#i hope the last page being colored isn’t too jarring it just looked like that in my head

[rendevok]

step into the light

what do you see?

my sun,

my stars

shining on me

[scuttling]

Sweet Evening Breeze

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader Word Count: 5,042 Tags: 18+, NSFW, Naïve reader, Innocence kink, Oral sex, Unprotected sex, Previous bad sexual experience Summary: Being Jack Hotchner’s babysitter is a pretty great job. He’s an angel, most of the time, and his dad is so sweet and thoughtful, really takes care of you. Really takes care of you... *Requested by anon Link to A03 or read below! “Jack, buddy, time for breakfast,” you call down the hall for the third time. “We’ll play Legos later.” He shouts something nearly incomprehensible back, and you sigh as you stretch up, trying to reach the jam he likes on the top shelf of the cupboard.

Most of the time, the fact that Jack’s dad, Aaron, is very tall gives you butterflies in your stomach, but sometimes it’s just an inconvenience—like when he puts groceries up so high you don’t have a chance of reaching them.

“Dad did not say you could skip breakfast, and it’s not okay to lie. Little monster,” you mutter, and you can feel Aaron’s breath on the back of your neck when he chuckles softly. Whoops. You didn’t even know he was standing there. “I say that with full affection.”

He reaches around you to take down the jam, resting a hand on your lower back, probably for support. The bit of skin exposed by your stretching tingles at the touch.

“Of course, and so do I. Often.” You turn to face him, give him a grateful smile, and take the jar of jam.

“Thank you. Ugh, aren’t you miserable in that?” you ask, gesturing to his usual business suit. As Jack’s babysitter, you see Aaron in a suit almost every day—another thing that gives you butterflies—but you’re in the middle of a heatwave, and it’s 97 degrees in your little suburb of DC, which means it’s probably more like 115 downtown. That’s too hot to do anything, but especially in a suit and tie.

“It’s cool in here, but yes, I’ll probably be miserable the second I step foot outside.” You spread peanut butter on one English muffin and jam on another, laughing softly when a thought comes to you.

“Too bad you don’t have as much flexibility with your dress code as I do.”

At the start of this heatwave last week, you’d asked Aaron—after much nervous deliberation—if you could wear shorts and tank tops around the house instead of your usual jeans and a t-shirt or sweater. Your so-called uniform was self-imposed, because he’d told you from the start you could dress however you were comfortable, but you didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. You weren’t trying to show off your body, or tempt or tease, or anything like that; you were just extremely hot, especially playing outside with Jack.

He had agreed, of course, that you should dress for the weather, and that shorts and tank tops were fine. He also reminded you that you could use the pool whenever you wanted, whether he was home or not, and just thinking about taking a dip later is enough to make you sigh in relief.

“I don’t think anyone would be interested in seeing me in an outfit like that,” he jokes—sometimes people can’t tell when he’s joking, because he’s so dry, but you’re familiar with his humor by now—and you laugh again. It earns you a smile.

“I think it’s more important that you’re comfortable than what people think when they see you in something, but it would probably be a little distracting.” You’ve seen him in his swim trunks on more than one occasion, most recently with no shirt to accompany them, and you can attest to being very distracted that day. You were supposed to be keeping an eye on Jack, and you did, would never put him in danger, but your eyes had also been following the drops of water that dripped from Aaron’s hair, down his throat, over his chest…

You had been hot for more than one reason that day, and your butterflies moved a little bit lower.

You shake your head of those thoughts quickly, glance around you to see that Jack is still not in the kitchen. You sigh, and put the peanut butter muffin on a paper napkin, hand it to Aaron.

“I’m going to go get him, but have a good day, okay? Try to stay cool; maybe you can take a swim tonight when it’s not so hot.”

“Good idea. Maybe you can join me if you’re still here.” That was sweet of him to offer. You smile at his kindness, brush a hand over your head. You wish your hair wasn’t all over the place, clinging to the sweat on your neck, your temples, but humidity is not your friend. He doesn't seem to mind.

“Thanks, maybe I will.” He gathers his things to head out, and you steel yourself and head to Jack’s room, scoop him up, giggling, into your arms, and plop him down for breakfast.

The two of you spend the day inside, because even swimming is a nightmare when the sun is beating down the way it is. You play with Legos, watch a movie, do some coloring pages, and play learning games on his iPad.

At around three, Aaron texts you, lets you know he won’t be home tonight because of a case, and you mentally plan out a small, easy dinner for you and Jack, then a little more playtime, then bed for Jack and a swim for you after.

You tuck him in, turn on his nightlight, and close the door behind you, then head to your room to change into your bathing suit.

You usually wear a purple one piece with shorts over it, something you can play with Jack in without worrying about anything falling out, so you’re surprised to find a pale blue, floral print bikini on your bed—a very tiny bikini—with a sticky note on the tag.

Went shopping for Jack and this made me think of you. I hope you like it. - Aaron

The first two things to pop into your head are, it was so sweet of him to think of you while out shopping, and you’re really glad he’s not here to see you in it, because it only half-covers all the things it’s supposed to cover. You double check the tag, but it’s the right size, so it must just be the intended design. Your cheeks flush hot, but it also makes you feel good, to be wearing so little. Kind of wrong, but good in a way you can’t explain.

You grab a couple of beach towels and step out into the slightly cooler night air, sigh at the feel of it on so much of your skin. You lay out your towels on the lounge chair by the edge of the pool—maybe you’ll lay there and read or play on your phone after your swim—and then step into the pool.

The water is still so warm, and the contrast between it and the breeze that blows across the surface has goosebumps breaking out across your skin. You dip your head under the water, let your hair fall loose and luxuriously wet after being twisted up all day long, and when you open your eyes Aaron is standing at the edge of the pool; you gasp, startled by his sudden appearance, and then laugh lightly.

“Oh my god, you scared me. I thought you weren’t going to be home tonight?” You swim closer to the edge so you can see him better, and he crouches down to your level. He’s taken off his jacket and tie, loosened the collar of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves; your heart races a little at his proximity, and all the dark hair you’re presented with.

“Change of plans, we weren’t needed after all. I texted you, but I see your phone is over there; I’m sorry I scared you.” He looks you over, something calculating in his gaze, and then smiles softly. “You’re wearing the swimsuit I bought you. Do you like it?”

You can feel yourself flush, because you hadn’t anticipated him being home to see you in it, but there’s nothing you can do about that now.

“Yes, I like it. It’s pretty. Thank you.” He must be able to sense your apprehension, because he tilts his head curiously.

“If you don’t like it, you can tell me. It won’t hurt my feelings. Don’t be shy.”

“It’s not that I don’t like it, I love it. That was so sweet of you.” You reach out a hand to rest on his arm, don’t want him to feel like you aren’t grateful. “It’s just a little… revealing.” He makes a soft noise of contemplation, reaches out to brush his fingers over your shoulder, over the strap.

“I was a little worried about that. Why don’t you get out of there and let me see? I can let you know if I think it’s too much.” You appreciate that he’d do that for you, and you respect his opinion, but you feel really exposed in it—and you’re not sure why that makes you feel so uncomfortable and so good at the same time.

Sure, he’s the most handsome man you’ve ever seen in your life, but there’s no way he’d ever look at you as anything other than the sitter. You’re just too… innocent.

All the same, you nod your head and lift yourself up out of the pool; Aaron moves back, helps you up, and guides you over to the lounge chair. He sits, and you stand.

From there, he looks slowly over your body; he lingers over your breasts, your hips, then asks you to turn so he can see the back. You swallow, self-conscious under his gaze.

“Have you ever been this undressed in front of a man?” he asks, his voice low, and your breath hitches. “I can tell you’re nervous, that’s all.”

“Um. Once,” you say, flushing. He hums, brushes a hand down the length of your arm, and you feel a chill. You turn back to face him, and he pats the lounge chair, encouraging you to sit next to him. You sit, cross legged, facing him, nervous, but… also not; it’s hard to explain.

“Were you completely naked?” The way he asks it is so casual, but being naked isn’t casual for you; you can barely bring yourself to think about being naked, let alone talk about it. With your employer.

But something about the way he asks it makes you want to answer, at the same time, and there’s almost no one you trust more than Aaron. He’s always been so good to you.

“No. I left something on.” It had been a bra, gray with a pink bow in the middle. You were more comfortable keeping it on, and your ex-boyfriend hadn’t cared. He hadn’t cared about much, it turns out.

“Was it during sex?” The way the word sounds coming out of his mouth makes you anxious, and excited; you can’t believe you’re having this conversation, and you also don’t want it to end.

“Yes, during... sex.” He nods, brings a hand to your cheek and brushes your wet hair back, tucks it behind your ear. Your heart is beating so fast you’re surprised the world around you is still so calm, quiet. Intimate.

“How many times have you had sex, sweet girl?” You close your eyes, embarrassed. You don’t want him to know how innocent you really are, not when he’s so much older and more experienced. He’ll laugh.

Then again, this is Aaron, and he’s only ever made you feel cared about and safe before. So maybe he won’t?

“Um. One time.”

“Just one time? That’s surprising to me; you’re so beautiful.” You shiver, maybe from being wet with the breeze on your skin, or maybe because he brushes his fingers over your lips, or maybe because he called you beautiful. No one’s ever called you beautiful. “Did it feel good?”

You’d wanted it to feel good; it did, for maybe a minute, and you think about that minute all the time, especially when you… when you slip your hand into your panties at night in your bed, thinking about Aaron’s broad shoulders, his thick forearms, his hands, his mouth...

“Kind of. And then no.” His hand freezes and he frowns. His voice is abruptly less low, more serious. There’s a wrinkle between his eyebrows you want to reach out and touch.

“Did he hurt you?” It had hurt, but you know he hadn’t meant for it to hurt. He wasn’t mean. He was just so eager to finish that once he started, he’d stopped caring if you were feeling good, so focused on his own body. You figured that’s just how guys are, and it made you never want to do it again—so you didn’t.

“Not on purpose,” is what you say. He covers your hand with his, big and warm and careful. You’ve always felt so comforted by his touch, and tonight is no exception.

“What happened?”

“It started quickly and ended quickly. I don’t think I was… prepared.” You’re blushing, hoping he understands your indirect statement so you don’t have to say it out loud. He rubs his thumb soothingly over the back of your hand, reaches up with the other to touch your flushed cheek.

“You weren’t wet?” You exhale, a little shaky, tell him no. “Are you wet now, sweetheart?” You’re almost ashamed to say, but he is asking...

“Very.” It’s just a whisper, but it makes him smile a little, touch your mouth again. You could get used to that.

“Good girl. Can I feel?” That gives you pause, for a moment, but thinking of him touching you where you’ve imagined for months—it’s too good of a prospect to pass up, no matter how nervous you are. You nod, and he moves his hand inside your swimsuit bottoms, brushes over your core, slips between your lips easily. He never takes his eyes off of yours. “It would feel really good to have sex now. Do you want to try again? You’re always taking such good care of us; I want to take care of you.”

You bite your lip, and he leans in slowly, presses his mouth to yours for a gentle kiss. You make a soft noise of pleasure, tilt your hips so you’re sliding over his hand, and he groans—it’s honestly one of the best sounds you’ve ever heard in your life. It means he wants you… never in a million years would you have guessed that.

“I want to try,” you breathe, and you feel bold, so you kiss him this time. He pulls you close, deepens the kiss, adds tongue, and you moan at the feel, clinging to his shirt. “Aaron.”

“Let’s go to my bedroom,” he says, voice low, and he moves his fingers up to the part of you that makes you shake with desperate need, rubs tight circles so you’re panting, chest heaving; you nod quickly and he picks you up, hand still moving inside your swimsuit, carries you to the sliding glass door and pushes it open with his elbow.

You assume you’ll head straight for the bedroom, but he stops in the kitchen, sets you on the counter and kisses you again, a little harder than you’ve experienced before; you love it, try your best to match the way his mouth moves, and his fingers press hard against your aching bud, making you gasp with pleasure.

“Have you ever had an orgasm?” he asks, a little breathless himself, and you smooth your fingers through his hair.

“Um. I think so. From touching myself like this.” He moves his fingers faster, and you press your palm against the counter for support, move your hips against his hand. It feels so good, so much better than when you do it that you could cry.

“Has someone else ever given you an orgasm?” You use the fingers in his hair to bring him to you for a kiss, something you both moan softly into.

“No. I want-I want you to be the first,” you murmur, and he closes his eyes, exhales through his nose, and lifts you up again, this time carrying you to his bedroom and setting you on your feet by the bed. He looks down at you with eyes so dark and gorgeous, then asks if he can remove what little clothing you have on. You tell him yes, and he pushes down the bottoms, which you step carefully out of.

When his hands move to the top, you hesitate, always self-conscious about this; he leans in and presses delicious kisses to your neck, your shoulders, slides the straps down, and looks up at you with caring, gentle eyes. You nod, and he pulls your top off, too, leaving you completely naked in front of someone for the first time in your life.

It’s such a rush, you wish he hadn’t waited so long to initiate this.

“You are so incredibly beautiful,” he says, and with the way he‘s looking at you, you actually believe it. He takes your face in his hands, kisses your lips, then moves down your throat again, your chest—he pays your nipples a bit of attention, flicking his tongue, scraping his teeth, and your mouth falls open in a silent moan. “So perfect.”

He puts his hands all over your body, sweeping over your arms, your waist, and he presses kisses to your stomach, your hips, your thighs. You want his mouth where his fingers were, but you don’t ask; it’s almost like he knows anyway, when he looks up at you from his knees.

“Has anyone ever tasted you?” You shake your head, and he puts his hands on your butt, squeezes softly, and guides you to lay back on the bed. “I want you to tell me how it feels, okay?”

Normally, you’re quiet out of necessity, because when you aren’t here you have an apartment you share with a roommate—even though most of the time, you sleep here whether you’re strictly required to or not. You’re quiet here too, because you’ve never wanted Aaron to know how he makes you feel, although now you’re really wishing you’d have found out sooner that he feels the same way. Imagine all the cool, quiet nights you could have spent on this bed, in his arms…

Shaking yourself out of the fantasy—because reality is literally happening, and it’s so much better—you nod, and he carefully spreads your thighs, leans in to tease his tongue along your slit, light and wet.

“Oh. Aaron.” He looks up, reaches a hand forward to twine your fingers together, and you squeeze them, moaning when he dips again, this time pressing his tongue inside you where you’re wettest. “Oh my-oh my god.” He leans in to press damp kisses to your lower belly.

