, and he doesn’t have to look back at her face to know she’s irate. A small smile quirks at his mouth as he pushes his shoulder against the heavy door to aid him opening it, bracing himself to see something potentially horrid. . .

And there’s nothing.

or

Harry and Y/N are witches, they hate each other, and something’s coming

19K+ words

(A/N: Hiii!! So, I’ll be honest I know absolutely nothing about real witches at all, so what is in this story is not fact! it’s just an AU and doesn’t speak toward any of my real witches out there unless i accidentally got some things right. Happy reading, I really liked writing these guys I hope you like them just as much!!)

i.

It was dark. 

Both in the state of the sky and the feeling that slithered through Y/N’s body while she tended to the Brugmansia finally flowering in her garden. The shift in the air could have easily been inculpated by the cool breeze that blew past her face, shepherding clouds thick and heavy with autumn rain, but Y/N knew better than that. Those feelings typically bring her peace; the rattle of thunder soothes her aching bones while fat drops paint the pavement, wet the dirt to mud, and feed the drying grass.

This feeling made her bones rattle. It crawled beneath her skin like billions of tiny beetles unearthed within her vessels; her stomach churned, her shoulders were weighed down, there was a gnawing pain at her temples, so fierce she held her hand to them. The cold brass of her ring cools her heated skin. This feeling was vile, it was awful, for fuck sake what was causing it? 

She stood from her crouched position and slid back into her store. Technically, she’d closed about three hours prior so she should have been home well by now, but when she’d finally gathered her things in her duffle at 12, she looked out the back window and noticed some of her moonflowers had begun to bloom. There was a small part of her that had been reluctant to step outside at all, but she needed to greet them and water them, no matter the odd, unfamiliar troubling sense that had initially confused her. She ignored it -- she thought maybe she was just nervous to say hi to them, sometimes she was. 

(Flowers and plants hold a special connection with their caretaker, from a tiny seed to a flourishing garden, they place their lives in the care of the earth or a human. If not properly nursed, their wilted petals appear so quickly, a silent plea for water, or sun, or even a little attention -- Y/N found that plants liked a little attention. That’s why she spoke to them, she cooed and gave them well-wishes when she left them alone. They felt just a part of her family as any blood relative had, from the moment she had sliced the tip of her finger in a torn brush and the petal she’d touched afterward fused together her tiny wound. Her nan had always told her that maybe she was a bit closer to plants than others were, so she probably shouldn’t share this with kids in her class because they might be jealous of her (Y/N knows now her nan just didn’t want her getting picked on.) 

It was clear to her now that this feeling was a bit more than that when her goose pimples sunk back into her skin after stepping into the warmth of her store. Though it was not just because she had been keeping her shop pleasantly warm as the nights grow colder and longer; she kept herself protected in here. In between these walls lied a sanctitude that kept all evil out, in all manners, of all species, besides two. 

One of which is her bunny, Thumper, who in all ways but emotionally was her familiar. He was a ghostly white Holland lop, with big dopey ears that she slid her fingers beneath and flipped up and down in spare moments. She accuses him of being evil because he’s always nipping at her fingertips, demanding food with a stomp of his foot, and gives the silent threat that he’ll nibble on her plants if she really pisses him off (he stands by them, twitches his little nose and shows his two front teeth until she gives him what he wants -- it’s usually more hay). He’s nothing but a little, greedy nuisance that showed up on her step one day and hadn’t left since.

The other. . .well, the other was Harry Styles. 

Y/N liked most witches, no matter their point of interest. She knew that there could be a certain level of distrust amongst the syndicate -- hexes, and curses placed upon one another, but she tried to stay out of that -- she held no disfavor toward most of the others either. Everyone connected with things very differently, what she may connect with might not be that of what her neighbor connected with and that was okay. Her nan’s emotions had been in accord with the sea, and even though Y/N spent most of her life fearing water, she bore no judgment. 

What she does is done in the mind of good favor, of bettering oneself with the world around them in a way that would beneficial to not only them but the people in their lives. Open up otherwise closed eyes to the beauty of the spirit and soul they possess, and the beauty and soul that the world around them held. The town she had moved to at 20 was so rich in natural beauty, ponderosa pine and hemlock trees grew tall in an extensive, juniper green forest almost always clouded with thick fog, the soil was soft and fertile, the air was crisp and clean. She felt happy here and wanted the others around her to recognize how lucky they were to be in an area so free of sordidity. 

There was an empty shop up the brick road of the older part of town, that had been crowded in cobwebs, leaves that had blown in from the broken window, and animal droppings. Her nan came to help her clean it up (her mum had too, but she was dog tired after her workweek so spent most of the visit asleep on Y/N’s couch), and did something short of absolving the land so that she could grow a garden behind the store, in the clearing of 200 or so meters before it meets the mouth of the forest. She sold herbs, people came to her for intricate, meaningful bouquets with flowers that could not be found in just any store (and she was good to her plants, so if she asked very kindly, and sent them with a packet that produced a very special brew when dumped in the water, they would live very, very, suspiciously long), plants that would liberate people of their aches and pains so long as they tended to them, journals of reused paper, scrubs, oils. . .there were many things. She offered classes too, to help people learn how to better cater to their flowers.

That had been a year ago, so she was still finding her footing, but not six months into this happy reality she had created for herself, Harry Styles had come to town. It took nothing but a few minutes of coming to contact with him that he was a bad apple, and when the once sweet-tempered town had begun mottling with dark splotches, she knew for sure. Harry was like her, but his book of shadows had pages filled with wicked words of revenge, conjuring demons and letting them wreak havoc. His business was more under the cuff -- he posed as a writer who needed a scenery change for his work, but Y/N knew it had to be more than that -- but he did his bidding in the night, seeding through clubs, in alleyways, in the forest. . .if someone knew about Harry, it was because they knew a guy who knows a guy. 

And for some reason, unbeknownst to her, he refused to leave her be. 

This is why it almost makes sense that the bell of her store would jingle brightly no matter the fact she’d locked the doors hours ago, and her attention would be brought to the pest himself. He wore a sweater that threatened to swallow him whole, and baggy, holey jeans he rolled at the cuff showing off his bat printed socks, stuffed into grandpa-Esque loafers. The necklace he always wears around his neck (a small pendant that she had never gotten close enough to make out) is sat atop of his sweater today rather than hidden beneath it as it usually is. His hair is getting longer, more unruly with his warm brown curls than it had been when she first met him -- she really hadn’t known he’d had curly hair until the more recent months when it had started growing out. 

His eyes were always the same soft, crystal green that matched his character none, and a pawky smirk on his mouth as he dragged his fingers along the lavender jars placed on her shelves, “Shouldn’t you be home by now? I figure it’s past your bedtime.” He leans down like he is about to pick something up, and when Y/N peers over the counter, she sees him slide his hand beneath Thumper’s soft white belly and pull him up to his chest. That was another indicator that Harry was just no good -- he was the only human that he liked, and the little creatine didn’t even like her. 

“Shouldn’t you?” She flips it, continuing to gather her things so she could head home for the night.

“You know these are my typical hours, Babe -- everyone wants to curse someone at 1 AM, there was a study done in the east end.” He pets between Thumper’s ears as he sets him down on the counter beside the cash register, before he reaches out for the wooden crafted incense burners, “Have these cheap little things been selling any?” 

“Piss off,” she stuffs her phone into her purse, then flips through her things to make sure her wallet was tucked in there as well, “What do you want, Harry? I’m about to go home, if you wanted to come around to bother me you should have hours ago.”

Harry feigns a gasp like he does any time she curses, “Thought good little witches didn’t have such foul tongues?” He flicks the candle jar on her counter, an apple scent had been melting around the wick for the better half of the day, “I don’t want anything in particular, just passing through. You know you’re right in the way of the forest, don’t you? S’kinda of obnoxious when you’re trying to summon imps at the cave -- they hate the bloody “stench” of the flowers.” 

“Good,” she retorts, “You shouldn’t be summoning around here anyway, this area’s off-limits.”

It was barely an agreement but still an agreement nonetheless -- if Harry left her be, she would leave him be because Y/N wasn’t an idiot. If he wanted a fight, Harry could start one and he would fight dirty. All she asks him is to stay away from her store and her flat, and to keep away from certain areas of the forest where the soil was always soft -- in return, he would do his activities, sometimes he would need her flowers for different spells and she would turn a blind eye to what he was doing. She does a few gentle protection spells here and there but otherwise, he’s a free man to do as he pleases, just so long as he respects her request. He’d seemed perturbed by the conditions none -- had even chuckled and said as long as he let her keep her “pretty little flowers” he could get away with murder. 

A heavy, weary sigh leaves him, “Yes, I’m well aware,” he rolled his eyes before crossing his arms on top of the counter and tucking his face in his elbow,  “Gimme a moment though, it’s warm in here and I was freezing outside.” He muffles into his sweater. 

Y/N had almost forgotten what she had felt prior to coming back inside, but his words bring it clearly to the forefront of her mind once more. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, hearing the floorboards creak beneath her as she wondered if he’d felt it too. It couldn’t have been him -- no, he was powerful but by no means powerful enough to conjure up something like that. And she’d like to ask him, but Harry has never been someone who took her seriously -- he would just make a joke of it, probably, or tease her. It wouldn’t be worth asking. 

But the feeling that she’d gotten is chewing on her memory, so she asks anyway, “Hey,” she began and the only indication that he was listening to her is the fact his fingers stopped tapping against the wood beneath them, “Did you. . .when you were outside, did you feel that?” 

He picks his head up from the crevice of his arm, “You’re gonna have to be a bit more descriptive than ‘that’,” his brows are raised as he continues, “Are you talking about the new pleasant but cold breeze we’ve gained for autumn, or the gut-twisting odious one?” 

Y/N looks at him impassively, “The latter, idiot.” 

“Yeah, I felt it,” he ignores her insult, “What about it?” 

The skin between her brows pinches, “Are you not concerned? It felt. . .bad,” she couldn’t think of a better word to describe it, “I didn’t like it at all.” 

“Are you scared?” There is delight swimming in Harry’s gaze as he stands up straighter, “Don’t tell me Glinda the Good Witch herself is scared of a little frightening feeling? I thought you were tough as nails and all that, hm?” 

“Never mind, forget I even brought it up,” she tried to dismiss it, as she slings her purse over her shoulder and plucks Thumper up to sit him in the cradle of her arms -- she knew better than to ask him like she might get any comfort at all from his words. 

He steps up and in front of her before she could start toward the door, “Oi, listen scaredy-cat, I don’t know if you’re aware but I deal with shite like this all the time, which means I’ve got a few banishments spells up my sleeve. If it’s really something that awful, I’ll cast it back to hell, easy as that.” Harry follows close behind her as she exits the door, feeling the same shiver of fear slither through her body, “I do want to see what it wants first though.” 

“Of course you do,” she utters in disappointment, “Just keep it away from my garden, please.” 

“I’ll try,” he tells her just as she reaches her car before he dips into his pocket and reveals that he’d stolen a baggy of chamomile, “If I didn’t keep your precious garden safe, then I wouldn’t have anywhere to get enchanted chamomile, and it works lovely in a sleepy time tea, I’ll tell you that -- your lavender is shit though. Never puts me to sleep like it ought to.” 

She pops open her car door, “Stop taking stuff from the store, or I’ll start lacing it with laxatives.” 

“While you’re doing that, won’t you plant them Clathrus mushrooms? I reckon the imps would prefer them way more than the mums.” He looks serious -- not a trace of a joke laced in his features and somehow that leaves Y/N more irritated than if he were laughing at her as he spoke. 

Her response is blunt, “No.” 

“Listen --”

“Harry, I’m not going to plant mushrooms for the damn imps!” 

                                                         .                             .                          .

When Y/N had met Harry, she was angry. 

She had never been a very angry person. Seldom has someone or something truly has gotten so deeply beneath her skin that she felt the need to yell or grump about it -- mild irritation was never off the table, but true, unadulterated wrath and resentment? It was rare she ever felt the need to even make a snide comment. And that wasn’t to say she was better than anyone else, she was just mild-tempered and forbearing. . .it took a little more than a remark or two to make her angry.

But when she was angry, she was an amalgamation of vexation and fire, and there was no surer way to disrupt her peaceful demeanor than to compromise her flowers. 

The day had been uneventful up to that point. It’d been a week since Harry had moved into town and Y/N was surely feeling the negativity that followed in his wake, but she was focusing on maintaining the tranquil, idyllic environment that she had around her previous. As much as she would have loved to seek him out, ready to squabble, tell him off for bringing any dark energy into such a calm place -- she had to come at it pragmatically. She and her friend Niall (who wasn’t a witch but knew about her) had both agreed that while it was aggravating, they didn’t know him. They did not understand the depth of his power, or what he was here for, nor had they understood wholly what he was capable of. Y/N had felt his presence, but Niall had confirmed it after hearing the underground chatter of a dark witch who made promises to turn glitter to gold. 

She was on her way to her store. Though she was closed on weekends, she always went by to check on the flowers, water them, tell them about her day, and with her was Thumper who would be hopping around the grassy field and gnawing on the blades. It was very peaceful -- the time she spent with her plants -- so she always looked forward to it, but that day she was filled with trepidation as she parked her car. Something was off. . .not in the air, but with her flowers -- she could feel it deep in her marrow that they were in pain. 

So she huffed it to the back of the store, and there she found Harry, two of her purple vervains nestled against his palm. He noticed her before she could even think to say anything, and something short of relief had flushed through him, “Oh thank fuck, you’re here,” he sighs, referencing her garden with a wave of his hands, “I cannot for the life of me remember what hazel looks like.” 

“What the hell are you doing?” Y/N demanded, stomping toward him, but instead of shoving him to the ground like she wanted to, she dropped to her knees and caressed the remaining vervain, “Why would you pluck them like that? They aren’t ready!” 

“Ready? They’ve flowered haven’t they?” His brows had been tilted while his mouth dipped in a frown, “I need them for an incantation, figured you wouldn’t mind if I borrowed these two. Aren’t we meant to help each other out?”

 “You should have asked, you prick,” she pointed up at him, “And even if you had, I would have said no. I don’t know what you’re doing here, but you’re really disturbing an otherwise pleasant place. I wish you would leave.’ 

Harry feigned hurt, placing a hand to his chest, “You wound me,” he mocks her, “Listen Glinda Good Witch, we all gotta get by somehow, yeah? Not all of us talk to plants or whatever it is you do. So do you want me to pay or --” 

“Those won’t work for whatever it is you’re trying to do,” she cut him off, “If it’s something with cruel intent, it won’t happen -- they were grown to do good.” 

“Which is exactly why I needed them from you,” he wiggles them in her direction, “Well, I need to get going. You’re awful in particular about a garden that is subpar at best. Wish you well, see you later.” 

Then he left. No guilt, no apology -- he just up and left, and Y/N was livid. 

(Later that night when she had explained the situation to Niall, he was nothing short of outraged, so they had tried to find out more about Harry. Anything about him, really, but he leaves a very little paper trail in his endeavors -- from public records they find that he’s 25 and from Holmes Chapel, and from a google search they find he has two books out, published online, and doing decently well. There was nothing else apart from that, he kept his socials pretty dry, and what he did post was nonsensical drivel.)

Y/N thinks about this, as she sinks into her tub, the burning water scalding against her skin. Harry had always driven her mad but he has never seemed half as angry as she was -- hell if anything he always seemed like he enjoyed it. 

He was just absolutely rotten. 

                                                           .                                  .                           .

Harry thinks Y/N is just absolutely rotten. 

There were many reasons that he had classified her as such, but namely what he was concerned about now was how she kept her shop closed on the weekends. 

Who kept their store closed the entire bloody weekend?

It wasn’t so much that he wanted to see her -- Harry actually found the girl quite plaguy. Her opinions on his practice were priggish, not unlike the others like them he had met in the past. There has always been an unfaltering stigma that was carried with what he did, one that was quite hard to shake within the factions of other witches that are sprinkled across the world. He’s seen as careless, cruel, greedy, and selfish -- he doesn’t practice magic for the love of the world around him, to feel a deeper, spiritual connection with the fecund soil that covered the earth, or with the water gently slipping past rocks along a stream bank. They look at him and see someone who shakes hands with the devil and ruins lives for a cookie. 

Harry lets them think as they wish, he has no patience to attempt correcting them. If they’d bothered to learn an inch about him at all before passing their judgment then they would have a clue about his true character, but the jury had already made the decision before Harry even realized he was on trial. They never really wanted to give Harry a chance, so he knew he would be hated no matter where he decided to reside. The pack mentality that they carry is the reason he has to move around so often though (more than any 25 years old was typically doing) he gets run out of a lot of areas because a group of soft witches decides he’s no good. 

That’s what drew him to this place -- there was practically nobody. He could sense when there were more like him loitering around an area, and made an effort to keep a decently low profile so that he could stay around longer (but they always managed to find him), but here, he only sensed one. That had been good enough for him to know this was the right move -- the beautiful scenery surrounding them; the soft bed of dirt that Harry’s feet would sink into easily; the dense, damp fog that covered the forest floor in the early mornings; the lush, green trees and how life seemed to remain there when it was meant to be waning in the colder months -- all of that, had only been a plus. 

When he’d met Y/N, he knew that she disliked him, but Harry had expected as much so it disturbed him none. If anything, he was delighted to have a purer witch than himself around, all things considered. There were no others that she could develop a hive mind with to drive him out of town, but she was no competition to the businesses that he provided, and when a decoction called for an obscure plant or an unsullied petal -- well, a Garden witch was not the worst kind to have nearby. She may be devout in her notions that Harry was a disagreeable, repugnant being, but she was good at what she did. Anything done with her plants was twice as effective as any other person’s flowers he’d used in the past, so it was necessary he bothered her often. 

She refused to sell to him -- something about her doing business with a demon, or whatever she’d said -- but so long as he doesn’t go and cut them from the stem himself, she helps him out. Will give him the plants he needs, and in return, he doesn’t taint certain areas of the town and the forest that she declared were off-limits. It was a spoken commercial agreement that both of them went by and because of it, their lives near to one another were comparatively peaceful to any other situation Harry has found him in prior. 

That didn’t come without its faults. They butt heads often, their bickering is nonstop, and Harry could think of many things he would rather do than have to stay in a room with her for longer than the ten minutes it takes him to get what he needs. It was fun to fluster her -- getting beneath her skin was an easy feat that he found a lot of joy in, and sometimes she gave him a run for his money. He always kind of liked making a normally mild-tempered person grump at him a little, if not for his impish ways, then so he could get to know them as their full self. 

So he wasn’t mad that she was closed because he particularly wanted to see her, no, he was mad because he was exhausted. Absolutely drained. The business was incredible when you’re the only dark witch willing to do some questionable, immoral things, but that also meant long nights and incredible emotional toil -- it wasn’t a walk in the park to conjure up a bloody demon! 

Ever since Harry had started this path, he’d had immense trouble sleeping at appropriate times, if he could fall asleep at all. He guesses this was what he gets in return for what he practices, and it could be worse so he doesn’t mind it too much, but it was still a hassle. It had been a good four years since Harry just had a good, peaceful night of sleep. 

Up until he had moved here, of course, because the same little garden witch that thought he was the devil incarnate, made a tea he could brew that set him right to sleep. Kept him asleep the entire night too, which had always been an impossible endeavor spanning back to when he was a child, but there was something about her chamomile -- hell, it really knocked him out. 

He tested his theory -- part of him thought that maybe chamomile was suddenly working for him, but no matter the brand that he tried, or the amount of tea he drank, none of it could compare to what Y/N’s did. When he visited her store, he took what he could to hold him off to the next time he came by. He hadn’t realized how low he was though when he had seen her last and she threatened to lace it with laxatives -- he should have taken two because he used his last bit the night prior to the one he’s suffering through right now. 

And he could have gotten more this morning if she didn’t close her stupid shop on weekends!

If Harry were not positive that he needed to rest, he wouldn’t bother to be trying. There was nothing worse to him than the laying in his bed and waiting for sleep that refused to come...it felt like he was being stood up by a date. It hasn’t happened often, but enough that Harry could match the feeling low in his stomach, indicative of discontent and sadness while he waited. . . . .and waited. . . .and waited. . . .and waited. 

It was useless -- the universe’s retribution for summoning spirits to the living world left him with what a doctor might diagnose as chronic insomnia, but none of the treatments did him any good. No mortal medicinal could soothe him of this ailment. So one would think he would be smarter about keeping a hearty stock of it at his disposal rather than one at a time, but Harry never claimed to be the best at planning ahead. 

And now here he was, staring at his ceiling fan whirl, his cat at his side while he contemplated if breaking and entering her shop was against his morals (he had a few left, surprisingly). 

God, she was so rotten! 

                                               .                                     .                                 .

“Have you felt weird lately?” 

“Hm?” Niall’s face scrunches up in confusion, his mouth stuffed full of noodles he just slurpped into his mouth, “Wha’ d’ya mean?” He muffles out, reaching over to her side of the table for a napkin to dab at the corners of his mouth.

The record store that Niall worked at wasn’t too far from Y/N’s shop so if her day wasn’t too busy, she would step away from the store for her lunch break and seek him out. It was never a planned ordeal; Y/N would stop off somewhere to get them something to eat and appear at his storefront, the sharp ding of the bell knotted on the door alerted him of her presence. He was always one of two places: in the back, tuning the old guitars the owner would bid on different websites, or he was in the front thumbing through the record baskets, organizing and reorganizing them by name. Sometimes he would be sat behind the counter, with his feet kicked up just beside the register but Y/N scolds him for that (he’s always wearing a dingy, scuffed pair of shoes that have no business seeing the light of day, let alone be shown off to others). 

His head would perk up, he would look toward the door, and his face would bloom into one of sheer delight as he would call over to her, “Oh, thank fuck! Thought I would go crazy if I had to listen to myself think for one more second.” 

Today was no different. She brought him ramen from the place three buildings down from his own, where she bends down a street that feels more like an alleyway and the door is hidden beneath a brassy fire escape. The owners were always very kind to her, and since she came often and tipped well, they would give her free bowls if they were in the mood. Y/N never liked the idea of a one-sided relationship with a business, so she always brought them herbs, and gardenias to plant at home (they were the husband’s favorite). She takes their fliers and posts them up in high traffic areas too, and when they have their business cards made and an extra hundred or so, she slips them in the paper baggies that she gathers her customer’s things in before sending them on their way. 

Niall was grateful. He did a little cheer, left his spot from behind the counter, and urged her to follow him to the back where the break room was located (if a customer came around he would hear the bell and duck his head out to greet them, but for the most part their Tuesdays were pretty uneventful). He told her he had sensed her coming so he already had two stools set out for them to sit on, and napkins placed in the middle of the table, but she’s almost a hundred percent sure they had been left like that last time she was here. 

Try as she might to let her mind flee from the dark, hazed feeling that had overcome her last week, she couldn’t. Even as she listened to Niall prattle about some Gibson Les Paul custom that the owner purchased a while back, she struggled not to wonder what it was that was worming itself into her brain; slick tendrils of dismay overcame her. The true, unadulterated, execrable feeling only truly hits her in the night if she is outside the safety of her home or her shop, but otherwise, it was memories of this haunting aura that struck her throughout the day.

She couldn’t place her finger on it though, what it could be. There are feelings she garners when Harry summons certain spirits, but she can typically tell when he’s doing that, and they’ve never felt so. . .evil, before. What Harry deals with is evil, sure, but this was so smothered in turpitude that she couldn’t make it out. Like spilling black ink over a letter written in blue. 

That’s why she asks Niall -- it feels too strong for it to be something only felt by her and Harry. It would also soothe her mind if someone had felt it as horribly and heavily as she did, considering it wasn’t affecting Harry enough that he would try to banish the damn thing before things went sour. 

“Like, do things just not feel. . .off, to you?” She didn’t want to feed him any impressions of what she might be speaking about -- she would like to know if it were true to him. Niall is sweet as he could be, but not always when it was appropriate; he would tell her he did just to spare her from feeling foolish. It’s why she thought berets were her thing for about a month when really she looked like a washed-up indie artist trying too hard (Niall had agreed they weren’t her best fashion venture, but he certainly didn’t think they were that bad). 

His face contorts in a pout as he mulls it over in his head, stabbing his fork into the noodles and catching a bit of pork on two of the pronks, “Hm, let’s see. . .” he looks like he’s spinning through a Rolodex, “I have not for the life of me mustered enough energy to have a wank in about a week, that’s some cause for concern,” when she responds with a blank stare, he holds his hands up, “Okay, fine -- Butternut was biting at the air when I took him on his walk the other night -- like. . .chomping at it, I was actually gonna ask you what that might be about.”  

Now, don’t get Y/N wrong, any other time Niall would have told her that his great Pyrenees puppy was yapping and chomping at the wind, she would have brushed it off. “Niall, you’re just going to have to accept that he’s going to be a big, sweet dummy when he’s older.” But she was so desperate for something, anything -- because if something felt it other than she and Harry, then she wouldn’t feel quite as crazy. 

“Sometimes it feels a bit like something’s watching me,” he tacks on at the end, taking the brown napkin from the stack in between them and dabs roughly at his mouth, “At night, when I’m walking Butternut, I get these chills but there’s no wind around.” 

Y/N leans forward, thankful, “Yeah?” she presses, “Is it like -- describe it. What does it feel like?” 

“Y’know, I do forget you’re a witch until times like these,” he leans back in his chair, a heavy sigh slides from his lips before he closes his eyes like he’s trying to place himself back at the moment, “I’ll tell ya what, it’s fuckin’ -- it’s a bit like I feel it right down to my bones, but then --” he opens his eyes, raises his closed fists and flicks his fingers out at her, “Poof, s’gone as quick as it came and I forget about it. My nan used to tell me that was the devil patting your shoulder, but if it went away quick s’because an angel kicked his arse out of there.” 

It’s enough, Y/N decides, so she nods and relaxes back in her seat, “Okay, good.” 

“Good?” His brows furrow, as he reaches for his can of soda and the aluminum can crinkles beneath his fingers, “Tell you that I get chills and you’re relieved? Should I be relieved too, or worried?” 

“It isn’t anything to concern over, I don’t think,” she explains to him, “If anything changes I’ll let you know.” 

Niall uses one of his fingernails to dig the dirt from beneath the other, “Did that Harry bloke muster some horrible demon up again?” His voice is laced with vexation. Niall wasn’t a hard guy to get along with -- he was loud and Irish, could chat up a storm about anything and everything, and while he could be scrappy at times, it was for all the right reasons. He was equanimous in most situations, even-tempered to a fair degree; if Y/N were in a situation where a cool, calm collected head would be the best approach then Niall was definitely the person she wanted on her side. 

(Like when they had to drive home from a day trip to the massive lake just north of them, but the roads hadn’t been pretreated for the icy sleet that gripped the pavement. He drove them the whole way on the windy roads with little traction from the tires to the road, and was still bobbing his head and singing along to Ed Sheeran on the radio). 

But Harry Styles? Oh, the mention of his name could dig right beneath Niall’s skin. Y/N would like to think that it was because he was so cruel to her, but she knows that there are two main reasons Niall is not too fond of him nor his craft. One of which is the fact that he slept with Liana (she happened to be one of Niall’s flings at the time -- there were plenty, but Y/N only remembered this one’s name because she shared it with a woody stem rooted to the forest soil that made for easy climbing), and the other, the fact that he had helped the captain of the opposing summer footie team with one of his enchantments to make them win. There are few things Niall cares for so deeply that he would dislike someone, but his sex life and his footie were two things a person just couldn’t mess up for him. 

“No, it wasn’t him this time,” she clears her throat, pushing the rest of her ramen around idly, “It’s a bit too strong to be his doing -- more sinister too. He conjures mostly petty demons; the little ones that don’t have much better to do anyway. This is something. . .I don’t know, it just feels different.” 

Niall sighs heavily, “Well, thanks for that, reckon I won’t be sleeping tonight,” he pushes the container away from himself to signify he’s done and when she takes a peek inside and sees nothing but a few noodles limp along the sides, “I like that you keep me in the loop, but sometimes I wish you would let me live in ignorance.” 

“You know, I would apologize, but you’ve gone into an in-depth description of your arsehole to me so I thought any boundaries and forms of secrecy were long gone by now.” 

His brows furrow features contorting into that of the same desperation he had come to her with two months ago, “Ugh, c’mon! You’re practically like a witch doctor or somethin’, I thought you would have a cream or something for it.” 

“You had a hemorrhoid, Niall, for fuck sake! Even if I were a “witch doctor” then I would never let you put anything that came from my plants on your filthy bum.” 

Niall stands, gathering their trash from the break room table but using his free hand as he passes her, he swats her shoulder, “You better be nice to me, or you’re gonna have to start eating lunch with Styles.” He steps on the level for the waste bin, throwing the trash in the bag, “Though I think you two would just end up hate fucking and the food would go cold.” 

“No,” she rolls her eyes, “I would never let that Gremlin near my naked body.” 

“Listen, I’m not saying I want the guy anywhere near your naked body,” he plops back down in his seat, “What I am saying is that you lot have such unbridled sexual tension it is practically palpable when I’m at the shop with the both of you. Maybe it’s ‘cos the two of you are the only witches, and opposites at that.” 

Y/N snorts, “Maybe if we were in some enemies to lovers film, sure.” 

   After they finish their break, and Y/N realizes that she’s been with him for a little over an hour, they make plans to meet up tomorrow for a movie and she heads out. The air was cool -- when she had made her way over here the sun had been glittering rays down that bathed the world in gold, but it was now hidden beneath an overcast of thick clouds. Rain always carried a familiar scent just before it started to pour and Y/N had forgone a jacket, so she huffed her way back, breathless by the time she made it up the hill and saw Harry leaning against her door. 

The sight of him makes her exhausted, but not in the usual way it does. He looks awful -- and typically he doesn’t! Y/N could admit that Harry was gorgeous; his hair always appeared soft, loose curls dispersed along the brunette strands, his eyes are a sea green, tender in his gaze when he wasn’t being an absolute prick and always bright (even when he was). His lips were pink, shaped perfectly, and his skin is typically smooth but even when he grows out his facial hair it still manages to look good. He had dimples. . .hell, Y/N would place a bet that he’d made a deal with the devil to look like that. 

But today, he just looked worn down, and exhausted, like he might not have slept the entire weekend. His eyes were closed, his hands were in his pockets and his chin was tilted down towards his chest. If not for the way his head perked up immediately when her foot crunched into the gravel pathway leading up to her store from the small parking area (that was more so a beaten down, once grassy area now just dirt with tire tracks in it), she would have thought he was asleep standing up. There’s relief in his eyes when they meet her own, which she isn’t used to seeing from him, “Thank fuck.” 

“You look horrible,” Y/N slides her hand into her pocket, pulling out her keys so she could unlock the door, “Budge over.” 

“I feel it,” he rubs tiredly at his eyes, “Go on and open up quickly then. Why the hell do you keep your store closed on weekends?” 

Y/N fits her hand over the knob, twisting it and shoving the door open with her shoulder. Thumper greets them at the door, nudging the top of his head against her ankle, “Do you work every night?” 

“No --” 

“I keep it closed on weekends for the same reason why you don’t work every night,” she heads toward the counter, settling her things down and reaching in for Thumper’s hay stash so that she could give him some, “What’re you here for? You usually come around to bother me later.” She chances petting at Thumper’s head for a moment, and since he was preoccupied with his hay he would allow it.

“Fuck!” Y/N startles, popping up from behind the counter, looking back up only to see Harry with wide, disgruntled eyes, “Where’s your chamomile?” 

Her brows dip, “I’m out right now, so --” 

“How the hell did you run out? Shit, what am I going to do now, hm? Shouldn’t you keep up with shite like this?” He’s going a mile a minute, he’s walking closer to her, distress was written all over his face and Y/N is alarmed to a fair degree -- Harry’s always seemed very collected and calm, it was seldom she ever seen him have more emotion than pure elation to fuck with her or displeased with her presence. 

“ -- so I’m going to make more today. What’s going on with you? Why are you so pissy over it?” She finishes her previous thought, watching as he leans against the counter, propping his face up with his hand and she could now more clearly make out the bags beneath his eyes.

He rubs at his temple with the finger closest to it, “The only way I can sleep is with your bloody tea,” he grumbled, “That’s why I come around all the time -- well, that and to fuck with you, but mostly the tea.” 

“Oh?” She reaches down, plucking Thumper from where he’d been positioned by her feet and setting him on the counter. He thumps his foot at her once but eventually makes his way over to Harry, sniffing at his chin before resting right before him. Y/N wasn’t necessarily doing it to be nice, but the energy he was exuding could really dampen the growth rate of her plants, and Thumper had a soothing way about him that drew all that negativity out. It was one of those odd little familiar powers that went unexplained for the most part. “Why aren’t you sleeping?” 

“Dunno,” he shrugged his shoulders, but the tension in them begins to dissipate as Thumper snuggles beneath his chin, “Reckon I pissed off some demon or summat -- usually it isn’t this bad. Without your tea, I can at least get to bed for three hours before waking up and catch cat naps during the day, but nothing was working this weekend. I think I’ve slept a total of two hours?” 

“Christ,” she tuts her tongue, but her brain starts churning, “Do you think it has anything to do with that. . .with that thing, that’s around? That feeling?” 

Harry huffs a sigh, “Fuck, here you go again -- Babe, listen, I can barely keep a coherent thought, so why don’t I just give you some money and you make that tea for me, alright?” 

“That’s no way to ask,” Y/N chastises him, and though she is already beginning to gather the supplies she needs so she could go out and harvest her leaves, she taunts him, “You’ll have to say please, or I might just decide to wait on this batch.” 

“Please,” he wastes no time in saying, “Pretty please harvest the chamomile so that I can sleep and I promise I’ll sit and theorize with you over whatever the fuck thing you’re feeling.” 

Y/N could go through the trouble of doing a blood binding with him to ensure that he wasn’t lying to her, but she felt that was a little on the extreme side so she took his word for it. She could easily harvest her chamomile here at the shop -- she had two doors behind the counter, one that led to her garden, the field, and the forest outside while the other led to a backroom that was made into a little kitchen area. It was easier for her to do things here rather than at home and have to risk tainting them in transport; for the best results to any enchanted item, one has to seal it immediately and it should only be reopened prior to use. 

She wouldn’t allow Harry to hover over her while she worked, so she sat him behind the counter and told him to not speak to any customers if they come through (“Wasn’t planning to,”) while she went to work. Y/N gave Thumper a look when he had started to follow her, and with a small thump of his foot (his way of saying Fine!) he hops himself into Harry’s lap and settles there. The tension once again eases from Harry’s features, soothing the pinch in his brow and the way his lips had been pursed in a frown. 

It was silent as she set to work, and save for a few customers who filtered in and out (at least a dozen of them, only eight purchased something but her Mondays were always pretty slow so that was expected), there wasn’t much to disturb what appeared to be a dozing Harry. He looked much more peaceful than she’s ever seen him, and for a brief moment she contemplates sending Thumper back home with him, but she shakes her head physically as if to expel the thought from her brain. What was she going on about? She would give him his tea and send the heathen on his way. No matter how empathetic she felt for him (she had struggled with issues sleeping when she was a lot younger), there was no need to go out of her way. . .even if she could admit that the sight of him cuddling with a bunny was a little too sweet not to be documented somewhere. 

She’s finished drying the leaves and carefully stirring them in the fine powder that she still had leftover from her last batch (there were many flowers from her garden ground up and enchanted with an incantation, which sounds like a simple enough task but the entire process took a little over a week -- the magic had to be purified several times, and the potential adverse effects had to be mollified. . . if she didn’t, instead of pleasant dreams of floating in clouds, her customers would be in an unsolicited astral projection) in a little over an hour. Y/N takes care to bag them delicately, adding a little extra in the two bags she would be giving Harry so that he would bother her less over it. 

By the time she’s retreated from the back preparation room, she finds that Harry is awake now, eyeballing her Intimacy and Romance section. When he sees that she’s returned to the front, he holds up the small, cardboard parcel, “I didn’t know you doubled as a Pulse and Cocktails.” 

“That’s a natural aphrodisiac,” she tells him, walking over to her empty chamomile shelf before she begins to fill it,  “You might want to take some so your partners will actually desire you for once.” 