“That’s right, sweetheart. I want you to come on my tongue—come on my tongue, don’t be shy.” Again, he slides it inside, brings his free hand up to rub you, and it’s not long before you do as he asks, shaking and tightening your grip on his hand. You’re almost embarrassed by how loud you are, but he is nothing but sweet when he comes up, whispers in your ear how well you did for him, how pleased he is to be the first to make you moan like that, to taste you.

He kisses your mouth so you can taste yourself, and groans when you reach for his head, hold him closer.

“Thank you,” you murmur, shaky, when the kiss breaks, and he rubs over your lips with his thumb like he did before, smiles softly.

“You don’t have to thank me, sweet girl. I told you I wanted to take care of you; I’m just so glad you let me.” You move your hands to the front of his shirt and rest them there, hoping he’ll take the hint, but he just gets a glimmer in his eye that makes the butterflies flutter low despite your very recent release. “Don’t be shy. Tell me what you want.” You flush, don’t know how to ask a man—especially a man like Aaron—to get naked for you. “Oh, there’s that blush. My sweet, innocent girl. You haven’t even been properly fucked, of course you don’t know how to ask for what you want. But I’ll teach you.”

He sits up, hovering over your body, gets his fingers on the buttons of his shirt and starts to slip them free. He has to unzip his pants to untuck it, and the sight and sound of that makes you whimper—you immediately tense, feel shame at being so vocal, but he just leans in to kiss you, soft and slow.

“You can’t wait for me to be naked too, can you? You want to see what a man looks like, feel what a man feels like. Don’t you?”

“Yes.” It comes out roughly, almost too low for even you to hear; you clear your throat and try again. “Yes, Aaron.” It earns you a slightly harder kiss, and he climbs off the bed to undress the rest of the way; your eyes are drawn to his erection as soon as it’s exposed, and he looks at you with nothing less than lust in his eyes. It makes you shiver and want to open your legs for him again.

“You’re staring. Have you touched a cock before—stroked it with your hand?”

“No. Can I?” you ask, sitting up against the pillows, and he nods, moves next to you, and takes your hand. You’re intimidated by the size of him, all the more so when he wraps your fingers around it, covers them with his, and strokes.

“Feels so good, baby,” he rumbles, slinging his free hand around your hip and holding you close to his body. He is so… just good looking, so different from your ex-boyfriend, from guys your age, and you look up at his face while you touch him, hoping to bring him even half as much pleasure as he brought you. Your eyes flick back down, though, after a short time, transfixed by the wet head disappearing into your fist. “Hmm. Good girl. Do you want to try putting your mouth on it?”

God, do you want to try that. You want to know what it tastes like, feels like on your tongue; you nod, scoot back a little so you can bend over him, and he puts his hands on your head, slowly guides your open mouth to hover over him.

“Careful with your teeth, and keep me nice and wet, okay? We'll go slowly.” He pushes your hair back from your face so he can see you better, which is sweet, and you nod, close your lips around him, let him show you how he wants you to do it.

He feels so big in your mouth, and you remember to be careful, to be wet, like he said. He’s not making you take him deeply, just a couple of inches, and when you’re not so nervous it feels really good, the weight of him against your tongue, his gentle hands teaching you what to do. It makes you feel useful, learning how he likes to be pleasured, and you enjoy finding ways to make yourself useful to Aaron.

“Perfect, perfect. Just like that—you’re doing great, sweetheart.” You hum around him, pleased that it feels good for him, and you’re stricken with the urge to feel him spilling into your mouth, but he groans and offers something even more intriguing. “Would you like to come sit in my lap? I want to press into your warm, tight, sweet pussy; I promise it will feel good, not like last time.” You make another noise, something eager, and he pulls you off and gets his hands on your waist, brings you up to rest against his thighs.

“Will it hurt?” you ask, just in case. You hadn’t thought to ask that last time. “You’re big; what if it doesn’t fit?” You look up at him, and warm, tender eyes peer into yours.

“It won’t hurt, and it will fit, I promise. We’ll make it fit. Lean up.” You stretch up a little, press your hands to his shoulders, and he rubs his hands soothingly over your body, kisses your chest, and then dips a finger inside you; you grip him tightly, moan, hold still while he moves it in and out, then adds another. “How does that feel? Don’t be shy.”

“Feels-feels good,” you breathe, and he pumps them together which feels so incredible, so new. He brings his free hand to your butt and squeezes softly.

“Good girl. I’m adding another. You’re so wet, it shouldn’t be a problem, but tell me if it’s uncomfortable.” The third finger makes you feel like you’re full up, a little snug, but you know you’ll need to get used to it if you want him inside; you breathe, will yourself to only feel the good, remind yourself that this isn’t like last time. Aaron is being so good to you; he won’t stop being good to you.

“Aaron.” It’s a gasp, a plea, a question, and he answers it by pulling his fingers out, putting his hands on your hips, and lining his cock up at your entrance, lowering you slowly onto it. You pant, moan as it slides in; it feels tight to you, and you’re so incredibly full, but his hands feel like safety and you’re not worried. He’s always taken care of you; he wouldn’t hurt you.

“You’re perfect, you’re doing so good. You feel so good.” He squeezes you, stretches up to brush his lips over yours. “We’re going to make you come again; I’ll give you the best night of your life, I promise.”

“Of course you will. This is already the best night of my life,” you murmur, wrapping your arms around his neck, and he kisses you harder; you can feel his hands tighten, and it doesn’t hurt, only makes you want more, rougher. You feel filthy for wanting that, but it’s Aaron, and you want any and everything he wants to give; you also want him to take anything he wants to take.

He moves your body up and down, a show of strength that makes you moan, just a string of desperate sounds you’re a little embarrassed of; he appreciates the noises you make, though, if the way he grips you is any indication, his eyes determined as he makes you bounce on his cock.

“Oh, yes baby, just like that. How does it feel, sweet girl?”

“Mmh, good, so good, so good,” you sigh, your butt making contact with his firm thighs each time he brings you down on him. “Feels so good to be… to have it inside me.”

Aaron hums, frowns just slightly.

“Tell me what it is, baby. Your innocent little mouth can be dirty for me, this once. What feels good? What’s inside you?” His voice is a little tense, like maybe he wants to finish, but he doesn't change a thing, doesn’t hurt you so he can get there faster. You sink your teeth into your bottom lip, curl fingers into his hair.

“Your… It’s your cock, Aaron. Your cock feels so good inside me.” You’ve thought the word, never said it aloud, but it makes him groan deeply, so you vow to say it again at some point just to savor that reaction.

“Yes it does, yes it does. Feels so good inside your perfect pussy, my perfect, sweet girl.” His hands move you faster, and you want to help now that you know this is how he likes it; when the two of you work together, it’s quicker thrusts, harder thrusts, your breasts bouncing along with the rest of your body and making you feel filthy, indecent. Amazing.

You lean in for a kiss, and Aaron turns it into something deep and decadent, delicious; you pass moans back and forth, holding tightly to him, the both of you breaking a sweat even in the cool air. You’re so close, so close to the ultimate pleasure you felt with his head between your legs, and you can hear your moans change, eager, needy things.

“Aaron please. Please.” You take his face in your hands, look into his eyes, bounce on him and kiss him and plead for release against his lips, and he holds you so tightly and climaxes, spilling inside you and pumping up into you, breathless.

“Oh, good girl, you did that. You made me come, baby. Not so innocent anymore, are you?” You shake your head—you don’t feel innocent anymore, you feel good, you want more, want to chase the feelings you’ve felt tonight, including the one still building inside you. “Now let’s get you off. I want to feel it.” He digs his fingers into your hips, so hard you think it might bruise, but in your heightened state of arousal it just feels good; you keep moving until your orgasm takes control of you, makes you grip his hair hard in your fingers and slam yourself down on him.

“Yes, yes, mmm.” He brings a hand to your face, softly catches your jaw, and guides you to make eye contact while you ride him through it until you are both spent, sinking against the bed. He sweeps his hands over your body, kisses you softly, and you melt at his touch. “That was so incredible. Thank you.”

“I told you, you don’t have to thank me. I wanted to take care of you; been wanting that for some time,” he admits easily, touching your cheek. “I’m just glad I could give you a good experience after the bad one.”

“Good doesn’t even begin to cover it.” Your voice is light, low, because saying things like this, talking about sex, is still so new to you. “I love being here for you, helping you with Jack, and anything else you need. Do you think you’ll want or need me like this again?”

“Oh, I don’t see how I could do without, if it’s something you want. Although I may have to return that swimsuit. It is pretty indecent,” he says with a somewhat guilty smile.

You figured as much, and for the first time tonight you feel very confident when you say, “No, I think I’d like to keep it.”

Taglist ❤️: @thaddeusly @arsonhotchner @mrsh0tchner @ssahotchie @sleepyreaderreads @mintphoenix @meghannnnnn @disgruntledchowchow @azenpal @g-l-pierce @my-rosegold-soul @ssamorganhotchner @heliotropehotch @angelhotchner @qtip-blog @gspenc @wishuhadstayed

[mercy-burning]

Something Different

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Summary: Reader and Spencer go on their first date. PART 1 / PART 2 / PART 3 / PART 4 / EPILOGUE Category: Fluff, Smut 18+ (oral sex- female receiving, penetrative sex, unprotected sex- creampie) Warnings: Sex, language (As always, if there’s anything I missed, let me know what I should include in warnings! I want to be as mindful as I can about what I post. Thank you!) Word Count: 5.9k

NOTE: This was my favorite part to write so far! I hope you all love it as much as I do! I have a little epilogue planned next, and I’m not sure when it’ll be up, but I’ve really loved seeing how much you enjoyed this series! Thank you for reading! 🥰

***

Y/N had never felt as much like a teenage girl as she did that Friday night. She stood in front of her floor-length mirror, smoothing out her dress and contemplating whether or not she should change. For the seventh time. And she'd been on dates before, but this time was different. Usually she barely knew the guys she'd gone on first dates with, but she'd already slept with this guy. On more than one occasion. And every time she did, she felt herself fall deeper and deeper under his spell. She wasn't sure if he knew the full effect of what he was doing to her, always taking up space in every crack and crevice of her thoughts until she felt like she couldn't breathe.

And that was what made this date different from all the rest. She knew Spencer. She liked Spencer. And she was almost positive that after this date she would be, at the very least, a little bit in love with Spencer.

At that thought, Y/N felt her heart swell in her chest, suddenly invested in the act of making him feel the same way, if he wasn't already.

So she reverted back to her original outfit choice, something she at first thought was too sexy for a first date, but ultimately was the boldest and best option. It was satin and deep violet in color, the fabric clinging to her body in every best way possible. It landed mid-thigh and the neckline was low enough to show just the right amount of cleavage without it being too overwhelming. Her father would have told her it looked more like a dish towel than a dress, and that fact alone was enough to convince Y/N that it was just perfect. It did have thin straps though, and it was freezing as hell at night, so she added a black cardigan that added just the right amount of elegance and warmth to the look.

She paired the whole look together with black pumps and threw her hair up in a loose clip, made for easy taking-down if the night ended as well as she hoped.

Just as she was applying the last of her makeup—simple black eyeliner and mascara, complimented with tinted cherry lip balm rather than lipstick—there was a knock on the door.

"Just a second!" she called out, rushing to spritz on some vanilla perfume and give herself a final onceover in the mirror. With a final deep breath, she switched off the lights and made her way to the door, silently praying that she wouldn't fall on her face.

"Hey, pretty gi— oh..."

The second she saw Spencer in the doorway, Y/N felt her insides swarm with butterflies. The way he took her in, completely captured by her presence as his eyes couldn't decide where to linger longest utterly wrecked her.

And he looked... God, if he wasn't the most beautiful man she'd ever seen. And of course she'd seen him in some rather beautiful positions prior to right then, but his hungry eyes, practically claiming her as his own as they raked her figure accompanied by the outfit he wore and the way his hair perfectly framed his face in soft waves... It felt like she was bathing in sunlight.

He wore a white undershirt and navy suit jacket, the tie the same color only accented with red stripes, and black dress pants. If she had to describe it, she would have said he looked like he came right of the page of a magazine, and even that wasn't generous enough. She knew she should say something to break the silence that had fallen between them, but she couldn't even remember her own name.

Thankfully Spencer seemed to get a hold of himself before she did, saying, "You look... amazing. A-and that's not even the right word, I... Wow."

Y/N felt her cheeks grow hot, playing with the hem of her cardigan. "Thanks, you... You look great, too. Um, let me go grab my purse, I'll be right back."

"Wait, before you do..."

She hadn't even noticed his hand was behind his back until he brought it out, bringing with it a small gathering of flowers. Lavenders. "You brought me lavenders?" she inquired, taking them with a smile. "They're beautiful. Thank you."

Spencer seemed to rock on his feet nervously. "They're generally known for their relaxation properties, and, you know, I figured since we always seem to end up talking about de-stressing, they seemed fitting."

Y/N laughed, her face growing warmer. "That's perfect, I love them. I'm gonna go find a vase for these real quick."

As she rummaged through her cabinets for something even remotely resembling a vase, she settled on a tall mason jar she had in the back, filling it with water and placing the flowers inside, letting it perch on the kitchen counter. When she turned around she found that Spencer had made his way inside, the door closed behind him. "Unfortunately they won't last very long without soil, water, and sunlight, but if they dry up you could always use them for decorations. I noticed you have lots of dried plants in your apartment."

With a smile, she grabbed her purse off the coat rack in the living room. "Oh. Yeah, I guess I do. I've always loved pressing flowers and stuff. My mom and I used to do it all the time when I was younger, and I guess it stuck."

"That's really nice. It's definitely better than the clutter of my apartment," he says with a laugh as they both make their way to the door.

"Oh, I don't know. I like your clutter, it's rather charming."

He laughed as he opened the door and stepped aside so she could walk through. "You've only been to my apartment once, and we were a bit... occupied for you to notice, so how would you know?"

They paused in the hallway as she closed the door and looked up at him, a knowing smirk playing at his lips. She grabbed the end of his tie and tugged it a little, turning it over in her fingers as she stared at him. "Trust me, Spencer, it's hard to believe that anything about you isn't charming."

It was his turn to blush, his smirk transforming into a shy smile. She let go of his tie and grabbed his hand, lacing their fingers together before leading him down the hallway.

***

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were surprised," Y/N said once the waiter left to grab their drinks.

"Oh, I-I guess I just... I don't know why, it's just that I didn't... expect you to be a white wine person, that's all."

"You can tell what kind of wine I like?" she laughed.

Spencer returned it, brushing some of the hair from his face. "Well, I guess not, since I pegged you wrong..."

She shrugged. "You don't have to be embarrassed about that, I wouldn't expect you to have known."

"Oh, I'm not embarrassed, it's just that usually I'm better at reading people, that's all."

"Is that right?" Y/N mused, leaning forward a little. She smiled at him. "How come?"

Spencer swallowed before answering. "Well, my job... I work for the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI, so my team and I study human behavior to catch killers."

Holy shit, that's so hot, she thought, silently hoping she didn't say that out loud. "Wow, so... you're a total badass, then. I gotta say, G-man, that's impressive."

He blushed under the dim light of the restaurant lights. He'd picked out this nice Italian place not too far from their apartment. Y/N had always wanted to go because she loved Italian food, but it was always too expensive and she never really had the time. When Spencer had suggested it, she practically begged him not to, insisting that she didn't want to make him spend so much money on her. In turn he told her, "I don't mind, you're worth spending a little money on," and that was that. Still she felt a little guilty, but he didn't seem to mind one bit. Not to mention the place was absolutely beautiful, easily one of the nicest places she'd ever been to. So if he was willing to do all this just to spend some time with her, then Y/N figured it was a good sign.

"What about you, what exactly is it that you do?"

Y/N shrugged a little. "Oh, well it's no fancy badass government job, but I work at a music store downtown. I just got promoted, so I'm an associate manager."

"Oh, that's great! What kind of music do you like?"

The way he genuinely looked so interested in what she had to say made her heart swell. She cleared her throat before answering. "My parents raised me on Classic Rock, so my brain is pretty much just made up of Queen lyrics, but... I listen to a little of everything. There isn't much I don't like, really, save for maybe hardcore metal. Though, some of it I've heard is okay."

Spencer laughed a little. "That's nice. I don't really listen to a variety of things, mostly classical, but... I don't know, maybe you could... introduce me to some of your favorites? Broaden my horizons?"

He almost sounded shy asking, but that only made the sentiment more endearing. Y/N smiled so hard her cheeks hurt. "Anytime, G-man."

The waiter came back with the wine then, and they got to ordering. Y/N ordered a lemon chicken piccata while Spencer settled on pasta alla norma. Of course they had a side of breadsticks and they each got a small tomato soup to sip on while they waited.

They continued to chat about their favorite things, anywhere from as general as their favorite books and movies to as random as their favorite flowers and candle scents. It was nice getting to know these tiny details. And normally this type of small talk was awkwardly necessary and devastatingly tedious, but with Spencer it felt effortless. She liked telling him about her favorite things, no matter how small they were, and just the same she liked listening to him. The way he spoke, his eyes lighting up as he talked about what made him happy made Y/N warm, feeling once again that night like she was bathing in sunlight.

That's what he was. The human embodiment of pure sunlight.

As they ate they talked a little bit about their childhoods. Spencer mentioned how it was mostly just him and his mother, and he almost seemed a little sad when he talked about it. She wanted to let him keep going, but at some point she realized that he was getting a little emotional and uncomfortable, so she made a point to respectfully change the subject, in turn telling some embarrassing childhood stories of her own. For one thing, she loved telling anyone about how she angrily chucked a remote at her brother when they were kids and gave him a permanent scar on his forehead, but ultimately she loved seeing Spencer smile, and she knew that the story would do the trick. It always did.

"Why did you do it?" he laughed after swallowing a bite of his food.

Y/N shrugged with a smile. "He was bugging me about wanting to watch something else, and it just annoyed me so badly that I decided I had enough. I should have been sorry, too, especially after being yelled at, but I really thought he deserved it. And now when people ask why he has this big-ass scar on his forehead, he has to tell them that his big sister chucked a remote at his head. It embarrasses him and it amuses me, so..."

Spencer laughed a little harder, setting his fork down and folding his hands together. "Sounds... like an interesting childhood."

"Yeah, that's putting it mildly. My brother and I did a lot of roughhousing, which would make more sense if he was the older one, but what are you gonna do?"

"So... What, you put him in headlocks and pinned him to the ground like a wrestler all the time?" he asked with an amused laugh.

"Yeah, something like that," she laughed right back.

"Well, I hope he hasn't sustained too much injury permanently over the years... Maybe one day I can ask him about it."

The thought of Spencer meeting her family gave her more butterflies, and it became evident that he was feeling the same way, because he blushed almost immediately after he said it.

"You two would probably get along really well, actually. He loves true crime and stuff, so I'm sure he'd love to talk to you about your job if that's not too forward. Plus, he reads more than I do, so I'm sure you'd find something else in common there."

"Yeah, that sounds great. I like him already."

She smiled, her heart still beating exponentially fast. A small part of her wondered if maybe talk of meeting family members was going too far for a first date, and on any other first date it would've been. But Spencer seemed to be genuinely entertaining the idea of meeting and discussing some of his life with her brother, and that was what flipped the switch. She was starting to feel it. She was starting to fall in love with him.

***

When the two of them got in the car, Spencer turned on the radio before they started their journey home— a Classic Rock station. Y/N smiled, immediately recognizing the melody to, coincidentally enough, her favorite Queen song, Who Wants To Live Forever. She told him as much.

He turned the volume up and started driving, listening to her sing along softly. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed him turning his head every once in a while, obviously sneaking a glance at her enjoying her favorite music. The thought sent a bloom of warmth through her chest as the song faded out and started playing Photograph by Def Leppard. Spencer turned the radio down just a little and nodded, turning down the street.

"I like it. I can see why it would be your favorite."

"This is another one of my favorites, too," she replied with a gentle nod towards the radio, giving him a smile. "A lot of these songs probably will be, though, I've practically been spoon-fed Classic Rock radio since I was a baby."

Then she noticed where they were. A street she didn't recognize. "Where are we going?" she asked, looking around.

"Oh. I-I know I only really promised to take you out for dinner, but there's somewhere else I wanted to show you... If that's alright?"

"It's more than alright," she reassured, placing a hand on his arm and wondering where he planned to take her.

He took her hand in his and continued down the road, the radio shuffling through more songs that Y/N recognized and sang along to. At one point she made a point of dramatically serenading Spencer with Love Song by Tesla, air guitar-ing and everything.

Soon enough they were out where she couldn't see any buildings and only a few streetlights. Y/N hummed softly along to the radio, holding Spencer's hand once again as he pulled the car over down a random road and under this large tree. In front of them she could clearly see the sun setting over the skyline, illuminating everything around them in a soft orange glow.

"It's beautiful out here," she mused as Spencer turned off the car, the radio with it.

"Yeah, I, uh... I was in a particularly stressful point in my life a few years ago, and one day I just drove aimlessly. I don't normally drive at all, but I needed something new, something different to do that I could focus on, and I just ended up here. It's one of my favorite places."

She looked over at him and smiled, running her thumb over his hand. "I find that some of the best things in life happen when you try something different."

His eyes softened as she spoke, squeezing her hand and leaning his head against the seat. "You're right. That's... actually how I got you, know know."

She raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Mhm... Yeah, I didn't even want to confront you about hearing what happened that night because I thought it would be too awkward, but... I don't know, I guess there was just something that felt right about the whole thing, like... like it was an opportunity to get to know someone new. And I couldn't stop thinking about knocking on your door and getting to know everything about this woman who likes to invade other people's privacy." He laughed as he said that last part, obviously teasing her about the whole thing, and she laughed with him.

"Well, then I guess that means I don't have to be embarrassed about that anymore," Y/N noted. "I felt absolutely awful about it, you know."

"Oh, I know. You were practically the color of a tomato when I gave you that Advil."

They laughed together as the sun sunk lower in the sky, and as the air between them grew silent, they just stared at each other, smiling. Even as the sun was leaving, Y/N could still feel its warmth radiating in the form of Spencer's presence.

***

They walked up to her door hand in hand, laughing about a joke she'd told him when Y/N realized the night was potentially over. The thought silenced her laughter, and suddenly she was nervous, like she hadn't already considered that the night would eventually have to end somewhere.

"I... I had a really great time tonight, Spencer, thank you. "

He smiled shyly in that way of his that made her just as shy. It was sickeningly cliché, she thought, feeling this way about a man she'd only just started to get to know, but she welcomed those feelings nonetheless. He was so obviously infatuated with her in a way she hadn't felt before, and it made her nervous because she didn't know how to react. All she could do was welcome and embrace his adoring glares and little touches and compliments, and hope that he knew in turn just how much she appreciated and adored him all the same.

His free hand reached out and cupped her cheek, to which she happily leaned into. "I did, too," he said softly, barely above a whisper. "We should do it again some time."

She smiled against his hand, and she didn't realize it then, but they were closer than they had been all night, toe to toe. "We should."

The world stopped for all of two seconds before he leaned down to kiss her. But something embarrassingly stopped her from letting it happen, pulling her face away just a little. "Wait. My breath probably smells like breadsticks."

Hardly the most romantic thing to say, and she regretted it the second it left her mouth.

Spencer only shrugged, smiling amusedly. "Who doesn't like breadsticks?"

That made her laugh. Hard. And she was still laughing as she pulled him closer and kissed him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

When he kissed her back, it was head-dizzyingly sweet, his hands softly brushing over her cheeks as she melted into him. Every time his lips parted, he came back stronger, pressing his lips and tongue to hers with slow, methodical precision.

She could have died right there.

But eventually they pulled apart, and she looked up at him with as much gratefulness as she could provide. "Look, I... I know it's not typically customary to sleep over on the first date, but... What about trying something different?"

Spencer grinned at her, rubbing his thumb over her bottom lip. "Lead the way, pretty girl."

She couldn't hide her blush as she reached over and opened the door, pulling him into the apartment with her.

The door closed behind him, and Spencer kissed her again, this time using one of his hands to press her to him, resting promptly on her lower back. Their kisses were just as slow and sweet as they had been in the hall, though there was a slightest shift in the atmosphere, bringing forth a newfound passion behind each of their movements.

His tongue traced over her bottom lip before he took it between his teeth and tilted his head to the other side, pulling her even closer to him than she thought could be possible. They both stumbled around the living room as they kicked off their shoes. Y/N got significantly shorter after removing her heels, so Spencer bent down and lifted her off the ground, setting her on the back of the couch. Her dress had ridden up to the tops of her thighs so she could wrap her legs around his waist. She slid her cardigan off at the same time he slid off his jacket, their lips still adjoined. Once they were removed, Y/N wrapped her arms around his neck again, and he brought his arms under her ass as he lifted her off the couch

She expected the journey to her bedroom to be rocky, stumbling into furniture and walls and tripping, but was glad to be proven wrong when suddenly she was swiftly seated on her bed, Spencer standing between her legs.

He pulled away from her for all of two seconds before kneeling and pressing kisses to the insides of her right leg, starting at her ankle and trailing all the way up past her knee and eventually to her thigh. His hands reached up to grip the bed as he looked up at her and pressed kisses to her other thigh. Hoping to give him more access, she used her hands to pull her dress up even higher, scooting out from under her butt and bunching up at her hips as she spread her legs a little wider.

He smiled against her inner thigh, running one of his hands over the other. "Patience, pretty girl. I want to take my time with you tonight."

The way he said it made her shiver, and her head leaned back as she leaned back on her hands, feeling Spencer continue his exploration. His mouth travelled from thigh to thigh, doing just about everything he could think of—kissing, licking, biting... One of her hands found themselves in his hair as she sighed out, "Please, Spencer..."

For a moment she thought he wouldn't give it to her, if only because she wasn't specific enough and that had become part of their sexual routine, but this time he granted her what she wanted, one of his hands reaching up and ghosting along her clit through the fabric of her panties.

She instinctually rutted her hips forward at the contact, which made him laugh softly, and before too long, he hooked his finger in the waistband of her underwear, sliding up her dress just a little so he could reach. She lifted herself off the bed so he could bring them out from under her, and he slowly, very slowly, slid them down her legs. His lips travelled up her leg again, taking the same care and curiosity as he had before, each second burning impatiently through Y/N's body as she took it all in.

Right as his nose brushed over her clit, he pulled away, leaving her cold and desperate. She opened her eyes and looked down at him, running a hand through his hair and silently pleading to do something.

He smiled and stood up, pressing a kiss to her neck before whispering in her ear, "Will you ride my face for me, baby?"

"Oh, God, yes," she breathed before she could think, and he laughed, his breath sending goosebumps down the right side of her body.

Spencer got up on the bed and leaned back, his head resting on the pillows as Y/N straddled him, hiking her dress up over her hips and stroking the hair from his face before hovering over it. Before she could do anything, his hands wrapped up over her thighs and pulled her down to him, not wasting any time getting to work.

The initial contact jolted her awake, and she cried out, reaching forward and grabbing the top of the headboard as she ground down on him. His tongue plunged deep into her while his nose pressed against her clit, and the more she moved, the more his tongue drew patterns, wanting to taste every inch of her until she was shaking around him. And that's exactly what happened. His tongue came up to flick and swirl over her clit, and right when he wrapped his lips around it and started softly sucking, she cried out. "I'm gonna— ohh..."

He hummed into her, encouraging her to finish, and she did, clenching her thighs around his head as he shook it back and forth, lapping up every last drop of her arousal until her thighs lost their grip. She lifted up off of him, but he brought her back down to run his tongue through her pussy a few more long, meaningful times. He finally let go of her legs, and she kneeled beside him, catching her breath.

Looking down at him she noticed how wonderstruck he was, running his tongue along his lips to still taste her, his eyes searching hers hungrily before she leaned down and kissed him. The taste of herself on his mouth made her groan, and he reached up to pull the clip from her hair. It tumbled down in a curtain around them before he tossed the clip aside and ran his hands through it, gathering it all to one side and pulling her closer to him.

As he kissed her, she brought her hand to his chest, working at his tie and struggling to get it off. He laughed against her mouth and sat up to do it for her, breaking their kiss apart. Has he undid the tie and the first few buttons of his shirt, Y/N reached back to grab the zipper of her dress, but Spencer stopped her.

"Wait. Can I?"

She nodded, turning around.

"Stand up for me," he told her.