“Oh, Honey,” he shakes his head, a look on his face almost like he pities her, “Don’ know a thing about how people desire me. Barely have to take my cock out for them to be gagging for it -- kind of how you are, but won’t admit it to yourself.” 

Y/N kisses her teeth, “Alright lecher, come and get your chamomile then,” she plucks the two remaining bags from the box she brought them in and holds them out for him, “You should look into some spells to combat that though -- if a demon is purloining your sleep, then it’s probably still hanging around and like deluging your flat with negative energy.” 

“Dunno’ if you know this, but I work with demons often, I’m always surrounded by negative energy,” he plucks the chamomile from her grasp, before reaching in his pocket and producing a small wad of cash that he places in her palm-- Y/N opens her mouth to decline it (she felt that his money was earned in a dishonest way and would not accept it for her flowers, because it felt as if she were disrespecting them. . .she would much rather give it to him for free), but he cuts her off, “Oh, hush and take the money. This is from a care package my Nan sent me, so it wasn’t earned in any rotten way, you spoiled brat.” 

She sighs, clutching the money in her hands, “You still better keep your end of the deal,” Y/N tells him, “I want to talk about this. . .whatever that feeling is, around here lately. And I want you to be serious about it!” 

Harry was already retreating, waving his hand up at her, “Yeah, sure thing, I’ll have my secretary get in contact with you --” 

“Harry --” 

“M’only joking. I’ll come around Friday.” 

                                                                     .                       .                         .

Later that night, with Thumper snuggled in her lap snoozing, Y/N looks into purging a home of sleep stealing spirits. 

She’s only curious. 

                                                             .                         .                        . 

Sleep comes gradually, then all at once, like the shift between summer and fall. 

Wind whistles past window sills singing shallow songs of change, while red apples ripen on their branches in the orchard during harvest season. The air grows colder in the mornings and at night, the day is still steeped in the sun’s benevolent kisses of heat at first until even that begins to wane. An aesthetic of reds, oranges, forest greens and golden hues occupy the minds of many as the leaves start to stain with color. Everyone waits with bated breath for true autumn to come around the corner. 

And when it does, it’s with a cold slap of air against the face when they step outside. The air carries that distinct autumn smell, the world is chilly enough for thicker jackets and long socks, rain comes in sheets during the evenings, and the colorful leaves that had drooped from the trees adhere to the concrete, or in matted piles on the forest floor.  Suddenly, the warm drink in everyone’s hand is a little less for the excitement and impatience for fall to begin, and more so to warm their cold palms from the onslaught of biting wind. 

It isn’t autumn, and then it is -- just like sleep. Harry’s awake one minute, and then he’s passed right out. 

Well, with Y/N’s help, bless her. Sure, she had been rotten before, but she made him a new batch and sent him off with two hearty bags full of tea that would soothe his worries and put his arse to bed. Plus, he had cuddled with her sweet little bunny Thumper for a while and he had a feeling the little bugger was exuding some sort of her soft magic unto him in the form of calming waves. When the rabbit sat in his lap, all the tension eased from his muscles and he sank into an otherwise uncomfortable chair like it was the softest mattress he’d ever been privy to. So by the time he came home, started the kettle, drank a mug full, and hot tailed it to his bed, he was asleep before his head could even quite hit the pillow. 

It was so good. His dreams were pleasant, his sleep was heavy, and deep, and lasted around fifteen hours -- which in the grand scheme of things, made him feel a bit like a sloth, but he knew he needed it. He still couldn’t quite pinpoint what had happened that he just couldn’t sleep even a little bit, but he has no interest in investigating now that he had a full night’s (and partially day’s) rest. Plus, there was no time to do any exploring when he needed to make up for the work he’d missed in his time exhausted -- his powers are nowhere near as strong if he is tired, and it’s incredibly dangerous to be working with little sleep. He could mess up, and a mess-up could mean someone would likely end up possessed and -- albeit how interesting they are -- Harry’s intrigue with exorcisms ended after the seventh one he performed. 

After he woke up, showered off, and ate brekkie, he sat down with his kitten and they cleaned his crystals and a few amulets before he set on preparing some of his finer elixirs, that he always waited until he was down to the last drop to begin making more canisters of considering how extensive the process was. It would be easier if he had someone else to help out, but the only other witch within 160 kilometers of him, he wouldn’t label as the type all too willing to help him break into a blood bank. 

But he did have his kitten Oat. He was his little miracle -- Harry had been so sad when he learned that witches could have familiars, but the animal would come to him and he was supposed to just know. At that point, he’d been practicing for three years and the only feelings he could sense from any animal around him were fear and disdain, so he had thought that maybe he just wasn’t meant to have one. Which felt horrible. . .he loved animals. 

One day, when the chill in the air rosied his cheeks and the cardigan he sported did little to shield him from the cold, he was taking a walk in the forest nearby. He’d left the trail, but not because he was working. . .if he were honest, he thought that the garden that Y/N kept out there was quite magnificent. It flourished even in the winter, a meadow of flowers that’s petals never frost, and the ground never grew hard. There was an air around it that made him feel warm and pleasant, so he visited often without letting her know. Which was what he was doing, walking through the small path that she had created so that she could tend to them (he’d seen her water them once when he’d come unknowing that she was there to cater to them). 

And one moment he was looking at what he believed to be an oat grass, he heard a rustle from the bushes to his left that he looked toward (it was a bird flying away), and when his gaze returned to where it had once been, there a small kitten was laying. She was the kind of small that made his heart ache, with her eyes barely open as she yawned and stretched very wide -- she wasn’t there, and then she was. Harry always liked to say she was born from the soft soil of Y/N’s garden which was why her grey fur felt like clouds and she always smelled sweet as heliotrope. . .and, well, she smelled a lot like Y/N too. He may not be all too fond of the girl, but she did always smell nice. 

She hadn’t grown bigger than one of his boots, the tiny little thing, but not because she was malnourished in any way (Harry always made sure she was well-fed), he just thinks she’s finished growing. He couldn’t tell her breed, but if he had to guess she was some mix between a munchkin and a ragamuffin cat. Harry knows all familiars have their duties and special abilities, but he wasn’t quite sure what hers was -- he just knew that he loved her to bits and pieces, and couldn’t ask for a better little ball of fur to sit on his shoulder while he made coffee in the morning. 

What Harry did know, was that none of the demon’s he had ever conjured had ever bothered her, and she loved to be rubbed behind her ears. 

So Thursday night, when the town grew quiet and the air was still, Harry ventured out with his tote bag slung over his shoulder. It was easy to move about relatively unseen in a place like this, that wasn’t so big there were people constantly looming around the corners of every nook and cranny, but wasn’t so small that everybody knew everyone’s business. It was a pleasant in between, where he could snake through the mouth of the forest, walk a trail and end up on the other side of town without having been seen by more than a few critters. He typically made this journey relatively late, without a worry or stressor in sight -- it only took him about an hour and a half to get everything done. 

Today though -- today, he felt off. It hadn’t been immediately when he’d stepped outside, but after some time in his walk, goosebumps prickled his skin and the hair at the back of his neck stood on end. He couldn’t quite decipher what was making him feel like this when the wind hadn’t rustled the trees in a few minutes, but it put him on guard. He disliked the feeling and had only truly sensed it to this degree that night Y/N had originally questioned him about it. It was an unsavory sensation, and for it to even make him feel uneasy was saying something tremendous. 

He attempts to ignore it, even though it only grew stronger the closer he was to his destination. He weaves through the trees, stepping over the thick roots, crunching over fallen leaves, and appreciating the scent of autumn as he goes. It was a nice night, despite the chill that ran just beneath his skin. . .it was the kind of night that he might go out on his balcony and sip on his tea until he grew weary enough to step inside. Oat liked to sit outside with him, curled peacefully in his lap and resting without a care in the world (she made him feel not so lonely all the time, which he appreciated immensely). 

Harry was thinking about how that was precisely what he was going to do as soon as he returned home after he had emerged from the trees and walked through an expansive field, toward an old road that led him back into town and entered the blood bank (after melting the lock with one of his crystals). Though he sensed something strong when he was walking down the cold, dark hall. . .or someone that is, who --  before he could register their presence -- ran straight into him as they were peeling around the corner and nearly knocked him on his arse (but definitely knocked them on theirs). 

“Fuck sake!” He cried out, steadying himself, looking down at the assailant, “Watch where you’re going, mate, or you’ll -- oh, Y/N?” He pauses, confusion laces through his brain as he recognizes her, “What’re you doing here so late?” 

Y/N was on her bum, scowling at him as she gathered herself before flattening her palms to the cold, white tiled floor and pressing up to a stand, “I could ask you the same question.” 

“It would be a silly one if you did, ‘cos you and I both know what I’m doing for a living,” he watches as she swipes her bum of the dust adhering to her sweatpants -- he had never seen her so dressed down before, in a dark-colored hoodie that just about swallowed her whole. She appeared much less ferocious this way -- not that she appeared very ferocious before, but he is always intrigued to see typically put together people in their sleep clothes. . .he thinks it says a lot about a person. From Y/N’s choice of pajamas, he could tell that she probably kept her flat on the side of too cold because she liked to bundle up. . .she felt safe that way, he would guess, and he would bet 50 quid that there was bunny hair all over it because -- despite his grumpy tendencies -- Thumper loved a good cuddle.

“I felt it again,” she says after a moment, her voice only above a whisper, though there was no security here -- or anyone, for that matter since the place closes at 7 PM, but her eyes still shift around like she’s a high schooler ditching class and the headmaster's down the hall, “. . .that thing, y’know, while I was getting ready for bed, so I followed where it felt grossest and came to check it out to see if it led me anywhere.” 

Harry’s brows furrowed, “Well that was stupid,” he derides her, fixing the tote around his shoulder and shifting weight from one heel to the other, “What were you going to do if you found something, hm? Fight it off with your bunny and rose petals?”

Her scowl returns, “Piss off,” she utters before her gaze flickers to his tote and the reason he’s here becomes clearer to her than it had been before, “You shouldn’t be stealing blood. Isn’t that unethical?” 

“It’s either this or siphoning it from a live vein, Babe, and while I’m aces at plenty of things, I have not been properly trained to set up an IV. I only take the blood that’s about to expire anyway,” He nods down the hallway, toward the refrigeration where they kept all of the baggies, “You might as well continue investigating while we’re here because it’s coming from that way -- plus you can make yourself useful by keeping the door propped open for me.”

In all honesty, Harry expects more fight than he was given considering how often she seems to object to every move he makes, but she merely rolls her eyes and starts ahead of him. The feeling does grow stronger the further they descend into the hallway and he knows Y/N can feel it too, from the way she shuffles just a little closer to him, and he can hear her breathing hitch to a small halt as they stood before the door and it felt like it had all been focused just behind the door. As strong as the taste of frozen orange juice concentrate, it made his face pucker just slightly as he raised his fingers toward the keypad and began punching in the code. 

“You’re really gonna go in there?” Y/N queries gently, and Harry only nods his head in response, reaching for the door handle. An urgent, delicate touch of Y/N’s hand startles him, looping around his wrist and dragging his attention toward her, “Shouldn’t we have a game plan if something is behind the door?” She asks, her hold on him tightening just a little, and Harry notes how soft her palm feels against his skin, “Like, let’s say we open the door and a behemoth is standing there, what do we do?” 

“The only behemoth that could fit in this tiny room is the band from Poland, Babe, and I reckon they have better things to do on a Thursday night,” he retorts, clenching around the knob and tilting it down, “Now unless you want to hold hands in there. . .” 

She lets go before he can finish, and he doesn’t have to look back at her face to know she’s irate. A small smile quirks at his mouth as he pushes his shoulder against the heavy door to aid him opening it, bracing himself to see something potentially horrid. . .

And there’s nothing. 

Actually, as soon as they open the door, the dark, odious feeling that had been encompassing both of them disappears entirely. “Whoa,” Y/N pushes her hand against the door and keeps it open, taking one step inside of the room, “There’s a lot of blood in here.” His gaze flickers back at her, as she looks around, looking more intrigued than disgusted -- there was a lot of blood, 8 by 5-meter room just filled with it, so he could understand some of the awe. The more he returns, the less awe he feels, but he reckons that was to be expected. 

“There are about five other refrigerators in this building too,” he tells her as he lowers to his knees, cracking open his tote, “This one’s computers are easier to get into though, and doesn’t say the date and time the amount was changed so nobody knows anything is missing. Easy peasy.” 

Y/N nods, “Right. Stealing blood -- easy peasy,” she leans against the door, “What is it that you use it for?” 

“It really depends,” he murmurs as he pulls out a rack, counting out the baggies he needed, “Some demons like blood more than ash, so they come when called and are more willing to help you out when given a little gift. There are a few spells that call for it, and elixirs are twice as potent — sometimes I have to drink it, which is...unpleasant,” he hears her shiver, “—but it makes the outcome better. All in a day's work.”

“Oh wow,” Y/N hummed, “That’s...different. I think the weirdest thing I’ve had to drink for a spell was doe milk and I felt guilty the whole time. Like I was taking it from a fawn that needed it.”

Harry huffed out a laugh — Y/N was a soft little thing, comparing drinking blood to milk — sometimes he forgets how sheltered her world of magic is compared to his own.  It was easy to forget with all the spiteful words she could throw his way, but to see her out of her comfort zone. . .it’s refreshing. Not because she is less confident in her surroundings, but because she is more open to his own If someone would have told Harry they would be even remotely civil with one another in a room full of blood, he would have snorted before asking what they were snorting. 

“I oughta call you Bambi then.” 

He was on his last baggy of blood, checking the expiration date, and logging it into the computer when the dreadful feeling returned. Like a fly to rotting meat, it clings back to the room they were in tenfold. From behind him, a sharp clatter and Y/N’s squeal startles him to look back at her, “Harry!” She cried, pointing ahead of her, “The walls! L-look at the walls!”  

Harry follows her finger, watching as a thick, black substance oozes from the wall’s coving. When Y/N had noticed as much, she knocked down a stray IV pole that had been left in here, and it lay at her feet where the same black ooze had begun seeping up from the trim of the floors. In all his time doing what he does, Harry had never seen something so odd, nor had he ever felt something this grotesque overcome his being. It makes him act quickly, and while he doesn’t speak, he does fix his tote over his shoulder and practically jog the short distance to Y/N, knocking her out of the room, grabbing the door by the handle, and swinging it shut. He had hoped to seal it in there, whatever it was, but when they look down at the floor, the goo bleeds beneath the door and they both take a startled step back, “Oh fuck me,” Harry mutters to himself, shaking his head. 

“What the hell is this?” Y/N is panicked -- it’s very clear in her voice, and while Harry was a tad thankful not to be dealing with this alone, he can’t say that a soft which, who planted pretty flowers and made sleepy time tea was necessarily the backing he wanted in the event he had to exorcise a demon. He didn’t even have the proper tools for it. . .he didn’t know what he was exorcising, fuck sake --  “Harry, shouldn’t we --” 

“We need to leave,” he states, pivoting on his heel and hustling down the hall, Y/N was quick to scurry behind him, though she still murmurs some protest. 

“We shouldn’t just --” 

“Listen, unless you have any idea what that is and how to clean it, let alone banish it to hell, I saw we have a better chance through those doors than we do staying in here for even a second more,” he told her, holding out his hands to the crash bar, shoving the heavy door open, only looking back to make sure that Y/N had made it through, seeing that the black ooze had been following them before he promptly slammed the door shut. 

This was one of the back doors, so it spits them out to the graveled employee parking lot that dances along one of the many mouths of the forest that surrounded them. They’re both out of breath, adrenalin zipping through their veins in a tidal wave as their chests heave and they stare at the door. They wait for it to crawl beneath these doors. . .they wait for the building to either be overcome by sludge or combust from whatever sinister being had decided to preoccupy this space. 

But nothing happens. 

The wind picks up, the leaves rustle against the branches, and as if it were a gift from the Earth, the sordid feeling blew right away with it. 

“What the hell was that?” Y/N asks for the second time. 

Harry straightens out from where he’d been crouched, inhaling the cool air, appreciative to be in it. 

“Do you think for a second, with my reaction, that I have any fucking clue?” 

                                                        .                             .                              .

Y/N doesn’t have people at her flat often. 

Actually, apart from Niall and a few maintenance men, nobody had ever really come over. Not for any particular reason, really, and not because she didn’t want them to necessarily -- the opportunity just rarely arose, or more so, she didn’t often allow it to. If she were going to meet someone then she would meet them somewhere else, and they would part ways after they were finished (again, apart from Niall, who would simply follow her home, kick his trainers off, and head toward her couch which he had told her was simply the comfiest he’d ever been on). Her home was her humble abode. . .it was where she came to destress after a long day, and where Thumper sometimes waited for her debating whether or not he wanted to nibble her bathroom rug to shreds.

Not to mention she had plants growing here too, and flowers that she held dear to her, and while people are more reluctant to go touching what isn’t their business at a store, they are much less disinclined to give that same respect to her plants. Once Y/N had a maintenance man over to fix her faucet and she’d walked out from her room to see that he was caressing her snake plant’s leaves. She couldn’t blame him -- the plant had a very encompassing presence about it and had a way of drawing people in if they weren’t careful. . .hypnotized by the way it made them feel. All of Y/N’s soil and seeds are charmed with special incantations and concoctions that took her years to perfect, she would be disappointed if they weren’t causing people to leave all semblance of professionalism to even for a moment feel as if they were in a room with such clear air, their lungs felt renewed and they deemed it necessary to get closer. 

But then she had to apologize to her snake plant for nearly two days after! It had been so upset with her, she could feel it, so she started being even more careful about who she let in.  If she was going to go out of her way to have someone over, then there was a good reason for it. . .or it was Niall. 

And a demonic, gooey substance sweating from the walls of a blood bank, was well enough a good reason to have Harry over. 

It took some coaxing on her part -- he was convinced that they needed to just go back to their respective flats and go to bed, but Y/N was adamant in vetoing the idea. “We’re supposed to talk tomorrow anyway, so we might as well just go ahead and do it tonight -- and you are not leaving me alone after whatever the fuck that was!” 

After a good ten minutes, he finally relented as long as they could stop by his flat so he could get his kitten. Y/N hadn’t known that he had a kitten and thought maybe he would bring out some ragged-looking thing, but she was surprised to see through her windshield window that Harry was approaching her car with a small grey kitten. Her face contorts in the way everyone’s face might when they see something small and cute, “Look at her,” she coos once Harry opens his door, “What’s her name?” 