Y/N got off the bed and felt Spencer behind her, his hands brushing her hair out of the way and slowly zipping her dress down, pressing kisses down each inch of skin that exposed in its wake, all the way to her lower back. His hands slid up her back and pushed the straps off her shoulders, then tugged the dress down to watch it fall on the floor, leaving her completely bare.

He kissed her neck and ran his hands up and down her body, eventually reaching around to cup her breasts. She sighed at his touch, leaning back against him as he rolled her nipples in between his fingers. Her hands reached back to wrap around his back and pull him flush against her, the unmistakable feeling of his hardening dick through his pants pressing against her bare ass.

"I love how soft your skin is, pretty girl," he murmured into her neck, sliding his lips down to her shoulder and biting down. She sucked in a breath, her hands removing themselves from his back and placing themselves over his own, feeling the veins strain as they kneaded her breasts. His tongue traced over where he bit down before he kissed the same spot, then he worked his mouth back up her neck and reached her jawline. She turned her head, meeting his lips and pressing herself further into him, whining at every single sensation coursing through her veins.

Eventually she'd had enough and turned fully around, breaking apart from him just to come back. She faced him and wrapped her arms around his neck once more. He leaned in to kiss her again, but she stopped him, pulling her head back and using one of her hands to grip the hair at the nape of his neck. "Tonight's your lucky night, you know..."

At her teasing tone, Spencer laughed, his eyes searching hers before giving in. "Why's that?"

She used the hand that wasn't in his hair to slide over his shoulder and down his chest, drawing patterns across the bare skin he'd left exposed after undoing the first few buttons of his shirt. Then she smiled, bringing herself closer and gripping the collar. "Because I'm on birth control now..." She leaned forward and lightly brushed her lips against his, feeling them just barely as she whispered, recalling what he'd told her a few weeks ago. "You still wanna fill up this slutty little pussy? Make me yours?"

He didn't give a second thought. Before she was aware of what was happening, Spencer had his lips crashed against hers and his arms wrapped around her back, pulling her forward so that the tent in his pants pressed right up into her bare crotch. She gasped against his mouth and reached down to take the rest of his shirt all the way off, and he let her.

Her hands fumbled with the buttons, severely close to just giving up and ripping the shirt apart but she got there in the end, sliding the fabric off his shoulders and tossing it God-knows-where as his tongue slipped into her mouth. She trailed her hands softly down his chest and stomach, making him shiver, and she relished in the feeling of his lean figure tensing under her touch. She scratched her nails along the lower part of his stomach before touching his belt, and then he stopped her, grabbing her wrists.

"Sit on the edge of the bed," he commanded softly against her lips.

Y/N pulled away reluctantly, immediately missing his bodily warmth before doing as she was told and perching herself patiently at the edge of the bed.

Spencer got off his knees, climbed out of bed, and stood on the floor, coming over to her and placing himself between her legs once more. Only this time, he towered over her rather than kneeled. His hands unbuckled his belt while his eyes bore into hers, the anticipation of what was to come as high strung as it had ever been.

He pulled his pants and underwear down in one swift motion, and right a he kicked them to the side, Y/N reached out, grabbing his hips and pulling him closer. One of his hands gripped his hard cock while the other found purchase in her hair, brushing it behind her shoulders and resting at the base of her neck as he leaned down and pushed her back onto the bed. She scooted back just far enough for Spencer to kneel on the edge of the bed, her legs instinctually wrapping around his waist once more as he kissed her.

Her hands brushed the hair from his face and stayed weaved there, whimpering with anticipation as he ran the tip of his cock along her pussy, just as slowly as he'd done everything else so far. He broke their kiss apart and pushed the tip in, not going any farther than that. "I told you, pretty girl, I'm taking my time with you tonight. I want this to last."

As his forehead rested against hers, she barely caught a glimpse of his eyes before he pushed all the way in and squeezed his eyes shut. Y/N sighed and massaged his scalp, completely aware of every inch of him as he held himself inside her. He pressed just about the sweetest kiss to her lips before setting a slow pace that gradually became faster with every passing minute. She was still a little sensitive from when he'd eaten her out, but that only added to the feeling.

"Fuck, you're perfect," Spencer breathed, pulling his head just far enough away from her so he could look her in the eyes. "You're so goddamn perfect, Y/N..."

She slid her hands down his back as he picked up his pace inside her, gasping when he hit her g-spot. "Speak for yourself," she breathed.

When she started to feel herself getting closer, Spencer seemed to notice, because he slowed his pace again and ran sloppy, passionate kisses along her jaw and neck, and she reveled in the feeling. He was all around her, consuming every fiber of her being, and she could bask in it forever if he'd let her.

"Spencer," she breathed, her hands reaching down to grip his ass as he hit inside her deeper. "Fuck... You're so good to me..."

In turn he cradled her face and kissed her deeply, moving his tongue against hers in tandem with his hips' ministrations. Her fingernails bore deeper into his skin, and it wasn't long before she started to feel an orgasm surfacing. He rested his forehead against hers again, biting her bottom lip softly as he pulled away to speak. "Almost there, pretty girl. "

Y/N removed her hands from him and brought them up to bring her face to hers again, sighing into his mouth when they reconnected. And then he grabbed her wrists softly, pinning them above her head and sliding his hands up her forearms until his fingers laced together with hers, squeezing and pushing them both closer to the edge.

"Cum for me, baby," he mumbled against her lips, and within a matter of seconds, she did. Her legs tightened around him and her ankles hooked round his waist, just above the top of his ass to keep him tightly inside her while he found his own release. "Fuck," he sighed, giving three more hard thrusts forward. He held himself inside her while he came, the warmth spreading through her being just about the best thing she'd ever felt. It was the cherry on top, the last puzzle piece falling into place, and she kissed him once more while he finished, feeling him groan in her mouth.

The two of them stayed like that, their hands still laced together and legs still tangled, and even when their lips pulled apart, their foreheads rested together while their breathing slowed.

"Have I already told you how perfect you are?" Spencer breathed, nuzzling his nose against hers.

Y/N laughed a little, nuzzling him right back. "You may have mentioned it."

"Well, it's true. Everything about you is just so..."

"Perfect?" she offered.

He laughed, kissing her once more on the lips before slowly pulling out of her and unlacing their fingers. "Yes. Perfect... But as much as I love laying here with you, UTIs are not perfect, so I'm gonna get you cleaned up. Come on."

She sat up with a grunt, not wanting to get up so soon but she knew he was right. So she let him lead her to the bathroom as quickly as they can, his cum slowly sliding down her thighs when they got there. Spencer turned on the light and closed the bathroom door, a small smile on his face as he got on his knees to help.

"I can grab some toilet pa— holy shit..." Y/N was cut off when he dragged his tongue up the inside of her leg, scooping up his mess and making his way to her pussy where he cleaned out the rest of it. She was still sensitive, so he went as gently as he could, making soft, gentle swipes of his tongue until it was mostly gone, at least not dripping down her legs anymore.

When he stood up to meet her face, she felt stunned, absolutely enraptured by everything about the man in front of her. "So, does that mean I'm officially yours now?" she asked with small laugh.

He gave her that bashful smile again, and it made her feel even better, basking in the familiarity of his boldness of sexual acts followed by instant shy demeanor. "Only if you'll have me."

Y/N grabbed his face and kissed him before looking him dead in the eye and saying, "I hope I'll always have you, G-man."

[aphrodite-would-be-proud]

hello! how are you? i hope you're doing fine, um i'm here because i wanted to ask if you can write about armin falling in love with someone who's related to art, like a painter and suddenly discovering a whole new world. i will be so happy if you can do it.

thank you and please, stay healthy! 💗

Hi💛 of course! I really love that idea! Plus as a painter myself the struggle is real man, just yesterday i was having an overwhelming meltdown over what type of brushes to buy.

You seem really lovely so here's a mini fic! 🌸

Armin falling in love with a Painter!reader

{ Armin x reader | tw: none | fluff, pinning | modern }

{ "The Cathedral of Saint Jacques le Mineur, Liege" 1846 by Jenaro Pérez Villaamil 1807 - 1854 }

Reading is Armin's best friend, it always has been. It kept him company on countless sleepless nights as a child, and now it offered the escape his soul needed when overwhelmed with troubles of being a living human in this current world.    

"It's just captivating," he explained to you one day while walking together, happily clutching the bags of books he just baught. You like how they smell. For someone who reads a lot, he surely seems to be out of words when it comes to describing things he's passionate about.

The winds picks up, your steps slow down. Armin is staring at your face, but it's not your eyes he's looking at. You smile and it brings him back to reality, he looks away, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

You offer to hold some of the heavy bags for him, he gives a warm smile. You think the faint color on his cheek is a really nice shade of pink, it looks lovely under the sun.

The more he took you with him on trips to the far away bookshop near the Riverside, the more you started to understand how a rearranging of words can pull him inside an entirely different world.

It was like he could be his true self when there, carefully reading the description at the back of the books. Frowning whenever he finds a review instead of a summary. you didn't mind tho, because it ment he'd have to read a few pages into the book and the shop had a nice corner couch you two would sit in.

He'd apologise for troubling you, you'd say he's never a bother for you that and reassure him that you enjoyed every last second.

Ah, there it is, that nice shade of pink again.   

 

-

In some way he managed to share his love for books with you, as you spend entire afternoons just sitting near each other. Your sketchbook in hand, the sound of your pencil lightly scratching the paper. Him next to you, his book in hand and reading just loud enough for you to hear.

You think he has a nice voice, so you say it out loud. For the rest of the evening, he stuttered through half the book.

You laugh at the funny moments together, be it a clever joke the author weaved in a serious moment or an incredibly redundant cliche trope that while predictable, was still as enticing.     

He would always look at you whenever you let a chuckle escape, staring just for a couple seconds longer than necessary.

That sketch ended up getting turned into a painting when Armin walked you home that day.

-

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to!"

Blue glass shards are scattered on the table and floor, what remained of Armin's favourite mug. The puddle of coffee already sweeping into the canvas you left to dry there this morning.

It took you three days just for the layering.

It was a big canvas, cotton paper and natural wood. It cost a lot.

You know this feeling when you're so so broken about something that your brain just skips the denial and anger and jumps straight into depression? To say you were mad was an underestimated, and rightfully so.

Armin is trying to remove the coffee stains with the nearest towel he could find, it only smudges the paint more.

He looks terrfied.

"It was an accident I swear, I'd never..." his voice takes a higher pitch, hands shaking. "I'd never, ever mean to do this...I..." he hiccups, Voice quivering..

And just like that, all you anger fades away.

"Armin, hey" you take a step closer, carefully avoiding the broken glass.

He doesn't look at you, he's still desperate wiping the canvas. "I'll fix it, please I'll figure out a way."

The clutch he has on the towel only intensifies when you put your hand on his shoulder. "It's okay," you say "it's fine really, look at me."

And he does, with shame filled eyes. "No no no, it's not. I ruined it, your worked so hard on this and I just..." He looks down "it's NOT okay."

"Yes it is." You try to guide him away from the glass. "That's just a material object Armin, what's important is that you're okay."

He reluctantly follows, you both sit on the couch. His hands are clutching his knees. "I'm really sorry, it's okay if you want to yell at me you have the right to."

You cup his face in your hands, "don't say that, that's not true. It was an accident, I'd never ever yell at you."

Shock is clear in his eyes, his arms leave his knees to wrap around you, pulling you closer. His face buried in your shoulder. You stroke his back. Both of you stay like this for a long while, neither of you seems to want to let go.

At night, when he's getting ready to leave and go back home. You walk him to the door and he kisses your cheek as a goodbye.

the shade of pink you grew to love really goes along with his smile.

-

"Close your eyes and hold out your hand."

With the sparkle in his blue eyes and his hands hiding something behind his back, how could you say no.

So you do, and you feel his hand brushing against yours before a light weight is dropped on your palms. He gives you the okay so you open your eyes, an envelope.

It's cream white with a straw ribbon around it, it looks too good to open but you do anyway.

"Is that..." his smile grows as you pull out the card and paper inside, "a membership card."

"For the art course you've been saving up for! You seemed really excited when talking about it." He takes a step closer, tilting his head to the side as his blond hair brush against his neck. "Do you like it?"

"Armin I love it!" You're so happy that you don't dwell on it before pulling him into a hug, he eagrly hugs back and his hand lingers on you when you pull away. "But...isn't it too expensive ? How did you.."

His lips press into a thin line as he looks to the side, "don't worry about it, I've been also saving for a different reason."

Oh...yeah you know the reason, Eren’s been telling it to everyone after all. The three of them agreed to go on a trip overseas, even Mikasa seemed genuinely excited.

You look at him, you look at the envelope containing the art course of your dreams, you put the card back inside.

"I can't, " you hold it out for him, "you can still return this, they're very lean with their policies."

He doesn't take it. "Yes, yes you can. This isn't just because I feel bad for what i did, it's because..." he holds your hand in his, "because I want you to have it, you deserve the world and if i can I'd give it to you."

"But what about Mikasa and Eren, you know they've been looking forward for this."

"They'll understand that i can't come, and if they don't it's okay, they'll still enjoy it by themselves." He cups your face, looking at you like you're the only person in the world, "It's just a material thing after all, you aren't."

-

Armin likes to get out of his comfort zone evey once in a while, he likes to try new things no matter how intimidating they look.

Which is why, seeing him hesitantly entering the art classroom was not a surprise. His wide eyes switching their focuses between all the different objects in the room, from the canvas with a glaze shine on them, ready to get painted. Or the different shapes and sizes or brushes, the ones near the water jars looking softer than the rest.

You should've seen this coming, with Eren and Mikasa away on their trip, Armin has been hanging around you all the time. Not that you're complaining.

Looking at your still drying canvas, you quickly cleaned off your brush before using a towel to wipe your hands and elbows from paint stains.

"Armin," you said, amusement in your voice at seeing the blond out of his usual element. His curious eyes focus on you and he says a small hi with a wave.

You walk him through the basics, he nods while you explain the pros and cons of each paint type, what type of paintings it goes with and which techniques are the most common.      

After a couple minutes of him asking you to show him to use certain things and hold some brushes, he settles down for watercolors. You think it's adorably fitting.

While picking his brushes, you explain how in order to not damage the cotton papers, they have the softest hairs. To make your point, you take his arm in your hand and run a soft brush against his palm. He laughs softly saying it tickles, it's contagious and you're laughing too soon.

He picks the seat next to you, looking lost with the short brush in his hand and the already wet canvase. But it's a nice kind of lost, like the way a child would look at a new toy.