“This is Oat,” he answered, holding her out for Y/N to pet, “Be careful, she’s vicious.” 

Y/N pet at her head and Oat’s eyes shut as she nuzzled into her palm, “Oh yeah, what a panther.”

 Apart from the nerves that had already materialized from what they had seen in the blood bank, she was a little worried about inviting him into her home. When she visualized her safe space, Harry was not typically who she saw sitting on her couch when she came in from the kitchen, holding mugs of warm tea. Yet there he was, introducing Thumper and Oat to one another (who merely sniffed each other, then immediately cozied against her olive throw blanket on the end of the couch), and Y/N is handing him his steamy mug. 

“I’ve been thinking,” he began, immediately nursing the mug between his palms and lifting it up to his mouth for a small sip -- the steam disperses around his face in plumes, “And it wouldn’t make sense for. . .for whatever that is to just be a demon.” 

“What?” She inquires, taking her seat beside him on the couch, her body twisted so she was facing him entirely. Y/N had adjusted the temperature to something that would be a bit more suited toward having a guest -- when she’s alone, she keeps it ungodly cold so she has an excuse to bundle up in her clothes and blankets. There’s nothing like feeling safe in a cocoon of various fabrics with Buffy the Vampire Slayer on the telly. 

Harry strategically places the mug between his knitted socked feet, steadying it there as he begins to play with the thick, brassy tiger ring on his index finger, “Demons are strong, sure, but if they’re gonna be that strong there’s typically two reasons for it: they have already inhabited that area, or someone is controlling them behind the scenes. I would be more inclined to believe the prior, but I’ve been going to this blood blank for about a year now and unless there were some pentagrams I’ve missed or a gruesome ordeal that never made the papers in the past two weeks -- then there’s no reason for that to have happened at the hands of a spirit. Even a blood demon isn’t strong enough to make what happened in there happen, and they literally feed off the substance in the room.” 

“So you think someone summoned it or something? I thought you were the only one around here that did that?” Y/N probes, trying to look in his eyes but she keeps getting distracted by his rings -- how many did he have? She thinks he nearly has one on each finger, and he’s plucking them off and placing them on different knuckles as he speaks. Y/N wonders if it’s something he does in response to a stressor, like how she picks at her nails. 

“I’m the only witch that summons things around here, but not even I could conjure something that feels that vile.” He explained, fitting the last ring against his knuckle before he pops the bones in his fingers, and Y/N watches as the skin stretches and moves around the muscles in his hands,  “I think someone is trying to manifest something without the proper safeguards in place. . .the lack of protection charms, crystals, and spells can invite much more heinous creatures to the living world. They feed off shite like that -- naivety. . .thinking that any person could decide they’ll have a demon carry out a job for them. It’s easier for them to take advantage of them that way.” Harry exhales, running the pad of his thumb around the rim of the mug— she’s given him the one that has intricate, realistic drawings of beluga whales on it, not for any other reason apart from that one was her favorite and she liked to see it in use, “And with a full moon coming up? Recipe for disaster.”

“Oh shit,” Y/N holds her tea closer to her being, “That’s why the feeling is so profuse and disagreeable in the air then, ‘cos they aren’t containing it right? When I was looking into a little bit of what you do, I read that there are containment spells so the demon or spirit doesn’t have free range to do as it pleases, but the spell is dependent on the demon in question and the severity of its power.” 

Harry looked pleasantly surprised, “Yeah, that’s right -- what’re ya looking up what I’m doing for?” He settles into her couch, “Have you got a crush on me or summat?” 

If Y/N rolled her eyes any further back, she thinks they would have done a 360 in her eye sockets, “I fell down a rabbit hole the other night when I was trying to figure out why you couldn’t sleep,” an impish grin slides onto his mouth, “And not because I’m “in love with you” -- I just thought it would be interesting to know if your insomnia was the reason of a demon because that would mean one of my items combats against that and wins. My. . .most of my magic is based on prevention when it comes to dark things like that, not really to fight what’s already there.” 

“So your flowers don’t like -- I dunno, Little Shop of Horrors it?” He teases, motioning to her Hoya plant that had just begun to bloom for her, “I reckon when I think of plant magic, I think of you snapping your fingers and thorned ivy whipping around to slow assailants.” 

“No, none of that,” she laughs lightly, shaking her head, “They’re much too nice and gentle. . .they only want to help. And I’m rarely in a situation where I would need thorned ivy whipping around.” Y/N locks eyes with Oat for a moment, whose eyes close nice and slow before she reopens them and Y/N thinks she might just melt, “What do we do then? How do we stop it?” 

He slides a ring with teddy bears from his pinky and spins it between his forefinger and thumb, “There’s nothing to do -- if we don’t know who the problem is, then we can’t fix anything.” Harry shrugs his shoulders, and the action makes his already loose cardigan slide down his arms, revealing more of the cream-colored shirt he wore with Smokey the Bear on the front reading Only YOU! can prevent forest fires, “All we can do is wait for the next fucked feeling and hopefully run into the person causing -- oh,” Harry pauses, motioning toward her, “You’ve got a new friend.” 

Y/N’s confused, brows knitted until she feels a paw press against her shoulder and the telltale purr of a happy kitty. When she turns her head, she finds that Oat has snuck her way up to her, and is now attempting to perch on Y/N’s shoulder. She presses closer to the back of the couch so that she had a better footing, and in return Oat bumps at her cheek with the top of her head, “You’re so cute, stop it,” she murmurs, and when she takes a breath through her nose, she smiles, “She smells like my heliotrope flowers too! How are you the familiar of such a grumpy, cruel lug, huh?” 

“Oi,” Harry mutters, “I resent that. I’m not grumpy or cruel, you’re just rotten.” 

A retort plays at Y/N’s mouth but her phone screen lights up from where it’s sat on the coffee table and strays her attention. She’s confused -- the only person who would be messaging her this late was Niall but she’s almost a hundred percent certain that he was supposed to be out at the bar tonight. It is him though. 

Fuck me, have ya looked at the news? Is this that thing we were talkin bout? 

Harry is a nosy bugger, and after reading the message with her he reaches for her remote, “You told him about it?” He turns on her telly, quick to open her TV guide, “So he knows about you?” 

“Yeah, he knows -- turn to 3,” she tells him, and soon enough the local news is playing out, big bold letters on the blue band stretched across the bottom of the screen. 

MAN TO BE CHARGED WITH ATTEMPTED MURDER ON GIRLFRIEND 

He turned the volume up, so they could hear the news reporter who was on site. There was yellow caution tape stripped around a house, police lights, cops walking around in the back, and frightened neighbors who had left the comfort of their homes to investigate what was happening. The woman on screen had long blonde hair that whipped when the wind blew and muffled her microphone feed, her face set stony as she recounted the events as the police had told her, “. . .has no recollection of the event, and is claiming the “walls” were dripping in blood and demanding that he do it. Jacobs is being taken in for further questioning and pending a psychiatric evaluation -- his girlfriend Amanda Wilson is being rushed to hospital that’s all anyone knows right now. Back to you Tom...” 

“Oh, fuck sake,” Harry groaned, shaking his head, “Now this is a problem, problem innit?” 

“Was it not before?” Y/N takes the remote from him, turning the volume down, “Do you -- does that sound like anything you’ve dealt with? That would try hurting someone like that?” 

He presses his knuckles to his eyes, sighing, “Not that I remember -- I’ll have to do some digging. . .this is bollocks, you know how bad this is for business? Nobody wants to mess with dark magic when shit like this is going on.”

“Aish, don’t think so selfishly. People are in danger,” she tsks at him, “And we’ll need to -- what are you doing?” She asks as he removes his feet from where they had been on the couch, reaching down for his loafers like he was about to put them on. 

“S’getting late,” he responded, “I was g’na head home --” 

“No you’re not,” she told him, her face dropping in borderline disgust as he seemed genuinely confused with her, his face twisting, “We experience something like that, then see the news, and you not only want to separate, but you want to walk all the way home, alone, in the dark? No way, that’s too stupid, you’re staying here.” 

Harry’s brows dipped in, irritated, however, he did stop reaching for his loafers,  “But --” 

“Listen, we may not be fond of each other but I’m not letting you put yourself in danger,” she tells him, before adding quickly, “And you are fucking not going to leave me alone after that! Are you mad?” 

“I’m sorry, I thought I’d be doing you a favor without bothering ya with my presence. Never thought Miss. Good Witch of the North would want me breathing her air for too long.” He ripostes and it reinvigorates any distaste for Harry that had been easing throughout the night the more they spoke. He always did that -- always made her feel like she was some stuck up prick who never gave him a chance, but she would have if he hadn’t started out being such an arse to her. Sure, the circumstances they had met under weren’t fantastic. . .she snapped at him for taking her flowers without asking, but he could have just apologized -- could have said sorry, and they could have started over but he was immediately put off by her she presumes, because ever since he’d been nothing but cruel to her. His knocking her out of the room in the blood bank was probably the first kind thing he’d ever done for her, and she isn’t a hundred percent certain that she wasn’t just in his way while he was trying to get out. 

So she glowers at him as she pushes from her couch, “Sod off. I’ll get you some blankets.”

He almost immediately replaces the spot that her body had been with his legs, stretching out as far as he could and his feet flop on the arm of the sofa, “Reckon you should make me some of that tea though, so I can sleep.” He called after her. Thumper hops off and follows after her, while Oat finds her spot at Harry’s side and cuddles into where his cardigan’s extra fabric bundles. Y/N goes to the closet in the hall that leads to her bedroom, pries it open, and reaches to the top shelf where she keeps her extra blankets and pillows. Despite how irritated he makes her, she grabs him one of her heavier quilts, because even with her heat kicked up higher than normal her flat has very poor insulation, and the night’s into early mornings get pretty cold. She’s about to grumble at him that he better thank her for this and the bloody tea, but when she returns to the living room. . .he’s asleep. 

Harry just fell right to sleep. 

She’s confused -- understandably, she thinks, because she remembers how much of a fit he’d thrown about her tea and how she was closed on weekends so he couldn’t have any of it. Had whined how he wasn’t able to sleep without the tea, and she had only given him peppermint tea tonight, so there was no reason that should have put him to bed. 

Yet there he was, fast asleep with his arms crossed over his chest. 

 Tutting her tongue quietly, she unrolls the blanket she had chosen for him and strategically places it over his legs. She is careful to move Oat so that she doesn’t suffocate under the covers as she pulls them over, up to Harry’s chest before replacing her in the spot she had snuggled prior. She pauses for a moment before she leaves them, taking in a completely relaxed Harry -- not that he doesn’t seem relaxed all the time, but he’s just. . .calm. His muscles have melted against her couch cushions, his brow has soothed and his amaranth pink lips are soft and parted. Gentle, easy breaths slip through his mouth. . .Y/N thinks that she likes him like this. Not spiteful, or crass -- this Harry doesn’t seem to hate her. This Harry is warm and comfortable enough to just fall asleep on her couch. 

Thumper thumps his foot against the floor, his not-so-silent request that they go to bed and Y/N snaps out of whatever hypnotic state she’d been in watching him rest. She feels creepy but shakes it off, reaching down to pick up Thumper by his belly and cradling him to her chest as she leaves the living room, keeping her lamp on for him in case he wakes up to have a wee or anything. 

It’s when she goes to the kitchen to grab him a bottle of water to leave at the coffee table for him, that she can feel Thumper judging her. This is only confirmed by the way he is looking up at her when she looks down at him, his small, pink nose twitching, and she can just sense him repeating Harry’s tease of have you got a crush on me or summat? -- it’s not like he hasn’t questioned her before. She reckons if Thumper could actually speak and not just implant little thoughts of his in her head through whatever little bond they have, he would be very free with his accusations about who she might have feelings for. 

Y/N rolls her eyes. 

“No, I don’t,” she disagrees with him quietly, “What do you know about crushes, hm? You’re just a bunny.” 

                                                         .                               .                              .

It had been a while since Harry had worked. 

Though he was always hesitant to call it work, all things considered. Y/N had once described to him that what he did was lurk around seedy clubs and wait to be recognized by a sorry sap that wanted something they didn’t want to put much effort towards, and Harry can’t necessarily say she’s wrong.  He preyed on the lazy; men and women who couldn’t be arsed to obtain a goal without the help of a little magic no matter how negative, and Harry couldn’t really fault them for it. One, because sometimes goals are unattainable with literally anything other than a demon's help, and two because he gets a hefty wad of cash in his pocket for his trouble. How hypocritical could he be to deprecate their usage of dark magic when he is doing the same thing. . .when he relies on that more than anything, even the silly little romance novels he writes so that nobody questions where his money’s coming from. 

It was a Friday night, and since he was no longer tied to the commitment of meeting Y/N to discuss the horrible, no good, terrible thing that was slithering its way through town and apparently spurring bouts of attempted murder -- he was able to visit a club. Though Y/N had made him lock pinkies with her that morning, telling him to keep his eye out for anything suspicious that may or may not have led to the events from the night prior. 

Promise me that you’ll keep informed on what’s going on there, okay? And promise me that you’ll tell me about it. 

The club he’d visited was one of the more popular of the four he frequented, and within the walls, amongst the gyrating bodies in scant clothing and sweat-drenched skin, were many of his regular clients. One of which had been blowing up his phone for the past week telling him how he desperately needed help, and he needed it ASAP. Harry finally replied to his message with a simple time that he would meet him, and that they would discuss the cost once he’s explained what is being asked of him. This guy, in particular, wanted many frivolous things, and typically his requests revolved around wealth, though Harry thought he had more than enough. And while Harry could do a few simple spells that would bring the money gradually and don’t come with the dangers that a demon will, he refuses. Harry has always told each of his clients that a spell and a demon could do the same thing, but demons brought faster results, albeit potentially precarious consequences.

And when it comes to summoning, things can get a bit tricky. If the person who is summoning is the person who will benefit from the demon’s will directly, then it may come with a price, and that price may or may not be hidden between the lines. Especially when it is someone who has no clue about the actual process, offerings that could be made without including their soul for the taking, and spells that could be done that would protect them. After doing this for so long, Harry had developed and harnessed enough power that it was rare a spell every backfired or a demon ever bested him, but if Bradley Evans tried this himself, he’d be good as dead. 

This is why, no matter how this man grates every open end of his nerves with a dull blade, he continues to help him. Again, Harry gets paid an obscene amount of money for what he does, so he sucks it right up -- and it’s not as if this money is just for him. He has people to take care of, his own personal gripes with the smarmy, rich, meat-headed pricks that want him to summon Clauneck for a trip to the Bahamas matter very little in the grand scheme of things. 

He’s leaning against the far back corner, at a table that he’d claimed for the night and a cherry mango cocktail that wets his lips and stains them red. He really isn’t scouting for suspicious behavior like he had promised to, only because his mind had floated elsewhere entirely. Like how, after so long of only ever being able to rest with help of Y/N’s chamomile, he was able to fall asleep without the help of anything. He had asked her about the tea that she and he drank prior to him passing out unprompted on her couch, but she told him it was just a store-bought strawberry tea that was a guilty pleasure. 

It perplexed him greatly. He only remembers her demanding him to stay the night because she didn’t want to be alone (and if he’s honest, neither had he after the night they had), he remembers her standing and him stretching out on her couch, and he remembers asking her for the tea that would help him sleep. 

And then he remembers waking, feeling refreshed, and renewed. Confused, but reinvigorated, he had a wee before poking around in her kitchen for something to satiate his grumbly stomach. Y/N was still asleep -- he’d peeked his head into her cracked open door only to find her dreaming peacefully, relaxed, and content. As creepy as it felt to stare at her as she slept, he did watch for a moment. It was different to see her without the accompanied scowl he usually coaxed upon her face -- the blissful gleam that exudes from her now is the same that he sees when she’s tending to one of her gardens. 

He brewed two chai lattes in her Keurig with Oat on his shoulder like a bird and she woke as he was taking the second mug, setting it on her kitchen counter, “G’morning,” she yawned, Thumper hopping behind her, looking just as sleepy, “Did you sleep through the night? I made you a cuppa and kept it in the microwave in case you woke up.” 

His heart had lurched. . .a genuine clench that Harry had not felt in a while.

“Oh,” he blinked at her owlishly, “I slept just fine, but thank you.” 

“Mm, good,” she was so sleepy still, Harry remembers wondering if she was even fully awake speaking to him, “I  have sliced fruit in the fridge if you want, for brekkie.” 

It was a domesticated scenario that Harry had not been privy to.  

Had it been her flat? Maybe the plants that she had strewn about the room were all enchanted, singing sweet songs of sleep that lulled him to sleep without him knowing. All he could recall was feeling so unbelievably comforted and no matter how cold it was in that damn flat, he felt so warm. . .so warm, and it smelled so good, and Oat was snoozing happily at his side. Plus she had wrapped him in this quilt that was heavy and smelled nice -- he thinks, in that moment, he finally understood why babies liked feeling contained in a swaddle blanket. Regardless of what happened at the blood bank, and what they found out on the news, Harry felt safe in her flat. And he probably wouldn’t have left either, if he didn’t have to work. 

He’s so caught in his reverie, that Bradley’s arrival truly startled him. A clearing of his throat catches his attention, dragging his unfocused gaze from the crowd of dancers to Bradly, dressed in a Lacoste polo that thought was ugly but he would never say it aloud, “Oh,” he straightened up, bringing the rim of his glass to his mouth and taking a small sip of it, “Right then, what can I do for you? Another trip to Barbados?” 

Bradley shakes his head a little frantically, and it's only then that Harry takes in the actual appearance of him, that surpasses the Lacoste and zeros in on the panic that decorates his face, “I need like -- like a demon protector or some kinda spell or -- I don’t fucking know, or something.” 

“Oh --” his brows dip, “What’s wrong? Is something bothering you?” 

He starts to nod, then switches it to a shake of his head, and that morphs into a shrug of his shoulders, “I don’t know man, I just don’t feel -- I don’t feel safe. I wondered if one of those demons from before were like. . .after my soul or summat.” 