While he expriments at the corner of the canvas with different brushes and swipes the colors, other people start filling the room and soon enough everyone has taken their seats.

The instructer begans setting up today's study object, a couple of pink Camellias in a tinted turquoise vase, creating a nise color contrast.

You stare at them for a while, wondering where did you see that fimilar faint of pink. The question answers itself when Armin taps your shoulder and ask how to start layering the paint

-

It's around sunset when the two of you are walking together, he's talking about all the new things he never knew about art that he just discovered today. You're listening to him while nodding occasionally, it's when he stops mid-rant that you look at him.

"I just realised something" he says, before facing you.

"Oh? And what is it"

He looks at you, really looks at you. The sun is shining behind you as it says its last goodbyes for the day, making you look heavenly. "I realised that...I'm deeply in love with you"

[gatesofember]

The Squire’s Favor

Rating: G | Pairing: Solangelo | Read it on AO3 or continue below

Summary: Nico, a young squire in Olympus, has been best friends with Will since he was eight years old and Hades sent him away to train to be a knight. Over time, his feelings for Will have grown beyond friendly admiration. He hopes that his performance at the squire’s tourney will finally impress his friend—perhaps even enough for Will to want to court him.

...or maybe Will has felt the same way all along.

For Solangelo Week Day 4: Free Day  ( @solangeloweek ​)

As a general rule, Nico did not enjoy going to the physician. He did not like being prodded with strange medical instruments, smeared with rancid salves, or force-fed foul concoctions that would supposedly make him feel better.

But Nico dreaded it a little bit less nowadays. His best friend, Will, had wanted to be a healer ever since his mother died of fever when they were children. After Lord Apollo approved Will’s request to study under Chiron a few years ago, going to the physician had started to become almost pleasant.

Almost. Nico still held off going to the healing tent until it became obvious that he’d be at a disadvantage in the tourney’s melee if he didn’t get the cut on his arm tended to.

To Nico’s surprise, he found Will waiting for him outside the tent. His arms sat crossed over an undyed tabard and the leather strap of his medicine bag, but his doublet was awfully brightly colored for someone tending to the wounded. Will didn’t usually risk ruining his clothes like that. Nico noticed a spot of brown blood on the hem of his sleeve and smirked as he imagined the fit Will must’ve had when he saw it.

“Don’t give me that look,” Will snapped, but his tone didn’t have much real bite. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d have to drag you back here myself. What took you so long?”

Nico blinked, bewildered by Will’s temper. “What?”

“You certainly took your time coming here for treatment,” Will said, pulling back the flap of the tent and gesturing Nico inside.

Nico didn’t move. “How did you know I was hurt?”

Will suddenly averted his eyes like he was embarrassed. “Heard from some of the other squires ‘s all,” he mumbled. “It’s not like I was...you know....”

Nico tried and failed to fight back his smile. “Will,” he said, “were you watching the tourney?”

Will sniffed. “Of course not. You know I hate those things—men running around swatting each other with sticks and swords for no good reason.”

Nico beamed. “You did watch, didn’t you?” he asked. He hadn’t thought that Will would get the chance, but he’d hoped anyway. Maybe once he saw Nico competing in a tourney, Will would suddenly realize how dashing his best friend had grown to become and he’d sweep Nico off his feet—

Except, of course, Will had seen him unseated in a joust. Nico wasn’t going to impress anyone by falling off his saddle.

“I’m usually much better than that, you know,” Nico said. “It’s just that horses don’t like me.”

Will’s expression softened. “I think you did wonderfully,” he said. “Now are you going to make me keep holding the flap open or are you going to get inside and let me look at that arm?”

Nico happily acquiesced. Once inside, Will had Nico sit on an empty cot before he helped remove Nico’s gauntlet and arm braces, tutting when he saw the blood-stained rip in Nico’s sleeve.

“I still think you’re too young to be participating in these tourneys,” Will said as he dipped a cloth in a bucket of water. “At least there aren’t any knights competing in the squire’s events.”

Nico bristled like an angry cat. “I’m no younger than you!”

“I’m not the one running around with a sword,” said Will. He wrung out the excess water before returning to sit beside Nico. “But I really do think that you did well—I was just scared when I saw you fall and sometimes I worry because the other squires are so much older than us. It wasn’t long ago that you were only a page.”

Nico sighed. When he became a squire last year, he’d hoped that Will would see how brave and handsome he’d become in the six years since Hades had sent him off to become a page in Olympus. But no; Will still looked at him the same way he always had.

“I’m fifteen now; not all of them are older than us,” Nico grumbled, but his argument was cut short when he hissed as Will pressed the cloth to his wound.

“Does it hurt?” Will asked.

“Just stings,” Nico answered. “It’s not deep.”

Will nodded. “Good,” he said. “Much better than last year, anyway.”

“That was as much Percy’s fault as it was mine!” Nico protested. “He wouldn’t have broken my arm if he’d tilted properly.”

“Yes, you’ve told me,” Will said as he wiped Nico’s skin clean of blood. “I was furious with Percy until I found out how guilty he felt about it.” Satisfied with the cleanliness, Will held Nico’s arm up to examine the wound more closely. It was still bleeding steadily, but Will didn’t seem concerned. “This isn’t the worst I’ve seen today. Connor was a mess after facing Sherman.”

Nico grimaced. “Sherman got quite the lecture on knightly decorum for that.”

“Good,” muttered Will. He released Nico’s arm and stood back up to fetch the salve and some bandages. “Honestly, I was glad to see you unseat him.”

Nico sat up straighter. “You watched that round?”

“I wasn’t going to sit here when I heard you’d be facing Sherman after seeing the damage he’d done to Connor,” said Will. “Obviously I didn't need to worry. You got him at the first pass.”

Nico beamed proudly, glad that Will had witnessed more than his embarrassing defeat by Jason’s lance.

“Weren’t you scared?” Will asked as he rejoined Nico.

“Not really,” Nico replied. “Sherman doesn’t have good balance.”

Will shook his head with a smile. “You aren’t afraid of anything, are you?”

Nico blushed. He was scared of a lot of things—most notably, confessing his feelings to Will, being rejected, and sullying their friendship forever. That was terrifying, even if Will did sometimes look at Nico in ways that made him hope....

“I’m not scared of a friendly duel,” Nico said instead. “Especially not when I know you’ll take care of me if I get hurt.”

Will dipped his fingers in the jar of salve and didn’t look up. “Of course I will,” he said. To Nico’s surprise, he noticed that Will had gone red.

Nico forced himself not to jump at the first touch of Will’s fingers, gently rubbing the salve over his wound and leaving a cool, tingling sensation in their wake.

This was why Nico didn’t mind visits to the physicians so much anymore. He loved the tender touch of Will’s soft, healing hands. He loved the excuse to sit close to Will—close enough to make out each individual golden eyelash and to see light, faded freckles that he didn’t notice from farther away. He loved the serious, focused look in Will’s eyes and the careful attention that Will always paid his injuries. When Will showed him such tenderness, Nico felt safe and warm and for a wonderful moment, he could almost believe that his feelings for Will weren’t one-sided.

Will glanced up. Nico wasn’t fast enough to pretend he hadn’t been staring, but Will didn’t say anything. He just blushed and silently reached for the bandages.

Sometimes, Nico thought that being with Will was more dangerous than any joust or melee. When Will looked at Nico like that, with his cheeks pinking shyly and his pretty eyes watching Nico like he was the most important person in the room, Nico couldn’t help the hope that maybe there was a romance blossoming between them. Maybe Will did feel the same way.

But Will finished the bandages like he always did, rinsed his hands clean of blood and salve, and cleared his throat. “That’s enough for now,” he said. “You should be fine for the melee. I’ll change your bandages in a few days.”

Nico tried to repress his disappointment. He didn’t know what he’d been hoping for—that Will would suddenly confess to him? That Will would kiss him right there in the middle of the tent?

That last ridiculous thought made Nico blush so hard that he felt dizzy.

Regardless, that fantasy wasn’t going to happen. But it was alright. Nico was happy enough being Will’s friend.

“Thank you,” he said, gathering his discarded braces and gauntlet.

“Do you need help putting that back on?” Will asked.

Nico shook his head. “No, that’s alright. I have to change my armor anyway.”

When Will nodded, Nico thought he imagined just a bit of disappointment in his eyes. “Be careful,” Will said. “Come right back if you get hurt.”

“I will,” said Nico. “Will you watch the melee?”

Will averted his eyes again. “As long as there aren’t any emergencies that Chiron needs my help with, I’ll go. I promise.”

Nico beamed. Will would watch. He always kept his promises. Before he thought better of it, Nico reached out and touched Will’s arm. “Thank you,” he said again, and left.

Nico had only gotten two steps out of the tent when the flap opened behind him and he heard Will say, “Nico, wait.”

Nico stopped and turned to see Will rummaging through the bag hanging at his side.

“I thought you might take this,” Will said, pulling out a white handkerchief embroidered with a golden lyre.

Nico’s breath caught. He knew what it meant when a lady gave a token like this. Annabeth had given Percy favors like ribbons and handkerchiefs before, and Percy, in peculiar fashion, had gifted some to Annabeth, as well. Bestowing favors was something ladies did only when they had a romantic interest in a man—or, in the case of Percy and Annabeth, when a man had a romantic interest in a lady. Although Nico had never heard of one man giving such a token to another, the implication was clear.

But this handkerchief, if possible, meant more than that. Nico recognized the embroidered lyre immediately.

“That’s your mother’s,” Nico said, and Will nodded. Naomi had been a favorite minstrel of Lord Apollo before her death and she’d embroidered her instrument of choice as often as she could; many of Will’s clothes had had lyres embroidered on them when they were young. Although Nico, who had also lost his mother, had tried his best to comfort him, Will had been so distraught when Naomi died. Will treasured everything that she had left him, so if he was willing to give this handkerchief to Nico....

Nico set his braces and gauntlet down on the ground and stepped forward, slowly reaching out to cover Will’s hands with his own. “Are you sure?”

Will nodded again. “I want you to,” he said. “Actually, I meant to give it to you this morning before the joust, but...I didn’t get the chance.”

Nico remembered Will coming to his tent that morning while Nico was preparing with Percy and Jason. Will had wished him luck and left abruptly. Nico had thought Will’s behavior seemed odd, but he’d brushed his concerns aside before the joust. Had Will been nervous? And if Will had intended to give the handkerchief to Nico before the joust, then maybe Nico hadn’t needed to try so hard to impress him. Maybe Will had already liked Nico the same way Nico liked Will.

Will cleared his throat. “But I expect you to bring this back to me in perfect condition. Not a single tear or drop of blood. So you’ll have to be careful.”

Nico nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”

He felt Will’s fingers tense under his hands, then Will suddenly lifted the handkerchief to his lips and kissed the fabric. Nico’s fingers brushed against Will’s face, feeling the warmth of his skin for just a second before Will pushed the handkerchief against Nico’s chest.

“For luck,” he said, his face going dark red as he pulled away. Nico doubted that he looked much better. “I’d like you to wear it under your arm braces. If you want, of course.”

Nico’s fingers curled into the fabric as he fought to stop himself from going into a daze or swooning on the spot. He blinked three times to wake himself up, then held out his bandaged arm. “Help me tie it?”

Will nodded and took the handkerchief back, folding it in half before wrapping it around Nico’s forearm and knotting it beneath his wound. Nico felt Will’s touch burning him through his sleeve and bandages.

“Be safe,” Will said when he finished, stepping away and putting his hands behind his back.

Nico’s tongue felt too heavy and his mouth felt too dry to respond, so he just nodded, picked up his braces and gauntlets, and hurried back to his tent. He could hardly feel the ground under his feet.

*   *   *

Nico didn’t win the melee, but he hadn’t expected to; the victory usually went to the older squires who had trained longer than Nico—Percy or Jason in particular. This tourney had been Percy’s win, but Nico suspected that Jason allowed Percy to beat him. Everyone had known that the victor’s reward would be a kiss from the Lady Annabeth and the honor of escorting her to the feast.

After Percy happily accepted his prize, Nico had congratulated him and returned to the castle to clean and change for the night’s celebration. He’d been sitting with the other squires throughout the feast, occasionally glancing up the table to where Will sat beside his father (and, Nico noted, where Percy and Annabeth sat next to a grumpy-looking Lady Athena). A few times, Nico caught Will looking back at him, and once or twice, Will glanced up and caught Nico doing the same. Every time their eyes met, Will smiled and offered a shy little wave. That much alone made Nico feel like melting on the spot. He had to stop himself from causing a scene by getting up in the middle of the feast either to run away from his nerves or to sweep Will off his feet—he wasn’t sure which was more likely. Nico had a gift for Will tucked in one sleeve, burning against his skin, and Naomi’s handkerchief tucked in the other. Will had made the first gesture. Nico would reciprocate it properly.

Later, when the feast ended and the dancing began, Will caught Nico’s eye again and smiled, whispered something to his father, and then looked back at Nico and tilted his head towards the door as an indication to follow as he left. Nico made his excuses to the other squires and went after him.

He caught sight of Will in the corridor, descending the palace’s stairs, and then found him outside in a secluded corner near the physician’s tower. It was dark, but dimly lit by the torches along the castle and the brightness of the night’s half moon.

“You shouldn’t wander into dark corners by yourself,” Nico chided, but his breath caught when Will turned around. He had to remind himself not to get swept away in the firelight’s reflection in Will’s eyes. Looking at Will’s eyes for too long was always dangerous.

“I’m not afraid,” Will said. “Not when I have a certain noble squire watching over me.”

Nico blushed. “I-I kept it safe for you,” he blurted out.

Will tilted his head to the side. “What?”

“Your handkerchief,” Nico said, looking away from Will’s dangerously blue eyes to pull Naomi’s handkerchief from his sleeve. “No rips or blood. It did get a bit wrinkled and sweaty under my braces, but that can be cleaned easily. Oh, I...I should have washed it before returning it to you. I can—”

Will stepped forward and Nico stuttered to a halt. “Thank you for keeping it safe,” Will said. “I knew you would.”

Nico swallowed and stopped fiddling with the handkerchief. When he offered it to Will, Will accepted, his fingers brushing over Nico’s as he did.

“Did you watch the melee?” Nico asked.

“Of course I did,” Will answered.

“Good,” Nico said. “I mean, you didn’t have to, but I’m glad you did.”

“I know. That’s why I went. It’s important to you.”