“Not possible,” Harry dismisses the idea, setting his glass down on the high round table, “When I work with them we make a spiritual, contractual agreement that they are bound to. If your soul was not on the table, then it will never be on the table -- it must be something else,” he thinks for a moment before a slither of realization stokes the fire in his brain, that sets the coals aflame and heats the cogs to a churn, “What -- explain to me what you’re feeling?” 

“Like something is watching me,” he blinked, crossing his arms on top of the table and leaning most of his weight onto it, the scent of liquor wafts over Harry’s face when Bradly breathes, “It’s heavy and. . .it’s like swimming in ink. It’s horrible and frightening, and I’ve never -- I’ve never been one to rely on vibes, but mate, they were bad. . .they were like -- vile. Vile vibes, man.” 

Harry thinks, while his description is repugnant, he knows exactly what he’s talking about, but there wasn’t much he could do. Harry can make protection spells that are generalized but he doesn’t believe that any of them are strong enough to fend off whatever this thing is. In cases like this one, sometimes dark magic is not good to fight dark magic, it can only make it grow and fester like a nasty, infected wound. He really did not want to try that out on Bradley. . .he may not be fond of the guy, but he didn’t wish anything ill on him. 

“You wouldn’t come to me for a protection spell, for something like that,” Harry begins, “You would need --” You would need Y/N -- is what is about to leave his lips, but it drops away. As much as it’s true -- as much as Harry knows that the reason he felt the safest he’s ever had in Y/N’s presence was whatever protection spells she had put in place and strengthened -- he couldn’t. The thought of sending someone like Bradley to someone like Y/N, makes him feel sick. “Give me one second, yeah? Stay here.” 

Y/N gave him her number that morning, telling him that it was silly for them to be unable to contact one another. Harry saved it into his phone and sent her a picture of Oat so that she would have his, but left it at that -- he had assumed, until this moment, that he would never have a reason to have her number. If he ever wanted anything from her he would just show up at her store. 

But here he was, scrolling through his contact list to find her, pressing her number and holding his phone up to his ear. It only rings twice before she’s answered it, “Hello? Is everything okay Harry, did you get a lead?” 

Harry laughs in disbelief, “What’re you, a detective?” He cleared his throat so he could speak over the music clearly, “I need you for something, and I’ll give you half. And before you get all high and mighty, it isn’t for anything bad -- one of my regulars is experiencing the same fucked thing we have only it’s more vile vibes opposed to blood seeping from the walls. Need a protection spell -- whatever you use for your flat and store.” 

She’s quiet for a moment, long enough that Harry questions if his service dropped, but her voice reappears.

 “Where are you?” 

Fifteen minutes later, Harry is flagging Y/N down to his spot in the club where he stood next to Bradley whose friends kept coming around wondering if Harry was his pull for the night. Her jumper with a printed bunny right in the center made him chuckle to himself -- it was more than clear that she had not planned on coming out tonight, and if not for Harry, he thinks she would have spent three more hours at her store tending to the garden there if not for him. When she sees him, noticeable relief makes her shoulders slump, and as she gets closer, she reaches into her pocket, “Thank god,” she called over the music, “I’ve been in here for three minutes and if I got knocked into one more time I was going to lose it.” 

She produces two things -- one is a tiny vial, with an unidentified green liquid, and the other is a small baggie of her tea. Harry takes both from her hand, “Thank you,” he murmurs, before dipping down closer to her ear, “Go over to that empty table near the bar, I don’t want this guy seeing you clear enough that he could ask you for anything ever again.” 

Though she was confused, she listened to him, slinking her way over to the table while Harry turned to Bradley who had been looking at his phone, before both were placed in front of them, “Thank you,” he tells him, “Thank you, thank you, thank you. How much?” 

“850,” Harry says without batting an eyelash. Typically his business runs closer to the thousands but he cuts the guy a break since he’s scared.

“Each or what?” Bradley asks as he fishes his wallet from his pocket, flipping the leather open and beginning to thumb through his bills. 

“No, just 850,” he takes the bills from him, folding it between his fingers, “I shipped your crystals last week, did they come?” 

Bradley nods, a big grin on his face, “Oh, fuck yeah dude, I almost forgot! I already transferred you the money for them right?” 

Harry thinks it’s a shame that he doesn’t keep track -- he could really scam him if he wanted to, with these black crystals bathed in the water of Asmodeus (they increases stamina and aids them in not being shit in bed; it was a fucking full-day event to get Asmodeus to recognize the clear stream water, in an incubator that he checks every 15 minutes or so to see if the water has been touched red)  “Yeah, you sent double the amount ‘cos your buddy wanted some too, right?” 

“He loved them, mate,  he’s way less narky too now that he’s getting his dick wet.” 

Harry holds back a grimace, “Alright then, stay safe. You know how to contact me if you need anything.” 

Bradley bids his goodbye and Harry seeks out Y/N, who is picking idly at her fingernails and bobbing her head slightly to the music. When he gets close enough to her, he starts on his spiel as he waves the money toward her,

“Listen, Babe, you used your plants to help him, honestly you deserve way more than this -- a fucking Nobel Prize probably,” he holds it out to her, “Here.” 

She shakes her head, but not in the way she would if she were refusing it because she was disgusted by him -- no, instead she closes his hand around it again and presses it closer to his body, “No, no, you keep it, he’s your guy or whatever.” 

Harry tilts his head, brows knitted, “But they’re your plants.” 

“Yeah, but I would just feel guilty taking it from you so --” 

He sighs, counting out 450 of it, taking her hand, opening her fingers, and sliding the bills into her palm, “Even split then. If you’re going to utilize something precious to you to help someone like that fucker, you deserve a little compensation for it. “ 

Y/N must realize that he wasn’t going to let it go, because she finally folds it in her hands, slipping it into her pocket, “What’s with that guy then? Why do you not like him?” 

Harry can see it clearly; the image of his childhood self, his family struggling to make ends meet but going to primary school with the wealthier kids. The ones who laughed at his faded shirts, and holed winter coats -- who would ask him to their birthday parties and talk shit about the gift he’d scraped up coins for doing miscellaneous work around the neighborhood. He thinks about how he knew they would go home to kitchens full of food, and bountiful dinners that they would never appreciate, while Harry never took seconds because no matter how hungry he was, he made sure their bellies were as full as they could be. And Harry remembers how the headmaster did nothing to quell his worries because those kid’s parents could buy out the school if they wanted to. 

He sees it all, and he hears it all, and for a moment -- selfishly -- it makes Harry wish he had never given Bradley the protection spell at all. 

But he only shakes his head, “He’s just a prick,” he answers simply, before nodding his head toward the door, “Reckon we should get out of here, it smells like piss.” 

It’s always a little easier to leave the club than it is to enter it, so they’re out in the cool air soon enough. A small line had formed outside since Harry had been in there last, and as they step out, a group of three is let in through the rope chain that the bouncer is policing. This part of town is always bustling late into the night, so neither feel the cold brush of fear they have been when they’re out in the dark -- or at least the relaxed way Y/N is looking around tells him that she’s pretty content. 

“Do you want to get something to eat?” She asks him, pointing at the 24-hour diner right across the street, that had been strategically placed there because people who are drunk and high who just sweat out half their body weight love greasy food, “I skipped dinner today.” 

“What a coincidence -- so did I.” 

They got a booth in the far back corner, where the white and maroon tilted floor glistened wet from a recent scrub from the mop, and the air smells of lemon pine-sol. This along with the fact that the black leather seats were dusted of the crumbs that usually mottles them, Harry would assume that they had come just in time for their 12 AM clean up, where the first batch of besotted clubbers had left a mess and they were waiting for the second wave to come through. He didn’t miss the eye that the waitress had given them, looking them up and down like she was trying to decipher what state they were both in, but when neither of them wobbles in their stance, or slur through their words asking for a table, she relaxes and asks them where they’d like to sit. 

After they get settled and order their food (Harry convinces her to get one of their malted milkshakes with him -- his favorite was strawberry and after she confessed that she never had their strawberry malt, he was insistent on her trying it), Harry’s curiosity is suddenly piqued as he thinks of something he hadn’t thought of before, “How did you make it over to the club so fast, hm? Do you just have jars of this stuff made laying around?” 

Y/N sticks her clear straw in the icy glass of water she’d been poured, stirring it like there was anything to mix, and the ice cubes clink together soundly, “No, no, I actually don’t make protection spells unless I’m asked directly -- or usually that’s the case, but I was already in the middle of making some for you and me, so I had a little leftover.” 

“For me too?” Harry inquires, genuinely surprised by the concept that she would make him something to keep him safe. She nods though, like it was silly that he thought she wouldn’t have, only this time she reaches into her purse and retrieves two much larger vials with little cork tops, and one bigger bag of the dried leaves, accompanied by a smaller one tied with red ribbon. 

“I was doing some research while I was at work --” 

“You do a lot of research, don’t you?” He cuts her off and she nods. 

“Mhm -- and there’s this like. . .there’s this elder witch who lives an hour or so drive away from us who I think might be immortal, but that’s beside the point. She has this blog that I was scrolling through and she linked her email, so I messaged her and she sent me her number and told me to call her immediately.” She slides one of the vials over to him, along with the tree leaves, “When I did, she told us that we were in a little more danger than everyone else ‘cos like -- whatever this thing is could start trying to feed off of us, especially you. Said that we needed a potent protection spell, and I told her about mine. You feel safe in my store and in my flat right? Like -- like whatever that thing is couldn’t get to us?” He nodded, eyes fixed on hers, “So this is a version of that suitable for our bodies. The tea leaves are for your flat, and then this little bag here --” she points at the one tied closed with the small strip of red ribbon, “-- this is a tea version of it safe for Oat to drink.” 

Not only had she made him some, but she also made Oat some too? As much as he disliked her before, he can’t help how this warms his heart, zipping through his body and makes him feel just as safe as he did when he was wrapped in her quilt snug on her couch. Harry wonders if this is what she’s like all the time with her friends. . .he wonders if this side of her, that researches and makes protection goodies, brews him a cuppa just in case he woke up in the middle of the night and comes out in the depth of night to the seedy clubs she despises just because he called and asked -- if that’s what they get to see. If that’s what he would have seen had their meeting been any different. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, taking the vial and the bags, looking at them against his palm, “A lot. You didn’t have to do this for me.” 

“I did though,” she takes a drink of the water through her straw, “I may not agree with what you do but we’re the only two witches here and there is power in unity, even if our versions of magic are different. We have to be there for each other -- Thumper agrees, and that’s a lot coming from him because he doesn’t like much of anybody. . .he barely likes me,” she holds her hand up, the index finger of her other going from finger to finger as she lists off the ingredients, “So we’ve got fern, anise, leaves from the ash tree in the forest, fennel -- the nice old woman told me to hold off on the mugwort unless we’re planning on astral projecting or doing anything with divination, but if we felt that it was necessary we could wear a wreath of it around her necks. That’s an old wives tale though, I’m pretty sure.” She wiggles her fingers, “All that and a little bit of moon water, and we have ourselves a little protection spell! I dipped my finger in for a taste test and I’ll be honest, it’s awful and plant-y but I reckon we can toss them back like a shot and chase it with a sweet drink like juice or something.” 

It hits Harry that he gave Y/N very little credit for what she did, but now as he’s looking at something that she’d made specifically with him in mind, that wasn’t just a glorified sleepy time tea, it puts some things in perspective for him. Sure, she’s been a dick to him in the past, but he was a dick too, about her magic. While he isn’t going to start kissing the ground she walks on, he decides then that he’ll be more mindful of her craft. Plus, from the amount of time that they’ve had to spend together in the past two days, she’s tolerable when she isn’t on her high horse about him summoning spirits and ruining the town. She’s even helpful. 

“Thank you,” he repeats, “I really mean it, I appreciate this a lot.” 

Y/N smiles at him and it’s a smile that he’s never been gifted before. A smile that makes him smile back, as she places her elbow on the table and holds out her pinky toward him -- she’s big on pinky swears, he’s finding. 

“We’re looking out for each other, okay? I’ve got your back if you’ve got mine. . .I swear it.” 

Harry locks his pinky with hers without a second thought. 

[somecunttookmyurl]

If It is okay to ask, how to tell when a kid is adhd or just being a kid? Looking back I can see a few signs like constant daydreaming, restlesness fidgeting etc but that wasnt much different from the other kids. As a teenager it became more clear I think because most of girls my age were not behaving like tomboys anymore and the symptoms mentioned above did not go away plus i think I had/have rsd. But only now as an adult i feel like these things are actually getting on the way. I daydream a lot, the restfulness didn't go anywhere, rsd still anoying as fuck (i think this is related with being a people pleaser? I got that too) and i notice more and more this horrible thing you usually call executive dysfunction. I cant really get a diagnosis and while I relate to a lot of symptoms and posts adhd people share, I'm really scared Im just procrastinating and trying to use adhd as an excuse for not getting things done. And I feel really bad about that. So back to my original question, if the signs were there since childhood but did not trouble me until like 4 years ago, how can i tell If It was adhd or Just kid stuff?

i mean the fact it didn't go away is a pretty good tell, honestly.

redmore to save the dash

as an adhd kid you may, with other children

-had difficulty making/keeping friends or socialising and felt "weird" or "different"

-were not invited to parties, made excuses to not go, or acted inapproptiately when there (and were never invited back)

-easily gave in to peer pressure from a desire to "fit in"

-were probably called "gullible"

-found it difficult to "wait your turn" in any activity

-frequently picked last for games and team sports

-found it difficult to "share" things with others

-caused fights/arguments with siblings/other children over trivial things

-may have been called "spiteful" or "vindictive"

-not realised when you were "taking things too far" with joke or play

-tried to annoy people on purpose

_________________________________

as an ADHD child in school you may

-consistently not done school/homework until the last minute. not by choice, but because you could never seem to "just get started on it" until it was immediately pressing

-not known where to start with longer-term projects / never really "got" how to study or revise for exams. could not organise notes.

-made careless mistakes in schoolwork

-had report cards littered with "intelligent but could try harder" "needs to apply themselves" "has potential but lazy" etc

-parents/teachers said you had an "attitude" / you had a tendency to "talk back"

-often seemed to forget things you had already learned until you were reminded of them, or had difficultly linking knowledge together

-doodled a lot in class, and found doing so made it easier to listen

-easily distracted by external stimuli ie things happening outside the classroom window, or a conversation in the next room

________________________________

as an ADHD child at home you may

-had trouble getting up in the mornings (your parents had trouble dragging you up, and you felt groggy/sleepy "just 5 more minutes")

-had issues going to bed. did not seem "tired" at bedtime. stayed up late reading frequently. refused to get ready for bed.

-always been rushed to get ready for things

-being forgetful or "a ditz"

-being called "lazy"

-forgetful with daily activities such as brushing your teeth and would need to be reminded

-found it hard if not impossible to keep your room clean and organised. not "knowing where to start" with it

-walking past things without seeing them. eg my parents would leave my laundry on the stairs to take up and then berate me because "you've walked past it six times today". not really seeing mess in general bc it became "background noise"

-not following through on instructions/not finishing what you were asked to do. like doing half of the dishes

-you were over-sensitive to criticism

-would often lie to get out of obligations, maybe even compulsively (ie you couldn't help it)

-you answer to "why did you do/say x" or "why didnt you do x" was frequently "i don't know" and you genuinely didn't know

-liked to do things the same way every time and got upset if the structure or plan changed

-would become frustrated if your demands were not immediately met. could not "wait until later"

-somebody would ask you to do something and you wouldn't do it for several hours, without realising it had been that long

_________________________________________

as an ADHD child in your leisure time / emotionans you may

-people saying "are you even listening to me?" a lot

-talking excessively, being "a chatterbox"

-despite being a "chatterbox" around familiar people, you were very shy/withdrawn around others. your two modes are "verbal diarrhea" and "mute"

-answering questions before the person even finished asking, interrupting others a lot

-you had a lot of interests but didn't keep up with any of them for very long

-were "emotional" or "overdramatic" ie crying or getting angry easily

-identified as a "perfectionist" and would either hyperfocus on unimportant details, or gave up on new pursuits you were not "immediately good" at

-people said you have a "selective memory" because you can eg name all 151 pokemon in order but not remember to pick up milk on the way home

-your moods seemed to change quickly and drastically

-had difficulty "behaving yourself" in public ie when out shopping

-broke/smashed things when angry

-got injured by doing reckless/stupid things

-complained of "being bored" often

-watched TV or played video games excessively and could lose hours at a time without noticing

[banditnoo]

My Castle of Ships {1/2} - Merlin One Shot

Summary |  {A strange phenomenon had occurred when Arthur had been born by magic. He now had the ability to read minds. Nobody knew of his gifts. Arthur knew from a young age that sorcery was not welcomed in Camelot. With fears that his own father would banish or harm him, he kept his piece of magic to himself. A piece of magic that had become much less of a burden after he had been crowned king, and for moments like these; While he was bored and Merlin daydreamed.}

Tags | {Merthur, Magic Arthur AU, mind reader AU, Major Character Death}

Warnings | {Like one swear word? Angsty, but not as gut wrenching as 5x13}

a/n | {I’ve finally worked up the courage to post some of my writing on Tumblr! This has been cross posted to AO3 (Legendary_Julia) and Wattpad (GreaserGal19). Maybe one day I’ll get my usernames in order, but today is not that day. Part 2 will come out... at some point. This was suppose to be a stand alone story, but our boys deserve better. Thanks for checking me out, happy reading!} 

~~~

{A strange phenomenon had occurred when Arthur had been born by magic. He now had the ability to read minds. Nobody knew of his gifts. Arthur knew from a young age that sorcery was not welcomed in Camelot. With fears that his own father would banish or harm him, he kept his piece of magic to himself. A piece of magic that had become much less of a burden after he had been crowned king, and for moments like these; While he was bored and Merlin daydreamed.}

~~~

Merlin was a daydreamer, he always had been. He'd often find himself thinking of Ealdor while he puttered about Arthur's chambers. Sometimes he would imagine what it would be like to rule his own kingdom, to make his own rules. While he scrubbed away at Arthur's hunting boots, he built his own castle. The citadel would be magnificent. The walls would stand tall, glittering with a hint of magic. Beautiful tapestries would hang from every wall, depicting anything the passerby's wished. A series of tunnels would wind throughout and underneath the stone walls, eventually connecting to water. Yes, the castle would have to be by the ocean. Merlin smiled to himself as he pictured it. The birds, the sound of waves crashing against the rocky shores, and the ships. Merlin loved the idea of having ships. With a boat like that he could sail anywhere, do anything. That's what it could be, his castle of ships.

Arthur had to smile at the name. He too pictured the castle from his spot at his desk. He could only imagine the beauty of a kingdom Merlin could build with his magic. The Castle of Ships.

"Has a nice ring to it," Arthur muttered to himself, to caught up in the image to realize he had said anything aloud.

"What was that?"

"Hmm?"

"You said something."

"No, I did not."

"Yes, yo-"

"You're hearing things Merlin, go back to whatever it is you where doing. Maybe scrub a different spot before you muck up my good boots."

Arthur stood up abruptly, leaving a confused Merlin watch him briskly walk out of his chambers.

"He really has gone mad." Merlin muttered as he began to clean the other boot.

~~~

Merlin knew someone was listening. He's felt the presence in the castle for a long time, but could never quite pinpoint it. He had tried to call out many times. Perhaps there was a Druid somewhere within Camelot trying to communicate, or an evil doer with a presence too strong to ignore. But there was never an answer. He was always left alone with his thoughts, which he was slowing getting scared to think.

When the presence felt strong, Merlin would busy his mind with his daydreams. He would think of home, or add details to his imaginary kingdom.

He did his best daydreaming during round table meetings. The presence would always be strong in the throne room, the magic almost danced through the air. It was here that he added the finer details of his castle.

He constructed a grand portrait hall as Leon droned on about the months finances. The long room would have the most brilliant red carpet, lined with an intricate gold and black pattern. He could almost feel himself walking through the grand hallway as he leaned against the cold stone of the throne room walls. As he imagined himself walking along, he thought about whos portraits he would put on display. He would have his mother, of course, and Gwen, his first friend in Camelot. He could picture the cocky smirk on Gwaine's portrait and the valiant yet understanding look on Lancelot's. His eyes scanned around the round table, imagining all of his friends in their best Camelot red, striking wild poses for the artist. They eventually landed on Arthur, whose head was resting lazily against his hand, trying his best to listen to Leon. Merlin hummed to himself, placing Arthur's portrait at the end of the hallway. It would be the only place fit for his king.

He had heard once of a spell that made the portraits move within their frames, adopting the personality of its subject. He studied Arthur's face as he thought, committing every detail to memory. The way his golden hair fell across his forehead in soft wisps, and how his nose came to a gentle point, complimenting the rest of his face. His favourite feature of Arthur's has always been his eyes. A piercing blue that found him in any room they were in.

They were the same blue eyes that were staring at him now, Merlin realized, staring back, not daring to look away now. Their shared a million words with just a look, a conversation no one else would hear.

Are you as bored as I am?

When is dinner?

When will Leon stop talking?

How's the castle of ships coming?

Merlin's heart dropped. He was imagining things, right? He had to be. They weren't really talking to each other, after all. It was all in his head, somewhere Arthur most definitely was not. He was quickly becoming aware of the overwhelming sense of magic flowing through the room.

I know you're in my head. Make yourself known. I don't know what you want, but you won't be getting it.

Arthur was taken aback by the threatening tone in Merlin's voice. He hadn't realized that Merlin could sense the presence of his magic, or that he was so threatened by it. His eyes dropped quickly, looking at everything but Merlin in the corner of the room.

"Is everything alright, Sire? You looked concerned." Leon's address took Arthur by surprise. Sitting up as fast and as straight as possible, he voided his face of any emotion as he shook his head.

"Yes, yes. Everything is fine. We must ensure that patrol around the citadel continues. I've caught wind of a potential threat. A sorcerer."

"Are you sure, sire? I haven't heard of such a thing."

"Certain. I trust my sources," with a final glance at Merlin, he nodded at Leon, urging him to continue with the meeting.  

~~~

Arthur's eyes followed Merlin around his chambers. He could hear his thoughts going a mile a minute as he absentmindedly straightened the pillows on the bed.

"There is something on your mind," Arthur said, not moving his head from where it rested in the crook of his elbow, all but laying on the table.

"What makes you say that?"

"I can see it in your eyes." Their eyes connected from across the room, but Merlin looked away quickly, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. There was a moment of silence before he spoke again,

"Something is troubling you, and I want you to tell me. Please, Merlin, there is no need to lie."

Merlin was fighting with himself, and Arthur didn't need to be a mind reader to see it. They stayed like this, Arthur looking at Merlin and Merlin looking at the floor. They both felt the heavy magic in the room, but neither acknowledged it.

"Have you ever missed a place you've never been? A place that never really was?"

"I never took you for a philosopher, Merlin," Arthur couldn't help the smile that crept onto his face, or the fondness in his eyes, "if this is about your mother, I've told you. She is more than welcome here. I know how much you think of her."

"No, it's- that's not quite it."

'Not thinking of running away, are we?" Arthur's smile grew bigger as he spoke. He knew that's what it was, Merlin had been thinking about it for weeks. He wasn't worried, though. He knew Merlin would never leave without a goodbye, and a chance to convince him to stay. The guilty look in Merlin's eyes confirmed what Arthur already knew.

"I would never! Who would deal with your royal ass everyday if I left?"

"It's a simple fix, really. I would just have to come with you. Make sure you don't get yourself killed."

"Arthur Pendragon on the road? I don't believe it for a minute." Merlin smiled as he spoke. He imagined the two of them running away, into the castle of ships.

Many sleepless nights had allowed Merlin countless hours to add onto the castle. In the late hours of the night, he added gardens and ballrooms, imagined the wind on his face as he held tightly to the mast of a massive wooden ship. Those same nights, Arthur would lay awake in his own chambers, halfway across the castle, and imagine the beauty for himself as he listened to Merlin describe his castle grounds in a way that a child listens to his mother read a bedtime story.

"I am perfectly capable, thank you," Arthur rose form his spot at the table, making his way over to the bed and trying his best not to sound too amused, " and put some wood on the fire, would you? We've got an early morning tomorrow. We're travelling to Annis' land. She wishes to discuss the safety of both our borders villages."

"Is there a reason I was not told of this sooner?"

"It's simply business, Merlin. There's no need to worry. Get some sleep, you'll need it for the journey."

"I have a bad feeling about this," Merlin muttered as he left, shutting the door tightly.

"I heard that!"

"Go to sleep!"

~~~

The knights laughed loudly as their horses carried them down the well-beaten trail. An agreement was reached between Arthur and Annis about the protection of the border villages, making it much safer for villagers in each kingdom to travel through the border forests.

"Smile, Merlin! We're celebrating!" Gwaine gave Merlin's should a rough pat as his horse rode up alongside Merlin's. He held out a water skin, no doubt filled with ale, and gestured it towards Merlin.

"You're always celebrating, Gwaine." He took a long sip before handing back to Gwaine, nodding his thanks. He would need a drink if he was going to deal with the knights for the ride back to Camelot.

Merlin turned to his daydreams as their journey back continued. He was picturing a beautiful courtyard, lush with apple trees and all kinds of flowers, when his magic started to tingle. He hardly noticed it at first, brushing it off as the change in the wind, but the feeling kept growing stronger.

Someone was watching them.

They were just leaving Caerleon's borders through a valley, the perfect place for an ambush. Merlin looked around, uneasy. His body tensed at every little sound as the forest came into view. He was fighting with himself. If he told Arthur, would he believe him? What if it really was nothing? No, his magic wouldn't deceive him like that. He looked at Arthur, who was riding a short distance in front of him.

Merlin didn't even have to call his name for Arthur to turn around. As soon as their eyes met, a look of concern filled his face. His hand came up, signaling the group to stop. He looked toward the tree line, signaling for his men to do the same. Much to Arthur's horror, it was deathly quiet. The birds stopped chirping and the wind seemed to stop howling. The air around them was still as the group looked around.

"Did you hear something, sire?"

"No. That's exactly the issue."

"If we are quick, we can make it to the trees. Find safety in the forest."

Despite Leon's suggestion, nobody moved a muscle.

They continued looking towards the trees, before Merlin gave Arthur a hard nudge. Getting ready to tell him off, Arthur turned quickly on his horse before following his line of sight. Standing atop the rocky hills on either side of the valley were dozens of men wearing loose black and brown clothing, swords and bows drawn, pointed at the much smaller group of knights.

"AMBUSH!"

The horses started going crazy, whinnying and thrashing in an attempt to throw off the knights. Swords were drawn as the bandits began to yell, running down the hills at all angles. They were outnumbered, far too outnumbered to stand a chance against even the weakest opponents. Arthur unsheathed his sword, trying to regain control of his horse.

"Head for the trees!"

Picking off only the first attackers, it was a race between time, the bandits, and making it to the cover of the woods. Taking a sword from one of the bandits bodies, Merlin was quick to follow Arthur. With his heart pounding in his ears, he could no longer hear the commotion of the fight. He could only hope he was losing them.

~~~

Merlin's head was spinning as he stumbled through the thick underbrush of the forest. He had lost his horse when he lost sight of Arthur. He dragged his stolen sword loosely behind him as he tried to ignore the searing pain in his shoulder. The bandits had been quicker than he thought, and had much better aim than what he'd like to give them credit for. He had barely cleared the trees when the arrow struck his shoulder, no doubt coated in a poison that his mind was too foggy to identify.

Things had gone downhill very quickly after that. The sun had set what Merlin could only guess was hours ago. The forest was so dark he could hardly tell which way was up. He was ready to give up finding the others. He had wandered for hours, they could've been halfway back to Camelot by now.

Merlin had stopped for a moment, leaving heavily against a tree to try to catch his breath, weighing his options as he grimaced at the pain shooting through his arm. He stayed there for a few minutes, waiting, listening to the forest. He heard the magic in the forest as it flowed through every tree, every leaf. There were owls in the distance, and the sound of insects flying by. And footsteps? Although the sword was in his good hand, Merlin was weak as he swung blindly behind him. Hearing the dull thud of metal on metal, and a familiar grunt, Merlin dared to turn around.

"It's a good thing you've got sticks for arms," Arthur huffed out a weak laugh as he took the sword from Merlin.

When Arthur pulled him into a hug, Merlin was ready to defend himself, but he was to tired too do anything but lean into the cool metal of Arthur's chainmail. A gentle 'hmff' was all he could manage.

Arthur took Merlin by the shoulders and held him at arms length, giving him a once over. It was hard to see in the dark, but he could see the blood that coated Merlin left shoulder and arm, and now his own hand.

"I would never leave you behind! How could you think that?" Arthur sounded heartbroken as he gripped onto Merlin's good arm tightly.

"I didn't- how-"

"You didn't need to say it out loud for me to hear you."

Confusion was evident in Merlin's eyes as he scanned Arthur's face, looking for any trace of a joke, but he found nothing.

"It's you, isn't it? That presence, that magic... It's you?"

"It always has been."

The magic danced between them, like it had a thousand times before, but there was no fear behind it, not this time.

"You're hurt."

"I noticed."

Merlin leaned into Arthur's arm, trying to stay steady.

"Can you walk? Let me take you to the others. We've set up a camp, we'll be safer there."

"Only if you carry me. Like a damsel in distress."

"Absolutely not," Arthur scoffed as he picked Merlin up bridal style, slinging his good arm around the back of his neck, making sure not to move him too much.

"Hey! I was kidding, you prat! Put me down!"

"Would you rather I drag you? Quit your complaining. If your swing at me was any indication of your strength, you wouldn't have made it another step." Arthur tried to hide the growing concern in his voice. He looked down at Merlin's face, which was now rested against his shoulder, and he could tell it wasn't good. He only now got a good look at what had happened, and his heart sunk. He had had knights that couldn't recover from a wound like that, where the arrow was haphazardly ripped out in an attempt to get rid of the poison it was laced with.

"Merlin?"

"Hmm?"

"Tell me about the castle. The castle of ships. I'm sure there's parts that I've missed. I can't be in your head all the time."

Merlin smiled, closing his eyes as he shook his head against Arthur's shoulder,

"It's a stupid idea."

"It can't be that stupid, you put a lot of thought into it. Have you ever thought of becoming a storyteller?"

The laugh that came out of Merlin was short and hoarse, but Arthur needed him to keep talking. They were still a long walk away from the camp, and Arthur was willing to do anything to get Merlin there alive.

"I didn't realize I had such a way with words."

"Please?"

"What would you like to hear about, my lord."

"I won't hesitate to drop you."

Merlin let out another laugh, much rougher than the last one, that quickly turned into a fit of heavy, wet coughing. Arthur continued to walk, the only sound being his boots hitting the ground for a long time before Merlin began to speak.

"The grand hall, it would stand alone from the rest of the castle. It would have a long, stone pathway for guests to walk along as they gathered for feasts and balls. It would be lined with rose bushed and allium flowers, the dark purple ones."

There was another coughing fit before he continued, "the double doors, they would be engraved. With dragons, fairies, things of magic. Did you know your shoulder isn't very comfortable?"

"I wouldn't imagine, with it being covered in armor and all. Tell me about the boats. They are my favourite part."

"What about them? I've never seen a ship, only the pictures in Gaius' books. They're fascinating, aren't they?"

He could hardly finish his sentence before he started coughing again. It shook through his whole body, making him ache.

"Come on, Merlin. Keep talking. Give me something, a thought, anything. It's not long until we'll be back with the knights. Elyan will fix you right up. Good as new, right?"

Merlin gave a weak smile, "good 's new..."

"Why do you find ships so interesting? They are just big, fancy boats."

Arthur could hear Merlin's thoughts, still going a mile a minute despite him thinking almost nothing at all.

" 's exactly it. They're big, they're fancy."

"Is there a spell for that? Could you create one?"

"A spell for what?"

"Building things. Constructing this castle, making ships."

"I'm sure I could figure it out."

Merlin shifted in Arthurs arms, trying to make himself more comfortable before hissing out in pain and trying to reach for his shoulder.

"Are you trying  to bleed out? Quit moving!"

Arthur's words came out harsher that he intended, though there was sadness in his voice. Merlin continued to wiggle until Arthur dropped his legs. Keeping one hand around Merlin's waist, he used his other hand to keep a firm pressure on his shoulder. Against Merlin's protest and Arthur's better judgment, they continued walking through the dark.

"We're not going to make it in time." Merlin was leaning heavily into Arthur's side, barely keeping his footing at he stumbled over another tree root.

"We're going to make it. You're not going dying on me now Merlin. That's an order."

"When have I ever listened to those?"

Merlin stopped walking, forcing Arthur to stop next to him. Letting himself fall to his knees, he landed with a small 'thump' on the cold ground, the blanket of pine needles and leaves welcomed him. Arthur lowered himself after him, keeping one hand at Merlin's side, his other hand reached out to rest against Merlin's cheek, keeping his head steady as he closed his eyes.

"Keep your eyes open Merlin. Come on, looks at me. Say something."

"Remember my story, won't you? You've heard me tell it a thousand times. Built that castle of ships. For me?"

"I won't build it unless your there to see it. Open your eyes, Merlin, please." Arthur felt hot tears roll down his face as he looked at Merlin. His friend, his best friend, his only friend, was going to die.

Merlin opened his eyes slowly, only getting them halfway opened before they became to heavy to move. Arthur moved the hand on Merlin's waist to his back, gently pulling him into another hug. They sat like this, in silence for a long time, Arthur not daring to pull away.

Arthur started to hum a gentle tune in a last ditch effort to break the silence, not trusting his own voice to not break if he spoke. It was a tune he had caught Merlin humming hundreds of times. It reminded him of the warmth of the castle, how comfortable he was when he watched Merlin go about his duties from his spot at his desk, listening to the story of a magnificent castle being built and the mighty ships that gave it it's name. It reminded him of all the times he had to stop himself from revealing his piece of magic to Merlin, to tell him that he wasn't alone, that he wasn't hated.

The quiet song came to an end and Arthur stopped, listening to the sounds of the forest and hoping to hear a voice amongst the gentle rustle of trees, but he heard nothing. There wasn't a cough, nor a cry or a snarky remark, not even a thought. It was quiet, deafeningly so as Arthur began to cry. Long, ugly sobs were the only sound as he pulled Merlin closer to him, begging, pleading for him to move, get up, say something, kick him, yell at him, anything.

But alas, there was nothing. Only silence as Arthur continued to cry. He cried for the loss of his friend, his dearest friend. He cried for the loss of the kingdom they never got to create with each other.

He cried, sobbed, begged, and bargained. But that too, only ended in silence.

[thesmokingguns]

Three Loves

Three Loves

Word Count: 1202

Pairings: Izzy Stradlin X OC, Randy Rhoads X OC

Warning: Mention of Death, Cheating

Request: “The reader was with randy rhoads until his passing and Izzy finds out about her past and they talk about randy and share stories “

They say in life you’ll have three loves.

The first one is the fairytale love which was my first boyfriend in high school. We were the two kids that seemed like they should be together. Popular and good looking. Our parents were friends and we all just fit together in that neat little package. Plans of getting married after HIgh School was in our future. My mother was so sure of the ring that would grace my finger that on weekends we’d go into London to browse shops for a potential China that I’d want to get.

It was on one of those trips that I met my second love, The Hard love. It seems foolish to call Randy my hard love. There was nothing hard about loving him, It came easy. From the moment that I literally walked into him when I ducked out of the shop we were hooked. He was a skinny blonde American and I was a short brunette from outside of London but it was like sparks and fireworks despite the chilly rain.

For a week I thought about the stranger that had bumped into me outside of the shop. I begged my mother to let me go to London by myself that weekend and she did. When we saw each other on the street we both had these stupid smiles on our face because we knew that we were looking for each other.

We talked all day in a little tea shop. Randy kept ordering more and more stuff so they wouldn’t kick us out but when there were no customers left we realized we needed to go. He walked me to the train station and before I got on the train he pulled me into a kiss that had my mind spinning on the ride back home. After church the next day I broke up with my boyfriend. I knew if I could feel like that after one kiss that I couldn't stay with him.

Two weeks later I had packed a bag and was moving into a small house with him. It was easy playing house, even though my parents didn’t approve of the man that was so much older than me.

Randy was my soulmate. Everything we did was together. It must have driven everyone nuts how we became a packaged deal but now knowing how our story was cut short I appreciate how deeply he loved me.