Nico hoped that the heat on his face wasn’t obvious.

“I thought you were impressive,” Will added.

Nico huffed to hide how pleased the compliment made him. “Hardly. I didn’t win. Many of the others are far more impressive than I am.”

Will cast his glance downward. “I wouldn’t know.”

Nico rolled his eyes, aiming for playful rather than truly bothered and hoping that Will understood. “Right, you know nothing about swordsmanship and melees or anything to do with ‘men running around hitting each other for no good reason,’” he teased.

The corner of Will’s mouth twitched in amusement.   “That wasn’t what I meant, actually,” said Will. “I wouldn’t know how impressive anyone else was because you were the only one I was paying attention to.”

Nico’s mouth felt dry. He swallowed. “The only...?”

Will raised his shoulders like he’d said nothing of consequence, but it was clear from the way he avoided looking directly at Nico’s eyes that he felt nervous. “Why would I want to watch anyone else?”

Nico’s mind went blank and for a second, he thought he had quite literally swooned. “I...” he started, then he cleared his throat, remembered the gift still in his sleeve, and steeled his resolve. “I have something for you,” he said, and pulled the second handkerchief from his sleeve. It had more embroidery than Naomi’s, with vines connecting asphodel flowers around the perimeter and an elegant M in the center.

Nico wasn’t brave enough to look, but he heard a soft intake of breath from Will’s lips.

“That was Lady Maria’s, wasn’t it?” Will asked.

Nico nodded.

“Why are you giving it to me?”

Nico tried for a shrug, but doubted he seemed as nonchalant as he would have liked. “I just want you to have it,” he said.

There was a single beat of terrifying silence before Will said, “Then perhaps you should hold onto this one a little longer,” and offered Nico Naomi’s handkerchief again.

“Thank you,” Nico stammered as he accepted Naomi’s handkerchief. He noticed Will was standing closer than usual. When had that happened? They were only ever this close when Will helped Nico tend to his wounds. But this time it was because....

Nico felt dizzy in the most thrilling way possible. Will was wooing him. Nico was wooing back. He was going to court his best friend and Will wanted it as much as he did.

“Do-do you want to go back in?” Nico asked. “We could join the dances.”

Will loved dancing. Nico loved the way Will smiled when he danced.

To his surprise, Will shook his head. “We can if you’d like. But I thought that we could stay out here a little while longer. Just us.”

“Oh,” Nico whispered. He curled his fingers in Naomi’s handkerchief and held it to his chest. “Yes,” he said. “I’d like that very much.”

[binkysteebnpewter]

I loved the thing you wrote for Wanda! It says your ask box is open, but i didn't know if that meant requests too.. so if they are open can i request Wanda and a non-avenger reader who is in college?

A/N: Of course! My requests are always open unless stated that they’re closed in my bio, so no worries sweetheart ☺️ I tried to create a similar writing as the last one I wrote, so I hope you enjoy!

Drabble Taglist: @softpeachbarnes

Someone in my class talks, droning quietly about some unknown topic as the Professor drones on about the subject at hand for this unit. I don’t want to pay attention to them as they drone to their friends quietly, but at some point I’m drawn in to listen. They’re talking about socialism and communism, I’m in Anatomy. Why socialism? Why communism? Why in Anatomy class? We have a test this Wednesday, they must not be worried like the rest of it.

I text my mother and I text Wanda, my mother doesn’t respond for four days. I text her again only to realize it’s only been an hour an a half, and she hadn’t even read the text yet. A text from Wanda comes in, asking if I wanted to meet at the coffee shop after my classes— I agree, any time with my girlfriend would always make my day a million times better. Now if only I can drag through the rest of my day until then.

My class is in 226B, the door next to me reads 201A. I’m on the second floor of the wrong building, oh god the bell is about to ring. My breathing is rapid and wheezing by the time I slipped through my classrooms door just as the bell rang, I lower my head and take the only seat left— in the very back next to the girl who usually never speaks in class. She asks if I’m okay and it left me in shock, this kind of kindness wasn’t expected but it’s appreciated so much I can’t put it into words. I thank her, reassuring I’m just out of breath and tired— she says it’s a mood. We both face forward and pay attention to the professor, she’s talking about the essay we’ll all be writing.

Seventeen hundred words on two pages, it has to be a type three IELTS essay about a random topic she’s going to have us pick from the bowl. Great, just what I needed— another essay to write at the last minute on a cram night, Wanda on call telling me I shouldn’t procrastinate so much. At least I’ll hear Wanda talk, her voice is my motivator— my melody in life.

My transcripts tells me I have an A in Sociology and Psychology. I don’t remember taking those classes. When did I take those? What did I learn in those classes? What did I do in them? Who teaches them? We’re are those classes on campus? Maybe I can find my notes from those classes in my apartment later, if I sore the time to search for them.

I walk into my apartment building, heading straight for the elevator. My elevator buddy isn’t here today, I never talk to them but I’m a little sad they aren’t here. After picking up the books I need for the rest of my classes and dropping off the ones I don’t need, I leave quickly for campus again. I stop by the main office to see about my college activities. My advisor refers me to the registrar, the registrar doesn’t exist? I change course and go back to my advisor, she isn’t here? Her office is a room I cannot find within a never ending maze now, I leave for class instead.

The boy who sits next to me in class chews on his pen, the chewing sound picks at my nerves. He wears the same brown pants and the same yellow hoodie everyday, his shirts are always about flowers or comic characters— I like his shirt today, it’s a 90s daisy print tee. He’s happy I liked his shirt, he tells me he found it on Etsy. With three minutes before the start of class, I find the same shirt he’s wearing from Etsy. It’s from GoldieVintageStore, I splurge and order the shirt— it’s cute, okay?

As class begins, my professor is upbeat today. I wonder how much coffee he’s had with vodka in it, he’s never this upbeat. It’s a little easier to pay attention to him like this, he trips and stumbles as he moves around to write on the whiteboard— it gets snickers from the class and he smiles at our amusement. He’s peppy today, maybe we won’t have much homework to do. Someone answers communism, it is not someone who was previously mentioned. The question was simple and easy, not related to the types of governments— “What is an example of medicine from Ancient Greece?”

My last two professors of the day are always the strangest, computer science and calculus. Calculus is like taking acid: the professor wears bright colors and crazy clothes, her PowerPoint is always in colorful comic sans, it passes by like Time took bath salts on a sunny day. My Computer Science professor is the exact opposite, monochromatic with a single flat tone voice. I’m convinced his an extraterrestrial by the amount of peanut butter he always consumes, he always has a new jar every day and he eats it by itself all throughout class with a spoon.

By the time my day is done at campus it’s already 4:35pm, I have three texts from mom and two from Wanda. I head straight for the coffee shop, Wanda was on her way there ten minutes ago. When I arrive, she’s already in a booth. Sliding in with a heavy sigh, I set my books down in the booth with me. She smiles and asks how my day was, I give her an exhausted look but smile nonetheless. I love her so much, her smile is the moon in my life— soft and bright, always returning.

“It was exhausting... but it’s so much better now.”

“Why? Because I am here?”

She was teasing, but blushes when I tell her yes. She always blushes when I tell her she brightens my day. I love making her blush, she’s the cutest being in the entire world to me.

“I’ll go up and order for us,”

Before I could protest and offer to do it for her, she was out of the booth and off to the counter. I lean back and look around the mellow coffee shop. Not too many people were here at this time, so it’s pretty peaceful. Mellow music played softly in the background, the charge of people walking outside mixes in with it. Honking cars, yells for a cab, vendors calling out advertisements and prices for their food. She comes back quicker than I expected, or did I just zone out for that long watching people bustle about outside the window?

“Iced Expresso with sweetened 2% milk, just like you like.” She smiles, moving on to set down a bagel with cream cheese as well.

“Thanks doll..”

I knew she was aware how much I appreciated everything she did, because she smiled and kissed my cheek—moving my books to her seat and sitting beside me instead. Smiling to her as we held hands, I asked about her day. I couldn’t help but admire her as I listened to her talk about Pietro bugging her all morning and then how she trained with Steve. Her hair was curled slightly, her lips stained slightly rose from the lip stain I gave her the other day, her liner was soft and low key today— God, she is absolutely ethereal.

“Miere, would you like to spend the night over at the compound? You do not have classes tomorrow, right?”

“Oh, I don’t have any until the afternoon... I have calculus at 2pm..”

She smiles as she asked me I’d stay the night with her tonight, and I agree. I’m glad I cut my nails last night and filed them, I knew what was in store for us both.

“I love you, Miere.”

“I love you, Wanda.”

Oops! Turned out a bit longer than expected but I hope you like it! 💗✨

[lady-divine-writes]

Concerning the End of the World ... Again ...

Summary: When Crowley shows up for his picnic with Aziraphale in serpent form and refuses to change into human, Aziraphale fears the worst. (1837 words)

Warnings: Some mild angst and anxiety, but mostly fluff :D

(AO3)

“Oh, there you are! I was wondering when you were planning to show,” Aziraphale says, greeting the long black serpent slithering onto his picnic blanket like it’s an old friend.

Namely, because it is.

His oldest and dearest friend.

And, as of recently, his husband.

“Where have you been? I was getting worried.” Aziraphale side-eyes the serpent, waiting for it to stealthily change into human form. But it doesn’t, winding carefully through the jars of jam and honey, the plates of bread and cheese he’d set out. “Uh … is there a reason you’ve chosen not to transform?” He waits for the snake to give him a sign of acknowledgement. When it doesn’t, Aziraphale chalks it up to his husband’s temperamental nature (he is a demon, after all), and continues the conversation alone. “Well, if you don’t, you’re going to miss out! I’ve gotten a few pears from a local vendor, apples, some fresh strawberries ... I took the liberty of sampling a few, and they’re all scrumptious!”

The serpent pauses momentarily, tilting its head as if struggling with a decision. Whatever the options, it chooses to tuck itself beneath Aziraphale’s knee. From beneath the shelter of the angel’s leg, it pokes its head out, tongue flicking to taste the air. A sensation of dread creeps into Aziraphale’s chest, latches on with hooks, and stays there.

“Wh-what … what’s going on, Crowley? What’s the matter?” He looks about, stretching his own mental feelers, searching for anything not quite right in the area. Of course, if someone was going to detect something not quite right, it would be Crowley, his serpent form the best way to keep tabs on it.

Months ago, they’d both been able to convince their ‘powers that be’ to leave them alone, but how long would that last? Aziraphale naively hoped forever, but Crowley is a cynic. If his assumptions are correct, their brief time of peace was a stop-gap - a calm before a storm of epic proportions.

Greater than Satan himself clawing out of the ground? Apparently.

“H-have you heard anything from … you know …?” Aziraphale subtly points down, but the serpent, eyes locked on a point in the distance, neither confirms nor denies. Aziraphale watches, breath held, overly wary of its cautious behavior. He finds himself suddenly dubious of everyone – the ice cream seller, an older married couple, a little girl riding her trike, a corgi rummaging through the bushes for a ball. It may seem ridiculous, but if the events of the Notpocalypse have taught him anything, it’s that their enemies could be hiding anywhere, could be anyone. “If you have, you’re right to remain hidden. Best to stay under the radar, as they say.”

Aziraphale is uncertain which would be less conspicuous – a distinguished man dressed as stylishly as he sharing an intimate picnic lunch with a man who looks like a rock star, or this right big snake?

Either way, it doesn’t matter to him. As long as they’re together.

Truth be told, Aziraphale is quite fond of Crowley’s serpent form.

Maybe he could try his hand at shapeshifting next time. But what would he become? A dove? Mmm, no. Aziraphale loved doves, but that seemed a bit too on the nose. A cat? A sleek, dignified, yet fluffy Persian? Or a Siamese – all cream coat and stunning blue eyes? Ooo, a Russian blue!

But he’s not sure Crowley fancies cats. Would he want one following him about, or perched on his shoulder, shedding fur onto his clothes?

Probably not.

A dog? Yes, Crowley might prefer a dog. A big, strong, strapping dog - something along the lines of a hellhound, Aziraphale assumes, but he can’t picture himself that way. Not as a menacing beast with glowing red eyes and sharp teeth. But he’s sure he can get Crowley to compromise. Maybe he could be a feisty little Scottish terrier in a smart tartan coat, as long as he also agrees to wear something more Crowley-esque – like a spiky, leather collar. That would surely suit the both of them.

It was actually rather exciting now that he’d given it proper thought.

“I haven’t heard anything either,” Aziraphale affirms, though whether Crowley said he had or not, he doesn’t know. Aziraphale can’t speak to Crowley in his snake form. He can’t speak to snakes at all. Or any animal. Though he did feel a spiritual connection to an owl once back in the 16th century. Rupert, he called it. Regardless, he believes that what he and Crowley have is deeper – a connection that allows him to infer what his other half is thinking, even when those thoughts are wrapped inside the labyrinthine mind of a serpent.

“Honeymoon’s over, I guess, hmm?” Aziraphale says with a forlorn sigh, gazing at the world around him – the world he loves – with bittersweet affection. “I know you’ve had suspicions about a battle to come, I just … I didn’t think it would happen so soon. I thought we’d have more time.” He runs a hand gingerly down the neck of the snake, chuckling to himself. “Listen to me. More time. We’ve known one another for six thousand years! If the end is coming, I guess I should be grateful for the time we’ve had.” The snake rests its head on his thigh and seems to sigh as well – not in defeat, but more like sympathy. Knowing Crowley, he already has plans – escape to the stars, other planets, alternate dimensions. Crowley will know a way out of this. He’ll know what to do. And they’ll be fine, provided things work according to plan. But what about the world? Aziraphale wants to spend forever with Crowley, but something has never sat quite right with him about abandoning this world to do it. “We’ve been walking the middle ground for so long, Crowley. And I will admit, even if I didn’t show it, I always feared one day it would end. I don’t want that day to be now. Not now. Not yet.” He bends as best he can in an awkward position to lean close to the serpent, and the serpent rises to meet him. Aziraphale cups it under what he assumes is its ‘chin’ and rubs it’s snout with his nose. It’s scaly and cold, nothing like the warmth of his husband’s skin, but it’s comforting nonetheless. “But whatever happens, we’re in this together. You and I, till the day we …” The rest gathers at the back of the angel’s throat, huddled in a lump, refusing to come out “… well, you know. But I want you to know, I’m not leaving you without a fight. Not ever. Because … well, because I love you, Crowley. I do. I should have said it a million times – the very moment I knew. But I’m saying it now, every day, as a matter of fact. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love …”

“Aziraphale? What on Earth are you doing?”