When we got to the US I loved laying in the California sun but he pushed me to go for a degree. He always wanted better for me and believed in me when I wasn’t sure of myself. I grew up with Randy. We had plans of being in school at UCLA, him for music studying classic guitar and me for business.

Randy insisted I stay in school and not come on tour. He wanted to make sure I was getting settled in. He sent me pictures of all the places that we were going to see together. All the places he wanted to take me. I have all the letters that he sent to me in a shoebox in my closet, with the polaroids and film.

I was in our apartment sitting on a stool in the kitchen well I worked on an assignment, the radio playing in the background when I heard them say they were going to play a block of Ozzy songs and they said you had died. A plane crash. But you hated flying so how could that be true. I was confused and scared. My mind is not making sense of anything. When Sharon called me an hour later to confirm it I had screamed before dropping the phone.

I mourned Randy all through college. Not thinking of anything but getting my degree and making something of myself for him. I wanted to do something to make him proud of me. We had been together for two and a half years and it felt cruel he had been taken from me. I didn't know how I was even going to heal. Some days now I get sad over it now thinking of what had been.

But I met my last love five years later.

When I met Izzy it was a set up. A blind date. A date that I did not want to be on but got set up on by a few friends. I walked into the restaurant ready to explain to the person that I was supposed to meet that this had been a terrible mistake and I wasn’t ready to date anyone, Being lead over to the table I sat across from a man who had me talking like we were old friends in under 20 minutes. Breaking down walls that had been built and crafted to protect me.

We had our second date the next day at a small sushi place where I drank Sake for the first tme and laughed loudly at how he ate with his fingers. It didn't feel like a date as much as it felt like we were just catching up as friends.

Our third date was two days later where we went to see a show together. Izzy towered over my 5ft nothing frame and picked me up on his shoulders to see the band playing. As he walked me home to my flat that night he asked me if he could kiss me. I hadn't been kissed by a man in years so instead of responding I had cried.

Izzy had got me inside and on the couch, getting a warm cup of tea in my hands and listening to my love story with Randy. I told him everything that I could think of. And he listened to it all and when I was calm he said something that made me know I’d love him.

“You don’t have to stop loving Randy, ever. But you deserve to be loved again.”

And I did love Izzy now.

It was a different love. We both were older and had been through different situations of love before. So we were ready for each other, comfortable in ourselves and our careers. It wasn’t all consuming but more like two puzzle pieces fitting together. Solid and right.

Izzy taught me how to have fun again. He took me to shady bars where we would play pool or darts and drink beer that tasted flat for a dollar. He made me stay up past my self imposed bedtime to go to parties with celebrities that he’d whisper gossip about. He liked to wake up early and drag me with him outside, wrapping me in his arms as we sat on lawn chairs watching the sun rise together.

He loved me for who I was and always gave me room to be that person. It was the type of love that we would always have because it was a love that was truly with my best friend.

I had been lucky to love three amazing people and have three amazing stories. But as I adjusted the white veil I knew Izzy was the one that I’d grow old with. He was my last love.

[mycouchpullsoutbutidont]

Need to write all this down because I just stared into space for a solid 30 min just dreaming about this scenario / potential fanart comic that I could draw of Ben x Devi (I’ve been obsessing over them for the past couple of days and it’s probably due to me not having good dick since god knows forever)

(Draft)

So the comic will start off with Devi being sort of upset and horny, reminiscing about her interaction with Paxton - maybe a really hot makeout sesh and they’re about to have sex - except last minute, Devi gets cold feet and it’s sexually frustrating for Paxton. So Devi is hella embarrassed and mad at herself for pulling back. She tries to initiate again, but Paxton is just like, “forget it, you’re not ready,” and Devi is like “no, I want it.” And Paxton pauses, looks at her, and shakes his head like “no, you’re not. It’s okay. I don’t want you to feel pressured to do something you’re not ready for.” Which Devi feels insulted by and is terribly sorry. Paxton just smiles and kisses her on the forehead and is like, “I think I should drop you off. It’s getting late.”

End daydream. Devi reels in secondhand embarrassment and is mad at herself for stopping. She vows not to do that again and, of course, in typical Devi fashion, she thinks to herself, “well, if we end up having sex the next time we makeout, I better do my due diligence and research into how to properly have sex.”

And what other way to learn about something than to study up on it?

She begins thinking about how she could do her research. She’s studied anatomy before and knows the basics - the testicles, the glans, urethra, sperm, prostate, yadda yadda. And she’s taken health class and sexual education on how to put on condoms (on bananas- nonetheless - San Fernando valley had pretty liberal sex ed).

But she’s never seen what sex looked like. Never heard it. Never smelled it. Never experienced it from afar or visually.

That’s when she thought of it - porn.

She goes to her room, opens up her laptop, and googles “porn.” Search results pop up, and she catches glimpse of some of the keywords.

“Perky oiled brunette shoves two cocks in both holes”

“Slut sucks slobbers on big veiny dick”

“Curvy sexy ebony rides and squirts before getting facial”

The ache in her groin gnawed even more and—did she just twitch down there? With her blood rushing to her cheeks and between her legs with each horny, perverted word that her eyes came across, her fingers tremble and her body - her breasts - feels like it’s tingling, aching and needing to be roughly handled.

Nervous and horny, she clicks on the first one: porn hub.

She enters a site of orange and black - a pop up window asks if she’s 18 or older. She hesitates, feeling dirty and corrupt. She clicks on enter.

Squares of images lined in a grid populate, organized by category. She skims the words - “Anal”, “BBW,”“Cumshot,” “Compilations”—the list went on and on.

One of the categories catches her eye: “Desi.”

It was both laughable and eye-opening to see that category. A category just for Indian women? She was both amazed and flattered, and for just a brief moment, she wondered if her ancestors could see her.

Her father, she thinks.

Oh god, why is she thinking of him all of a sudden.

Ashamed, she shakes her head, exits out of the window, and closes her laptop. A cool chill runs down her spine, calming her excitement, chilling the pulsating heat that had pooled between her legs. She’s embarrassed for thinking of her dead father and for even thinking of looking up porn. She’s ashamed and pushes her laptop away, now doubly frustrated at herself and for still being sexually pent up. She gets up to grab water in the kitchen, hoping the ice cold water will help temper her aching need.

The doorbell rings.

Devi’s ears perk, and she furrows her brows. Who could this be, she thinks, as she ran down the stairs, walking to the door to peep through the hole.

She gasps, “oh crap.”

It’s Ben!

“Shoot, I forgot!”

Ben was supposed to come over to work on a history project with her - and have dinner, she remembers, since she told her mom and her mom insisted.

“Ah, yes Ben! I remember that boy with the massive pimple on his face who cried in my office!” Devi smirks at Nalini’s comment but then remembers, dammit, why did her mom also want him for dinner?

She opens the door, deepens her frown, a blush creeping on her face as she locks her brown eyes with light blue ones.

“Sup, loser,” Ben says, and Devi almost loses her blush except he smirks, a twinkle in his eye, and a slightly lifted brow. Devi’s eyes trail down over his shirt which clings to his pecs and biceps, and she feels the blush coming back.

And then she notices his strong arms and hair and veins—

“Fuck you,” she says, rolling her eyes, quickly turning her back against him so he doesn’t see her blush harder.

Jeez, what’s wrong with her today? Devi thought (as well as Ben). Why was she so god damn horny?

“What’s your problem, David?” Ben asks. He looks around Devi’s living room. “Where’s your mom?”

Devi shrugs. “Probably at work with her coworkers. Mom’s trying to bring more fun and benefits to motivate them, she claims.”

“Ah, that explains it.” Ben is a little relieved since Devi’s mom was a tough one to please. But, he knew that Nalini had a soft spot for him. (Or, at least he had a 95% confidence level in that thought).

“Actually, kanna, I’m just finish up cooking dinner here with Kamala,” Nalini chimed.

Ben and Devi snapped their heads towards the direction of the kitchen where Nalini and Kamala were cleaning up.

“And if you had helped me like you should have done, you’d know that I was busy cooking up aloo gobi dosas before leaving for my work event later tonight.”

Ben sniffed deeply, the aroma of ghee and asafetida and cumin wafting in the air. How did Devi not notice her mom was cooking with the delicious smells dancing in her home?

“S-sorry mom, I forgot. I just have been feeling a bit out of it today,” Devi replies sheepishly. “Kind of feel hot.” Which was true. Something was terribly wrong with her today for some reason. It felt like there was this growing ache down in her groin that needed to be filled, and with each step she took, every friction against her clit would send shivers of pleasure all over her body.

Before Ben could react, Nalini immediately runs to Devi’s side and places the back of her hand on Devi’s forehead.

“Hm,” Nalini scrunches her brows. “I don’t feel a fever, but you do have a slight blush. Devi, if you’re feeling sick, please don’t get us all sick and go to your room. You should’ve told us and Ben earl—“

“I’m not sick!” Devi blurts, shaking her head. Nalini is taken aback.

“I- I guess,” Devi lowers her voice, trying to come up with an excuse for why she was dickstracted—er, distracted.

“I feel burnt out from studying for AP physics and AP calculus this week,” Devi lies.

“Amateur,” Ben scoffs, smirking. He looks at Devi who snaps to look, looking both mad and flustered, her cheeks tinted slightly redder than normal. It was enough to wipe the smirk off his face. Was she okay?

“I’m not letting you show me up, you jerk!”

Yeah, she was okay, he thought.

“Devi!” Nalini’s jaw fell and she looked like she was about to chew Devi’s face off which terrified Ben.

“N-no, sorry Ms Vishwakumar, that was totally my fault and uncalled for,” Ben cuts in. He looks at Devi who still looks mad at him (but less so, maybe a bit of relief).

“Would it be all right if we study first and then eat dinner?” Ben asks, not sure whether to direct the question to Nalini or Devi first.

“Dinner will get cold,” Nalini warns. “But, I must leave now, so you two can do what you will and whatever regarding dinner.” As she runs towards the door and grabs the keys, Nalini whips her head back and stares daggers at Devi.

“Devi, behave please,” she says through gritted teeth before shutting the door.

Devi sighs in relief and turns to Ben.

“So,” she says, heading towards the stairs. “Let’s get moving. We don’t have much time before dinner gets cold and it’s bedtime.”

Ben nods, walking behind under her. He looks up - damn she has a nice ass - curvy and round. He notices she is wearing a pretty short skirt, and—was that…

Ben blinks twice in disbelief, looking away before looking again. It was no doubt what it was—sticky wet lubricant-like liquid. Running down her inner thigh. Or maybe that’s sweat, he told himself.

Ben blushes. Wow, he felt like such a pervert for staring up her skirt. That and they were going up to her room. To study. Yeah.

(But damn her butt, her curves)

As they enter her room, Ben immediately plops down on the floor, opens his bag quickly, pulls out his AP European history book and notebook, and opening them and flipping through pages (nervously?) and quietly.

“Dude, you’ve been eerily silent this entire time,” Devi torts, and she can’t blame him, can’t blame how nerve wracking it was to have your chiseled (wait shut up Devi) arch nemesis in her room - supposedly a safe haven - to study. Come to think of it, why did she let him in her room? She began to regret her decision, especially when she realized that her nervousness was also turning into heated excitement, her breasts were tingling with desire and even her clit—

“You said you wanted to hurry, so here I am, focused, David,” Ben snaps. He ignores the fact that she’s not wearing a bra and that her tank top isn’t enough to hide her hardened nipples.

(Her cleavage looked so inviting, he dare not stare too long at her tits)

“Actually, for once, you didn’t use your brain and suggest we work downstairs and eat dinner simultaneously instead,” Devi retorted. “Let me just grab my laptop and we can go back downstairs to study and eat dinner at the same time.”

“Don’t put the blame on me for your lack of brain usage,” Ben snapped back, rolling his eyes.

Devi throws a stuffed animal at his head, and he barely dodges it.

“Asshole,” she mutters as she gets on her knees and reaches over her mattress and duvet, grabbing her Macbook.

That’s when Ben saw her soaking wet panties.

Heat rushed from his head to his other head, his cock jumping.

Holy fuck, he thought, is she doing this on purpose? Why did she have to put her ass up like that? Was this intentional? This was a little too cliche, he thought, and porn-like. Girl wearing no bra and apparently soaking wet invites horny boy over to her room and puts her ass in the air while in bed?

“Uh, yeah, yep, sure, that’s probably a better idea,” Ben stammers, trying to ignore his growing boner and grabbing his books. “Lemme just stuff—“

(Those boobs)

“—these boo….ooks. Books. In my bag.” He pushes the last book in his backpack and zips it up.

Oh dear god, did she notice his almost Freudian slip?

He glances over at her, and she’s got a raised brow. “Uh, okay, weirdo, did you just almost say boobs?” Devi says.

“What, no?” Ben says. “You weird pervert.”

“Don’t lie! I saw you staring at my boobs! You’re the pervert!”

“What kind of crap are you projecting onto me for? I’m innocent!”

“You’re like the least innocent person I know!”

“That’s definitely not true,” Ben scoffs. “And even if it was, it’s better than being an Unfuckable Nerd.”

That did it. That was the straw on the camel’s back. Devi was enraged, insulted, and sexually frustrated. Ben had dug into a deep insecurity of hers, a wound that she desperately wanted to heal and prove herself out of. For all her life, she had never felt desirable, never had a boy flirt with her or ask her out or even given her attention. When Ben first called her an “Unfuckable Nerd,” she didn’t show how painful the sting of his insult was to her lonely heart. She did not want to be the forever nerdy virgin who was seen as sexually undesirable and —god forbid—ugly.

(Was that why Paxton pushed her away, she thought briefly?)

“Shut up!” she yells before chucking her laptop at him. She misses by a meter (thank god her eye hand coordination was god awful), but she’s not sure if she was even intending on hitting him with the laptop. Still, the moment the laptop flew out of her hands and onto her carpeted floor (with a nice thud), Ben knew he had made a huge mistake. And so did Devi (though she dare not be the first one to admit that she was wrong).

Except she was really wrong this time.

“Devi!” Ben exclaimed. “I’m—“

“Oh fuck Ben, I’m—“

“So sorry.”

Both Ben and Devi apologized simultaneously, with heavy regret and a tint of fear in their voices.

“N-no, I crossed the line, Devi,” Ben said. “It’s really…misogynistic and objectifying of me to call you Unfuckable.”

Because you’re quite the opposite, he thought.

Devi acknowledged internally the apology, but it still stung painfully in her heart. She wanted to let him know that it still hurt.

(Especially hearing that term from him).

Still, she knew she was also incredibly at fault for almost injurying Ben.

“I’m also sorry, I really…really should’ve not thrown my laptop at you. I could’ve injured you really badly.” Devi dropped down to her knees, getting down to Ben’s level since he was still on the floor, a bit shaken by her throwing her laptop at him.

“I guess I deserved it,” he said. He looked over at the laptop on the ground.

“But if you did break it, don’t expect me to pay for a new one,” he said with a smirk.

Devi rolled her eyes. “I’m not your sugar baby; I wasn’t expecting you to pay for a new one.” She crawls towards her MacBook (Ben consciously looking away since she’s on her knees again) and opens it, praying to herself that it was still functioning.

She tapped on her keyboard multiple times.

Blank screen.

“Oh fuck,” she whispered. She kept tapping on the keys of the keyboard.

No response.

“Crap!” Devi hissed. “Oh no, no no no!” She was sort of panicking. “I knew this would happen.”

“So why did you throw the laptop then?” Ben slyly asked.

“Not. Helpful. Ben.”

Ben scoots closer to Devi, wraps his arm around her—

Devi is shocked, his graze making her melt into his touch, sending the pent up frustration and heat back to her ache and pussy—

But, Ben was only merely reaching around to press down on her laptop’s button for a couple of seconds before the lock screen shone back on.

Oh, Devi thought, a feeling of defeat and disappointment settling in her chest. He wasn’t hugging her.

But, hey her laptop’s alive.

“Oh thank god,” she says, breathing a sigh of relief before turning to him - wow he’s somehow pretty close to her face and body and oof, his proximity sets a fire across her entire body —

“Consider yourself lucky. Looks like you don’t have to buy me a new laptop,” she says, smirking.

Ben scoffs.

“In your dreams, David.”

Oddly enough, Ben’s arm is still wrapped around her, his presence warm and enveloping. Devi is tempted to lean into it but knows better (especially not now when she has been hot and bothered all day).

She types her password in her Lock Screen, hits enter, and gasps in horror as she realized that she didn’t properly close out her browser full of porn -

(which is now blasting moans of cam girls fucking the selves with sex toys all thanks to livejasmin)

“Oh shit!” Devi immediately slams her screen shut again.

But it was too late.

Ben’s brows shoot up, eyes widening and jaw dropping in guffaw. A laugh of disbelief escapes from his throat.

“Holy crap! And you called ME the pervert?” Ben laughs. “Who’s the pervert now?”

But damn, wow, he’s turned on.

He tightens his arm around Devi in a proper hug now, pressing her closer to him, and leans in, an inch from her ear, whispering —

“You’re a dirty girl”—

Before pressing his lips on hers.

[thorne93]

The Stars Made Us (Part 1)

Prompt: In this world, you’re one of the “lucky” ones who got a soulmate, but what if the universe gives you more than you bargained for?

(Prompt challenge -- You live in a world where your soulmate can write on their skin and you will get the writing on your own and vice versa. Where they can wash away the ink on their own skin, however, the writing is forever scarred onto your skin until you meet face to face)

Word Count: 1857

Warnings: angst and language throughout

Notes: This was supposed to be for @sorryimacrapwriter and their challenge like a year ago, I think? I still loved the prompt though and have been working on this story for quite some time. This aesthetic was made by @dontshootmespence, thank you so much! Beta’d by @like-a-bag-of-potatoes, couldn’t have done it without you, as well as @carryonmyswansong and @arrow-guy and @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo

Also, I’ve never really liked the whole soulmate AU thing idea, but this felt so right and it was amazing to write. I hope y’all love it too!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ever since you were little, you’d heard the legends. The legend of soulmates. It was as common as Santa Claus or winning the lottery. Some weren’t sure they believed it, because although it was real, it was so rare that people didn’t know how to feel about it. Perhaps it was like believing in ghosts. Documented cases, proof, eye witness accounts weren’t enough to sway some skeptics. Yet, it had to be real because there was a registry, much like when you go to get your license or file a birth certificate or a social security number. There was a system in place to keep track of soulmates.