Aziraphale stops talking. His eyes go wide. He stares questioningly at the snake in front of him. If he didn’t know better, he would swear it shrugs.

“Crowley?” He sits up, hand still cupping the serpent’s chin, and sees his husband – human form Crowley – standing before him. His jaw drops, the apples of his cheeks glowing a jasper red, brighter than twin stoplights, especially since the rest of his color has drained clear away. “Wha---?” Aziraphale looks at the black snake sitting beside him on the blanket, the one he’s been talking to for the past half hour, then back up at Crowley, who’s taken on a rather defensive stance – arms crossed, hip cocked, glaring behind his dark glasses at his angel’s offending hand. Aziraphale pulls his hand away and swallows hard.

“Th-this isn’t what it looks like.”

***

“Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,  That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;

“Ah, Shakespeare …” Aziraphale hugs the leather-bound book to his chest, gazing down the length of the sofa he’s on to the serpent lying by his socked feet, coiled against the cold. “In thousands of years, I’ve never had the pleasure of reading works by anyone who could do poetry such justice. Don’t you agree?”

The serpent raises its head, gives a little nod, then rests it on the angel’s ankle, exhaling in contentment.

“Hmm, I do agree. I do agree. So where were we? Ah …”

“Are you reading him sonnets?” Crowley snaps when he walks in and catches his husband curled up on the couch beside the creature he has affectionately begun calling his son.

“He listens,” Aziraphale replies, going back to the book and turning the page, “unlike some people.”

“You forget, I was there the first go round.” Crowley grabs a glass and a full bottle of wine from the desk nearby. “Wasn’t too impressed then, either. Why are you letting him stay here anyway?”

“He followed me home, Crowley! I can’t just put him out! That would be cruel! Besides, I don’t understand why you’re so upset! It’s not like I …” Aziraphale cuts himself short and looks up from his book. “Wait a minute …” A small smile dances at the corners of his mouth, not easily noticed by one unaccustomed to being teased by an angel. But Crowley’s seen it a thousand times “… you’re not still upset about …?”

“Yes! Yes, I am!” Crowley miracles the cork from the wine and drinks straight from the bottle, bypassing the glass clutched in his other hand. “I find it offensive that you can’t tell a common black snake from your own husband!”

“I’m sorry, my dear, but at first glance, you two do look strikingly similar.”

“Oi! Oi!” Crowley points at his angel, stuck for a comeback strong enough to express his displeasure.

“Also, it’s a large, black snake, Crowley! Those aren’t all that common in these parts! How was I supposed to know it wasn’t you? Do you know the odds? Really …”

“That doesn’t excuse the fact that you were getting all lovey-dovey with …!”

“… something that I thought was you!” Aziraphale closes his eyes in frustration and shakes his head. “But don’t worry,” he says, waving away his husband’s ire with a flick of his hand. “I promise not to fall into the same trouble I got into with the last snake that followed me home.”

“Is that so?” Crowley grumps, searching under the sofa and around the stacks of books for the offending bugger. “You have a whole harem of snakes hanging around here, do you?”

“Nope. Just the one.”

“Ah. So tell me, Aziraphale - what happened to him, eh?”

The angel and the serpent, thick as thieves at this point, look at a put-off Crowley, wearing matching smug smirks. “I married him.”

*** Notes: This was a sort of a culmination of different ideas I got from fanart on Tumblr. There's a consensus (I think) that when Crowley shows up in his snake form, Aziraphale automatically knows it's him. So I thought ... what if it doesn't work that way? XD

[bluejayblueskies]

i shall come out gold

Part 14 of Whumptober 2020

Fandom: The Magnus Archives Characters: Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood, Jonah Magnus Tags: Whump, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Character Death, Burning/Burned Alive, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff (I promise)

Read on Ao3

The Archives smell of dust and old paper, and of acrid smoke as the first pages catch alight.

 “Are you sure about this, Jon?” Martin had asked as they stood outside what had once been the Institute and had once been the Panopticon, merged into something Jon just cryptically called my domain. “I- I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m all for burning some statements—Christ knows it was cathartic the last time—but you- you said you don’t know what it’ll do.”

 “I imagine,” Jon said, his eyes fixed on the towering structure before them, “that it’ll do precisely what it did the last time: distract El- Jonah.”

 “But you don’t know,” Martin pressed. “You see why that scares me, right? The last time you didn’t know something, we almost died!”

 The last time had been Melanie and Georgie and corridors that stretched out for what could have been meters or could have been miles, and it had taken a price far too high for either of their comforts to survive. Martin wasn’t particularly keen to do it again.

 “This- this isn’t like last time,” Jon insisted, and his eyes moved away from the tower to meet Martin’s. There was a hard determination in them, fostered over what might have been months of traveling through domains of fear and slowly losing everything they held dear. But Martin could still see the fear and uncertainty that lay beneath, because he knew Jon. He also knew there was nothing he could say to change Jon’s mind, not this time. “This place, it- it’s a part of me, Martin. I can’t know what’s inside myself. You just have to- to trust that I know what I’m doing. What I’m risking.”

 Softly, Martin said, “I do trust you Jon. I just—I worry, that’s all. We’ve come so far, I don’t want to- to lose you.”

 Jon reached forward and placed a gentle hand against Martin’s cheek. “I know. And you won’t. I promise.”

 Martin laughed, but the humor wasn’t there. “I’m holding you to that.”

 And then Jon handed him the lighter, the gold glinting faintly in the dreary grey light that this world was perpetually bathed in. He pressed a soft, almost hesitant kiss to Martin’s mouth, in a way that felt less like a promise and more like a wish, and said, “I’ll see you later, okay? When it’s over. I… I love you.”

 And then he was gone, making his way up the stone stairs to whatever lay at the top of the tower, and Martin headed down. To the Archives.

 They really haven’t changed at all, Martin thinks as he sets another yellowing page ablaze. The teetering shelves are all still there, overburdened with disorganized boxes of files and crammed too-close in the darkly lit space of document storage. Jon’s office door is hanging slightly ajar, and Martin hadn’t been able to resist looking in, at the desk covered in loose papers and empty coffee mugs and sticky notes of all different colors and sizes. The rib and the jar of ashes were still in his desk drawers. Martin doesn’t know why he tucked them in his backpack, next to the bandages and tea that isn’t tea anymore. He supposes he just doesn’t want Jon to have to lose any other parts of himself.

 It’s almost too easy, to allow the flames to consume the entire room in a red-hot blaze that hurts Martin’s eyes as he stares in, watching paper after paper wither and crumble. He swears he can hear them scream as they disintegrate, just once as their stories are lost to the raw desolation of the fire. But then it’s quiet but for the crackle and pop of thousands of stories of fear being consumed as one.

 He was right; it does feel cathartic, in a way. But he can’t help but watch the Archives burn, that place where he spent so many years as a prisoner and a tool and a watched man, and feel that it’s not right, somehow. That he doesn’t feel right, somehow. There’s something… off. He noticed it when first walking down the stairs, flicking the light switch and watching the faint bulbs that lined the hallways flicker on. He notices it now, standing just at the base of the stairs, feeling the intense heat radiating from the rooms around him. It’s not until he finally retreats up the stairs and emerges from the Archives that it clicks.

 An Eye cannot see inside itself. And in the Archives, he was not watched.

 “This place, it- it’s a part of me, Martin.”

 “Jon,” Martin says, terror rising sticky and hot in his throat. He drops the lighter. And begins to run.

.

The Panopticon smells of blood and limestone, and of burnt flesh.

 Somewhere above, someone is screaming.

 Martin runs faster, tears beginning to stream down his cheeks, and hopes he isn’t too late.

.

“What,” Jonah Magnus says tightly, “have you done?”

 The first thing Martin registers is that Jonah is still alive, and white-hot anger surges through him. He opens his mouth—to say what, exactly, he’s not entirely sure. Perhaps just to call Jonah all the increasingly derogatory names he’d come up for him on their journey here.

 Then, he remembers the terror, the running, and the smell of burning. And he looks down.

 “Oh, god,” he says, and falls to his knees. “Oh, god, Jon, no, no, no.” He reaches out, as if to touch the blistering skin before him, blackened and charred in places, and pulls his hand back at the last moment when the heat still radiating off Jon hits his palm full-force. “Oh Christ, what have I done?” he whispers, clamping a hand over his mouth in a desperate attempt to contain his shaking sobs.

 “Martin,” Jonah says, more forcefully. “What. Have. You. Done?”

 “I… I burned it,” Martin says in a small, shaking voice. “The Archives, they’re- they’re gone.” Martin stares at Jon’s face, at the singed-away eyebrows and cracked and bloody lips. Quietly, horrified, he says, “I burned him.”

 “You what?” In an instant, there’s a hand, tight on Martin’s upper arm and firmly yanking him off the ground. When Martin looks at Jonah, his eyes are alight with a fury that makes a sudden fear thrum through Martin. “Do you know what you’ve done?” he hisses, squeezing Martin’s arm to the point of pain and beyond, and Martin can’t help the small whimper that escapes him. “You have doomed us all, you foolish, idiotic—"

 From the ground, there comes a weak cough, and Jonah’s words grind to a halt. Martin doesn’t waste any time; he pulls, and perhaps it’s the surprise that loosens Jonah’s grip, but then Martin’s slipping free and kneeling on the ground next to Jon again, watching the slight rise and fall of his chest where before there had been none.

 “Jon?” Martin says, a bit desperately.

 There’s a pause that, to Martin, feels like an eternity. Then, Jon opens his eyes.

 Martin remembers, with vivid clarity, the moment he’d returned to the safehouse with the world crumbling into pain and terror around him to find Jon crumpled on the floor, surrounded by blank pages and covered head to toe with spiraling words, inked over every inch of skin Martin could see. He remembers even more vividly the moment that Jon had opened his eyes, and how Martin had seen himself reflected in the shining silver-green mirrors they had become, and how his terror had been reflected in kind and tenfold in magnitude.

 He’d looked away, and hadn’t looked back for a long while after that.

 “Martin?” Jon says, in a voice made raw and cracked by the heat of a thousand open flames running through his veins, and his eyes are a soft brown that makes Martin laugh, a jerky, hiccupping noise that probably sounds more than a bit unhinged but is raw with relief.

 “Jon,” Martin says, and the smile he offers Jon is the most genuine he’s given in a long, long time.

 “No,” Jonah says, in a voice that’s just to the left of controlled. When Martin glances up, Jonah’s standing over them, eyes ablaze with equal parts fury and terror. “Don’t you understand? If there aren’t any Archives, then there isn’t an Archivist, and if there isn’t an Archivist, then this world, this- this balance of fear, it’s unsustainable. You’ve removed the linchpin, and there is nothing left to hold this reality together. You have doomed us all.”

 In a raspy voice that still manages to sound disdainful, Jon says, “We were all already doomed. You saw to that.”

 “We were powerful,” Jonah snaps, the last vestiges of feigned kindness and austerity gone. “We were free. And now we are nothing. This reality is nothing. It will fold, and bend, and break, all because of you.”

 “No,” Martin says. “The world will be saved because of us.”

 Jonah’s eyes grow impossibly harder. “Is that so? Then I suppose it really has no more use for you, does it?”

 His eyes begin to glow, a sickly purple that cuts through Martin to his very soul, and it occurs to Martin that here, now, with the Archivist burned out of Jon and Martin on his knees, Jonah holds all the cards.

 And Martin holds a shining gold lighter, still clutched in his right hand.

 Paper burns well, Martin thinks absently. And while Jon may have been the Archives, filled to the brim with the fear of others, Jonah is a catalogue of his own, of sights and sounds and everything that has ever been known. The flame licks against Jonah’s ankle, and eagerly swallows him whole.

.

The safehouse smells of sawdust and pine needles, and of the soft charring of logs on the fire.

 Martin recalls the words, spoken long ago by a face lost to time and terror, that knowledge is not the same as understanding. He rewraps one of the bandages on Jon’s arm, bright white covering the rough texture of healing skin beneath, and finds he cannot disagree.

 Knowledge, as told by Jonah Magnus: the world as it was could not survive without the Archive that brought it into existence.

 Understanding, as felt by the former Archivist and former Forsaken as they stood outside a crumbling tower and watched the red bleed out of the sky: this world was not the only version of itself that could exist. And reality is more flexible than humanity gives it credit for.

 Martin finishes wrapping the last bandage and presses a soft kiss to the inside of Jon’s wrist. “All done.”

 Jon takes Martin’s hand in his and kisses it in kind. “Thank you.”

 Martin smiles, and presses another kiss to the corner of Jon’s mouth. “Always.”

 They sit, curled within each other’s embraces and staring at the fading sunlight trickling in through the window, and enjoy the delicate peace of a world alongside which they have begun to heal.

[perspective-series]

Exposed Perspective (10)

By: @arc852 and @hiddendreamer67

Warnings: Slight fear, and talk of erasing memories

THIS IS THE THIRD STORY IN A TRILOGY. READ “A Third Perspective” AND “Switched Perspectives” FOR THIS TO MAKE SENSE!

(Check the reblog for the links to the previous chapters and the TWO prequels!)

———————————————————————————————

 Virgil woke up the next morning, bright and early. He grabbed the bag he had packed the night before, a small bag that didn’t have much in it. He then climbed out of his room and sent one last look down at it. He sighed. He would miss his home but at least he didn’t have to leave his friends behind. 

 Speaking of, he heard a bit of shuffling in Logan’s room and waited patiently in the hall, near the wall, for Logan to come out.

“Good morning, Virgil.” Logan greeted, hiding a yawn behind one hand as he emerged, having not slept long. Logan knelt down, offering Virgil a hand. “Breakfast?”

 “Sounds great,” Virgil said, climbing onto the offered hand. 

Logan stood up, stepping carefully over the hole in the floorboards. His landlord wouldn’t thank him for that, but at this point, it felt as though trying to repair it himself would just be foolhardy. Logan made his way to the kitchen, setting Virgil down on the counter. 

“Coffee?” Logan offered, already starting up the pot.

 Virgil tilted his head, looking at the strange thing Logan was setting up. Of course, he had seen it many times before but never when it was on. He had no idea what it did or what coffee even was. “What’s coffee?”

“Oh, right.” Sometimes Logan forgot just how different Virgil was from himself. “Well, it’s a caffeinated beverage that can provide energy to the drinker. Quite addicting, but very useful for staying awake.”