While others, mainly hopeless romantics, truly believed in soulmates. You heard whispers of it when people talked of their grandparents “perfect marriage” and how they just had to be soulmates. You’d heard some kids on the playground swear their cousin just got their soulmate. 

Now, it wasn’t for everyone. It was a rarity, and much like winning the lottery, it only happened to a select few. 

The few were seemingly random. Everyone from celebrities and CEOs down to starving artists and people who managed grocery stores. It touched all races, religions, and economic status. It was global. It wasn’t unheard of for a South American woman to be mated with a French man. Or one Australian to find their mate within Africa. 

Stories of epic journeys to find their love and mate had been told as bedtime stories. Heart wrenching stories of soulmates who never got to be together. 

The idea of soulmates was so endowed in the world and in history that it was rare enough to be celebrated, but common enough to be easily accepted. That’s why, when people walked with scars all over their body, formed in words, people didn’t even think twice.

That’s how it worked. On people’s 18th birthday, their soulmate was assigned, if they had one. Writing on any part of your skin would show up on your mate’s skin as a scar, and vice-versa. For two days out of the year, their birthdays, they could communicate this way. 

The only downside was that you couldn’t give out your information to your mate -- that part was up to the universe. When they needed you most, their name and address would show up on your arm. It could be life or death, it could be a mental breakdown, it could be that they’re hurt and need a friend. But until then, you shouldn’t share personal information. People had done it before, met their mates before the universe decided it was time, and awful things tended to happen. 

But if they were patient enough, willing enough to wait for the right day, it would all be worth it and they were usually guaranteed a happy life. 

Even though you grew up with this knowledge, you’d let it fall to the wayside in your mind. School and friendships took precedence, and you led your life normally. Every now and again, like on birthdays, a fleeting thought of the prospect of a soulmate would run through your head, but for the most part, you filed it away as a fantasy. 

That was, until your best friend Jenny reminded you of it on your 18th birthday.

You were having a party at your house. A group of about ten friends and you went out and played mini-golf, then had pizza at your house with cake and gifts, then watched a new movie. Your parents gave you money to buy a lottery ticket for fun, and gave you some money for college. 

Nearly everyone had gone home, and your parents already wished you a happy birthday with hugs and kisses before going off to bed. All that was left were you and Jenny, and she was about to walk out the door.

“I’m just saying, you’re 18 now,” she stated as she walked. 

“Yeah, I gathered that when I counted 18 candles on the cake, what’s your point?” you asked with a smile.

“My point is, maybe you should try and see if you’ve got a soulmate.” 

You shook your head and rolled your eyes. “Jenny, the odds of me having a soulmate are like 1 in a million. It’s a silly idea.”

“That’s been true. You know it and I know it. What’s the harm in finding out? I just had a cousin last year that found out. She wrote some appointment down when she was 21, her soulmate got it and wrote back.” 

You perched an eyebrow at her. “How romantic.” 

“I’m serious! Come on, how cool would it be?” 

“It would be kind of neat,” you admitted sheepishly, grinning. “But if no one writes back--”

“Then you haven’t lost anything, and you’ll find someone great later in life. No harm, no foul. Right?” She gave you that super convincing gorgeous smile before dropping her pushiness. “Alright, alright. Just think about it, okay? Happy birthday,” she said before hugging you tightly. 

“Thanks,” you said back.

With that, you cleaned up the kitchen and living room, gathered your gifts, and headed up to bed.  You pulled on your pajamas and crawled into your bed, you sat there, thinking about what Jenny had said.

What would be the harm in writing on your arm? If no one spoke back, it was no big deal, right? 

But if they didn’t write back, would you be saddened? You’d always secretly hoped you had a soulmate out there, so to find out you didn’t have one would be a little devastating. Of course, your life wouldn’t be over, and like Jenny said, you could always find a partner just like you normally would. 

Ultimately, it was just a schoolgirl fantasy… but what if it wasn't? you wondered idly as you sat with your leg propped up on the bed. 

You grabbed a pen off your nightstand and took a deep breath, trying to think of the best thing to ask - this would be scarred on them indefinitely after all. 

You thought, and you thought, pondering anything you could say. But what do you say to a potential soulmate? Finally, you decided there was no perfect way to go about this, and you put your pen to your arm, writing: Is anyone out there? 

You held your breath for a second, wondering if you’d get a scar somewhere in response, even bracing for some form of pain, but after a few moments -- nothing. Nothing happened. 

You sighed. Well, it was a long shot anyway.

After lying in bed disappointed for a while, a feather light sensation came crawling across your arm. You frowned for a split second before glancing down and seeing the letters. Instantly, a grin grew wide across your face. 

“Hi there. : )” 

You wanted to jump for joy. Immediately, your heart soared at the sight. Someone out there was actually fated to be yours? You couldn’t believe this. Why you? You weren’t special. 

“This is my email, if you would like to talk more,” you offered, scribbling on your skin before adding in your email. You opted for email since any other form of communication you might be tempted to find out their name.

Within two minutes, a ping noise came from your computer. You sprang from your bed, not even caring that you were the epitome of a school girl right that second. You dashed the cursor over to your inbox and read the new email. 

“Hello. So I suppose this means we’re soulmates...”

“I suppose it does,” you wrote back, a giant grin on your face. 

“We should probably get some of the formalities out of the way. What should I call you? How old are you?” 

“You can call me… Y/F/I. And I’m 18, today is my birthday. I’m sure you’ve heard the stories of people giving out their information before their time. I think we should stick to initials.” 

One minute later, in the same penmanship, you felt something on your bicep -- Happy Birthday

The smile on your face lit back up. 

“That’s my gift to you. And yes, I have heard of the stories. I would rather be safe than sorry as well. You can call me X. I’m 21. I’m in college, actually in graduate school.”

“Wow, that’s amazing. You’re already in grad school? How? What’s your area of study? I’m going into college in the fall - psychology.” 

“I think I should be surprised, but I’m not. That’s what my PhD will be in,” he informed. “As well as genetics and biophysics.” 

Well, the universe is funny, isn’t it? 

You continued to read his message. 

“Long story short, I graduated college at 16. Harvard, if you can believe it.”

Instantly, you were hit with a wave of surprise and shock. Your soulmate was a genius? He was a Harvard grad at 16? In what universe was that possible?

“That’s… really impressive. God I wish I could do that. It’d be amazing to be already done with college. I haven’t even gone there yet but it seems like a lot of work and a lot of stress. Hopefully, the pay off will be worth it though.” 

“What are you wanting to do with your degree?”

“Psychiatry.”

“A noble profession.” 

“I think so. I’d like to help people, as corny as that sounds.”

“I don’t think it sounds corny at all. Quite admirable, in fact. If people didn’t feel that way, we wouldn’t have good people in the world.”

He already thought you were a good person? you wondered, warmth spreading over you.

“I guess that is one way to look at it. I just want to help people and be a voice for people who don’t exactly have a lot of advocates.”

“That’s precisely why we get into these professions, darling,” he wrote.

Darling? Wow, so far, this guy was the jackpot. 

“I suppose it is. So what are some of your favorite books, if you don’t mind me asking? And movies. I feel like a quick way to get to know someone pretty well is through their interests.”

“Indeed it is,” he replied. “I happen to favor T.H. White’s The Once and Future King, as far as books go and I don’t particularly have time for many films.”

“Oh, I see,” you started, and then explained your favorite books and film. 

He had asked you why you liked those and you went into a rather lengthy explanation of why you enjoyed them more than others. After that you two talked music, actually having quite a lot in common there. 

You stayed up all night emailing, until the sun came up. It wasn’t until the glare hit your computer screen that you realized it, either. You didn’t want to end the magical evening, but you did need rest, and you were sure as a grad student, he needed all he could get as well. 

That morning you went to sleep with this newfound relief. It was one less thing you’d have to worry about in life. Worry about finding a mate, a partner for life. They were already there, already perfect, already waiting…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[moonflowerlesbians]

Or #22 for Dani & Jamie please !

Many apologies for this taking a hot minute. I started it to help with writers block and then it gave me more. Whoops. Also included here, prompt #35 from another anon. 

This probably isn’t what you had in mind, but not to worry, angst is coming in another prompt. 

You can also read this and my other prompt-fills here.

~~~

Drunk Jamie is a sight to behold.

It’s a rare and beautiful thing that Dani is sure to treasure on the infrequent occasions Jamie allows herself to fall and trusts Dani enough to catch her. To see Jamie inebriated is sacred, or, at least, Dani thinks so. Because she is the only one who’s seen Jamie drunk, face flushed and carefree laughter spilling from her lips. She’s vulnerable here, alcohol having eroded the rings of fearsome walls she’s built around her life, trusting Dani to protect her from any threats. She’s softer, more relaxed.

It’s a good look on her, Dani thinks.

They’re in the back room of The Leafling, reclining, legs propped up, on the ratty sofa they found at the second-hand store not three weeks prior. The shop is quiet, the doors locked and the lights shut off. The plants sit in baskets and pots and displays placed perfectly to suit their needs. Empty drink trays decorate the countertop, a problem for tomorrow.

“You did it.” Dani stares at the ceiling, her heart warm. Jamie’s back is pressed comfortably against her front, and Dani twirls a strand of brown hair between her fingers as crickets chirp outside. The world is at peace.

“We did,” Jamie hums. “We bloody did it. Business owners, the both of us.” She barks a laugh and nuzzles her head into Dani’s collarbone.

They’d just concluded a soft opening party for the shop. Small business owners and potential clients had wandered racks of Jamie’s precious plantlings as the woman herself flitted nervously on the outskirts to avoid the shower of compliments. Dani had done most of the talking, offering up hors d’oeuvres and baked goods. As it turned out, despite her hot drink deficiency, she’s a rather decent baker.

“Oh, these are just lovely!” Mrs. Windham from the bookstore down the way, had said, gushing over a bouquet of hydrangeas.

“All Jamie,” Dani had proclaimed proudly.

“Well, she has quite the gift.”

“Doesn’t she?” Jamie had met her eye from across the room, sipping on her second -- or third -- glass of champagne, and offered a small smile.

Dani doesn’t begrudge her the drinks. Jamie has never been much of a people person, and who is Dani to judge if alcohol makes socialising just a bit less nerve-wracking? Besides, a buzzed Jamie is quite endearing, if Dani’s being honest.

This is the part where Dani shines, in any case. Making connections comes naturally to her, or, at least, more naturally than it does for Jamie. Being a teacher, she had to be good at it. She always had a knack for cracking the toughest students, much to the bewilderment of her colleagues.

Half the time, the kid was just lonely. Needed someone to talk to. Dani could relate.

It’s a skill that’s served her well in life and in her relationships.

Jamie stirs, and Dani wrinkles her nose, spluttering as brunette curls invade her mouth.

“Hey, easy there-” she finds herself silenced by a bruising kiss. “Um,” she blinks up at Jamie, who’s looking down at her with a dopey smile, “hello?”

“Why’re you dressed like that?” Jamie drawls.

Dani surveys her outfit, though her investigation lacks scope on account of her incredibly attractive girlfriend straddling her lap. “Um. Does that mean it looks good, or should I change?”

Jamie avoids the question. “I’m rather fond of you, you know.” Her breath smells of cheap champagne.

“It’d be kind of awkward if you weren’t. We’re in pretty deep, you know,” Dani mimics, and Jamie’s faces scrunches in disapproval.

“That was bad. That was bloody awful, Poppins.” Jamie rolls off her to lean against the opposite arm of the chair, and Dani finds herself missing the weight. It’s nice feeling safe enough to have someone so close that even inches of separation are a loss.  

“You never answered the question.”

Jamie hums. “You never answered mine.”

“You’re cocky when you’ve been drinking, you know that?”

“And you’re right beautiful all the time.”

Dani pauses mid-retort, her mouth open slightly. Jamie stares at her from across the couch, that damn cheeky smirk on her face.

“Quite alright there, Poppins?” Her voice is just above a whisper, sultry and mischievous. Leaning in, “Look a little flushed.”

“I...you…”

Jamie studies her fingernails. “Out with it, darling. Haven’t got all night.”

“I...I’m fond of you, too.” Dani manages. “Even when you’re lying.”

Jamie feigns outrage, hand coming up to clasp her chest. “Never lied a day in my life. ‘Specially not to my favorite person in the bleedin’ world, who also happens to be the most lovely woman I ever laid eyes on.” She runs her hands up Dani’s calves.

Dani scoffs, gently shoving her off. “‘Never lied’ my backside, but I’ll let it slide just this once, and only because you’re knackered.”

“Am not,” Jamie replies petulantly, then promptly yawns. She freezes. Dani raises an eyebrow. “Christ, betrayed by my own fucking body. Knew I never liked you,” she says to her stomach for no discernable reason. “Gone and ruined my whole plan.”

“Your plan?”

“Meant to woo you.”

“I’m sorry,” Dani laughs, “that was your attempt at being sexy?”

“Oi,” Jamie pouts, “thought I was doing a marvelous job, thank you very much. You’d’ve been properly smitten. Irresistible, I am.”

“Yes, right, of course,” Dani coughs, “consider me thoroughly wooed.”

“Aha! See that, ladies and gents? That’s how it’s done.” She gestures around the empty back room to her invisible audience, which Dani assumes is giving a standing ovation. She joins in, her solo bout of applause echoing too loudly in the space.

“Hey, Casanova. This plan of yours have an endgame?”

Jamie cuts her sweeping bow short. “‘Course. Can’t rile you up with nowhere to go. No fun in that.”

“And your goal was…” Dani prompts, sensing a trend. “To flirt me into bed with you?”

“Forgive me for wanting to romance my business partner to celebrate our smashing success.”

“Business partner, huh? Not sure how the laws work back in England, but here in the States, we have rules against sexual activity in the workplace.”

“Best get out of the workplace then, yeah?” Jamie’s eyes are dark.

“Yeah,” Dani breathes. She has half a mind to pin Jamie to the couch then and there. Not to go any further than, perhaps, a heated make out session. Not with Jamie in this state. But before the thought can fully evolve, Jamie’s face splits into another massive yawn.

Dani sighs affectionately and gets to her feet. “C’mon,” she says, holding out her hand for Jamie to take, “let’s go home.”

Jamie stands, a little shaky at first, but she’s stable as Dani gathers their things. Side by side, they walk the few blocks to their apartment. The night air is cool against Dani’s face, and the chill sobers Jamie enough that her promiscuity seems to settle. By the time they unlock the front door, she’s blinking sleepily at Dani, who guides her into the bathroom and starts the shower.

It’s odd to see Jamie like this, Dani thinks. She’s soft, pliant beneath Dani’s steady hands undressing her. The pensive silence is common enough, but this feels gentle, more open, somehow. The intimacy is of a kind Dani never imagined she would experience, and neither, she assumed, had Jamie. It speaks to the immense chasms they’ve breached on bridges of trust. That they are able to concede control of their bodies with a blanket confidence that they are safe. They are safe, and they are protected.

It’s a bond Dani treasures, and one she hopes will last a lifetime. Two, if she has anything to say about it.

Jamie steps into the shower with a washcloth, and Dani sets about laying a folded pair of flannel pants and an old t-shirt on the bed. When she returns, Jamie wears a towel and an adoring expression. Dani tilts her head, confused.

“Meant what I said earlier. About you being beautiful.” She is deliberately earnest.

It’s difficult to feel beautiful when your body doesn’t feel like your own. When you prepare to look in the mirror each morning and wonder if you’ll recognize yourself. When the face that’s stared back at you your whole life has changed, and a brown eye is a reminder that you aren’t in control. Dani is learning, though. Slowly.

And she knows Jamie wouldn’t lie, especially drunk Jamie. She lacks the capacity to be anything but adorably honest, despite her admirable attempts at seduction.

Unable to put her thoughts into words, Dani cups Jamie’s jaw, brushing away droplets that trickle from damp curls, and kisses her sweetly.

“To bed with you,” Dani says, shooing her into the next room. Jamie manages to steal three more kisses along the way. She tastes of the mint toothpaste she’d used in the shower. “Come on now, PJs are on the bed.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She thinks she hears Jamie murmur, and Dani can’t contain her eye roll. The situation isn’t unlike the bedtime antics of a child, and the mental picture of her grown partner in footie pajamas evokes a chuckle. She tucks that image away for later.  

Helping the shirt over Jamie’s head from behind, Dani presses a fleeting kiss to the scar on her shoulder, a silent observance of the vulnerability they’ve cultivated. Jamie had never hidden her burn, choosing instead to spin her tale of woe before the story came up organically. Much, much later, curled in darkness beneath motel sheets, she had whispered her insecurity and given voice to the resulting shame around feeling self-conscious at all.

Dani makes sure to pay special attention to the area during all subsequent explorations, noting each ridge and pockmark like a cartographer charting new terrain.

She peels back a corner of their duvet, allowing Jamie to climb in.

Jamie clings onto her arm, pulling her in as well. “Please don’t leave me,” she frowns.

“I don’t want to go, but, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m still wearing my party outfit.”

“Hard not to notice when you’ve been teasing me with it all evening,” Jamie sighs, a little sad, a little longing.

Dani swats her playfully. “Go to sleep. I’ll be right there.”

“Can’t properly get to sleep without you, now can I?” Jamie grumbles, but rolls over nonetheless.

Evidently, she can.

By the time Dani slips into sleep clothes and finishes brushing her teeth, Jamie’s breathing has evened out. Dani tucks herself in beside her and drapes an arm across Jamie’s hips.

They’ve built this life together, the two of them. They’ve got an apartment and a small business and more plants than they know what to do with. They’ve got postcards stuck to the fridge and a rickety heater and several throw pillows that Jamie claims to hate but cuddles with when Dani isn’t looking. And, sure, the back left stove burner only works half the time, and maybe the lock on the front door seems to hate Dani’s key in particular, but this is their home, and theirs alone.

Not a foster home, not the O’Mara’s, not the Wingraves’.

Theirs.

Dani revels in the thrill of it all. She’s still scared out of her wits, certainly, but, Dani has found, it’s infinitely more difficult to be scared when the person you love most in the world sleeps soundly beside you on sheets you chose together.

She takes in this feeling, savors this comfort for when the clouds next block the sun.

Whatever comes next, she is not alone.