 “Oh, then um, yeah, I guess I’ll try it,” Virgil said with a shrug. He could use the extra energy for the move.

Logan nodded, popping in some toast as well for a more filling breakfast. Once the pot beeped, Logan took it out and poured a mug for himself, setting it down next to Virgil so that the borrower could get some as well.

 Virgil took out his tinfoil cup and scooped a bit out. He blew on it before taking a taste. The bitterness was unlike anything he had ever tasted before and it was almost too much. But Virgil found that he almost sort of liked it? Kind of? “It’s...interesting.”

“It’s bitter, but it’s more for a specific function than necessary pleasure.” Logan lifted the mug to his lips, taking a sip of his own. The toaster dinged, and Logan put the two pieces of toast on a plate. He pulled a jar of crofter’s jam from the fridge, beginning to spread it on one slice. “Do you want jam on yours? Or another condiment?”

 “Jam’s fine,” Virgil said, taking another sip of the coffee. He was already starting to get used to is. And he could feel himself being more awake than before. Weird, but cool.

Logan put Jam on the second slice as well, taking his own piece in hand before sliding the whole plate closer to Virgil.

“I found a few possibilities for a new residency,” Logan explained, taking a bite. “I suggested to Roman via text the four of us go scope them out today.”

 Virgil nodded as he ripped a piece of toast off and took a bite. He hummed at the flavor of the jam. No wonder Logan liked it so much. 

 “...I wish we didn’t have to do this.” He said after a few moments of silence.

Logan glanced at his smaller companion, then at the apartment around them. “It certainly is not ideal.” Logan agreed quietly. “But, certainly preferable to any other outcomes.”

 “I can agree with you on that,” Virgil said, taking another bite of his food. He wanted to be as far away from Dee and any other humans that now knew about him.

“How are you feeling, by the way?” Logan asked, having never fully gotten a rundown of Virgil’s injuries. He certainly looked different, if only due to his new haircut.

 Feeling Logan’s eyes on it, he ran a hand through his hair. “I’m fine. I didn’t get much other than this haircut and a few bruises from his grip.” Virgil shivered as he remembered being wrapped in those fingers. “I think Patton got it worse. Dee...Dee seemed to take a lot of blood out of him.” Virgil couldn’t help but feel guilty about that since it should have been him that had blood drawn from.

“I see.” Logan frowned, noting this in the back of his brain. He would have to help keep an eye on Patton for any abnormal behavior and suggest methods to ease Patton’s recovery. 

As Logan pondered this, there was a knocking at the front door.

 Virgil snapped his head over to the door. “You think that’s Roman and Patton or…?” Virgil bit his lip, worried that it could be Dee or another human looking for them.

“I’m not sure.” Logan set his mug on the counter, approaching the door cautiously. He peeked through the peephole, eyes widening when he saw an unfamiliar figure. Turning back to the kitchen, Logan gave a motion for Virgil to hide.

 Virgil tensed and quickly hid behind the coffee pot, heart racing. He barely dared to breathe as he listened.

“Can I help you?” Logan asked, quite on edge and barely opening the door. With the door open, Logan could see there was actually three individuals on his doorstep. One was Thomas, who looked almost as confused as himself. The next was a suited individual with colorful hair, standing to Thomas’ right. The final individual was right in front of Logan, wearing a bright orange beanie and the same suit as the other.

“The name’s Joan, Special Victims Unit Officer.” The individual leaned closer, grinning and sticking out their hand. “Hi, how ya doin’?”

Logan slowly reached out his own hand. “Logan Sanders.”

“Oh, we know who you are.” Joan shook his hand eagerly. “You’re harboring a borrower, aren’t ‘cha?”

 Virgil tensed, shaking as the unfamiliar voice confirmed they knew he was there. And did he say something about an officer? Had Virgil been right? Had the government gotten involved and was looking for them? Virgil felt panic start to seize at his heart and mind.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Logan quickly pulled his hand back, ready to shut the door, but Thomas’ voice stopped him.

“They saw the tapes, Logan.” Thomas shifted on his feet. “I...I think they’re here to help.”

“What?” Logan frowned. 

“We’re a very special Special Victims Task unit,” Joan explained. “We deal with any crimes involving borrowers.”

“Including covering up whenever someone screws up and tries to expose them to the world.” The other suited member finally spoke up.

“Oh, that’s Talyn by the way,” Joan explained, pointing to their partner who gave a wave.

“I think we can trust them.” Thomas insisted.

“I like this guy, he gets it.” Joan nodded, jabbing a thumb at Thomas. 

“How do I know this isn’t some elaborate ruse?” Logan squinted at them.

“Well, if we really wanted to get in there, we could just wipe your memory and push right past.” Talyn got closer, standing on their tiptoes to look Logan in the eye. “But we’re trying to be civil here, so do the right thing and let us in.”

 Virgil shook as he fell to a seated position up against the pot. He didn’t care if they were here to ‘help’ or not, he didn’t want any other humans around him. But he had a feeling this encounter was going to happen whether he liked it or not.

“Wiping a memory is not actually possible,” Logan observed. Talyn frowned at him, pulling out some sort of rod and holding it in front of his face.

“Wanna bet?” They threatened.

“Okay, let’s not do that,” Joan advised, pushing the rod back down. “Not at least until we’ve found Virgil.” Joan now pushed back Logan, into the apartment. Talyn walked inside with a glare at Logan, and Thomas followed. 

“They came to my apartment first,” Thomas explained. “They asked where you guys were.”

“And why did you tell them?” Logan spoke out of the corner of his mouth, looking peeved.

“I couldn’t lie to a federal officer!” Thomas insisted. “Besides, I really think they can help us. They’re the ones that took down Remy’s video.”

“...what?” Logan looked at the agents in a new light.

“Yup, that was my doing.” Talyn looked proud of themselves. 

Joan cupped their hands around their mouth. “Virgil! Where are ya, buddy?”

 They knew his name?! Like hell Virgil was going to come out to their calling. He stayed where he was, hoping Logan or even Thomas would get to him first. Anyone but these other humans.

“...he’s in the kitchen,” Logan admitted, and immediately Talyn whirled on him.

“How dare you.” Talyn hissed. “What, you think you can help us just because you’re human?”

“I, ah, yes?” Logan took a step back, thoroughly confused. 

“It’s all part of borrowing etiquette 101,” Joan explained, pulling out a book. “It’s considered an act of disrespect to out a borrower. A borrower should be in control of when and to whom they are revealed.”

“Oh.” Logan glanced at the book, feeling both sheepish and intrigued. “May I see that?” 

“Sure thing!” Joan nodded, handing it over. Logan began to leaf through the pages.

“...I’ll go get Virgil.” Thomas offered, heading towards the kitchen. 

“No grabbing.” Talyn insisted.

“Yup, already knew that one.” Thomas nodded, giving them a brief look before leaving the room. He looked around the counter, not spotting the borrower.

“Virgil?” Thomas whispered, coming closer to it.

 “Thomas?” Virgil stood up on shaky legs, revealing himself as he walked out into the open. He had been listening the entire time and while he was slightly mad at Logan for revealing where he was, what the agents said only confused him. Were they actually here to help? It couldn’t be that though, right?

“It’s me.” Thomas smiled, laying down his palm for Virgil. “Uh, there’s some people here who want to see you but um, I think they might actually want to help?”

 Virgil bit his lip and after several moments of hesitation, he got onto the offered hand. “...Just don’t let them take me.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you,” Thomas promised, bringing Virgil close to his chest. He held the borrower there protectively, putting his extra hand up as well.

“Ah, there you are.” Joan’s volume decreased slightly but their tone did not, a sure sign they were trying to be easy but not condescending on Virgil’s ears. “Virgil, it is an honor to meet you. My name is agent Joan, and this is my partner agent Talyn. We are here to help you.”

 Virgil shifted more into Thomas, looking at the new humans warily. “...How?” He asked hesitantly.

“We help relocate borrowers whose identity has been compromised,” Talyn explained, coming over as well. “We wipe human’s memory of you and find a new suitable borrowing home far away from the incident for an extra layer of precaution. Of course, if you prefer there’s also a borrower base back home in Area 51 where some of our old borrower friends have built a community.”

 Virgil blinked. “There...is? H-How many times has this happened?” 

“Quite often.” Joan nodded sadly. “Modern surveillance systems aren’t exactly borrower-friendly.”

 “Oh.” Virgil looked down. The thought was sad but if these humans actually helped them… “And why do you help borrowers? Why haven’t you revealed our existence and made us pets or science experiments or whatnot...unless you do perform tests on my kind and this is some sort of ruse to get me to come back with you so you can do that to me!” Virgil’s breath became erratic as the thought sent him into a panic.

“Okay, y’know? Perfectly valid questions.” Joan put up their hands in surrender, taking a step back. “It may sound strange, but not all humans are actually evil. Talyn and I actually found borrowers ourselves when we were younger, but unlike what’s going on here we actually treat borrowers as people.”

“Wait a second.” Thomas frowned. “We treat Virgil like a person.” 

“Sure you do.” Talyn squinted suspiciously at him.

“Rule number 33.” Logan recited, still diligently reading. “Prolonged hand-holding is to be kept to a minimum, and only for as long as necessary. Lingering is considered an offense as you are limiting the borrower’s freedom through manipulation of an act of kindness.”

“...oh.” Thomas glanced down at his hands, realizing how long he had been holding Virgil. He moved over to the coffee table, setting Virgil down on it sheepishly. “I’m sorry Virgil, I didn’t mean to.”

 Virgil blinked. “No, Thomas, you’re fine.” He glanced at the book Logan was reading. It was a great rule, of course, but not at this moment. Virgil was perfectly comfortable with his human friends holding him for a while. As long as they put him down when he wanted to be put down, of course. Which they were usually good at doing. He turned towards the agents. 

 “I do know that not all humans are bad, just most of them,” Virgil explained. “Because Thomas is right. He, Logan and Roman all treat us like people.” Well, of course, not at first. But they were in a good place now. 

Talyn sat down next to the coffee table, leaning in and speaking in a hushed tone. “Are you just saying that?” They asked. “We know it can feel like you have no escape, but that’s why we’re here. You don’t have to stay captured by these humans any longer.”

“Hey, we wouldn’t do that!” Thomas exclaimed, before remembering the time Logan had indeed put them in a cage. He winced, looking at Logan. “Er, anymore that is.” 

Logan’s fingers tightened around the pages slightly, clearly overhearing their conversation.

“We can erase their memories as well,” Joan explained, coming over to sit next to Talyn. “If you think you will ever have any trouble with them, even just in the future, say the word and we zap ‘em.”

 Virgil’s eyes widened. “No!” He yelled, hating the thought. His friends had come so far, especially Logan! All that learning going down the drain would just be awful. “They’re my friends and I won’t let you erase their memories! Or take me away from them!” Virgil yelled, taking a step away from the two agents.

Talyn and Joan blinked, looking at each other briefly.

“Oh, so this is one of those cases.” Joan nodded in understanding.

“We’re not gonna take you away from your friends,” Talyn said earnestly. “We just wanted to make sure you were actually alright.”

“And, y’know, not being held against your will.” Joan shrugged. 

 “...Oh,” Virgil said, a little embarrassed by his outburst now. “Well, thank you for that.” He supposed these agents really were doing some good and helpful things for borrowers. They were even listening to him.

“Also thank you for not erasing our minds,” Thomas said feebly.

“Indeed.” Logan nodded in agreement, looking perturbed as he closed the book. The idea of losing any of his memories was quite troubling.

“Well, then, in that case, we’ll just get to work rehousing all of you,” Joan said, standing up.

“We were actually already planning on moving out to the next town over,” Logan explained.

“You were?” Thomas furrowed his eyebrows, having not been informed of this.

“...we meant to tell you.” Logan gave a half-hearted shrug.

“Where’s Patton?” Talyn asked, looking around.

 “He should be with Roman,” Virgil said, not feeling bad about revealing that information now that he knew they were here to help.

“Alright, let’s go get them then.” Talyn stood up. 

“Rule 72.” Logan recited. “All borrowers should be involved in discussions pertaining to life-changing events such as a move or a reveal, so as to give every borrower a voice.” 

“You catch on fast,” Joan noted. 

“Can I see the book?” Thomas asked, looking eager. 

“By all means.” Logan gave it to Thomas, then set his palm down for Virgil.

 Virgil got onto the hand without hesitation, once again looking up at the book Thomas now held. “Who made that?” He asked to Joan and Talyn.

“A couple of agents back in the 50’s made the original,” Joan explained as the group migrated upstairs. “But the newest copy was compiled by yours truly.”

“With yours truly helping.” Talyn piped up, looking proud.

 “Huh. Well...it seems like a really helpful book.” Virgil complimented.

“It comes in handy.” Talyn nodded.

Joan paused once they had reached the front door, knocking on it.

[fuyumiworld]

The EℓyXiOn : Chapter 2 : Snow Blaze

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

Snow brings a special quality with it,the

power to stop life as you know it dead in its

tracks

≿━━━━༺❀༻━━━━≾

BERLIN. 05:07

Fuyumi had a total of 365 days to try to forget the exact shade of red that was Kris’s blood, Tao’s blood, even Althea’s blood when the assassins dug out the Tree’s essence from the slight women’s heart, but when the bartender pours her a complimentary glass of red wine after Fuyumi stumbles through the door with bloodshot eyes, it’s like a day hasn’t passed since she saw three of her closest friends, some of her only friends, die, and she could do nothing to stop it.

“Don’t want it,” she says lowly, pushing the glass back. If this wasn’t her normal bartender, Fuyumi might have thrown the glass to the ground. It’s for the better she doesn’t. Then, it really would look no different from the bloodbath that had occurred a year ago.

“You look rough,” says the bartender, his voice fuzzy with exhaustion. It’s too late—or just too early—for anyone to sensibly be here, but the bar is open twenty-four hours, closed only on Tuesdays, and with the crowd around Berlin, it’s never empty.

Fuyumi makes up only a handful of guests remaining, and she is by far the soberest. “It’s a rough day,” she admits, and before the bartender can start doing that magical thing of his that tempts Fuyumi to spill every single one of her secrets, confess every one of her sins, she gets off the barstool. “I think I’m just going to turn in. Let you have an easy one until dawn.”

“Take a shot for the road! It’s fucking freezing out there.”

“It’s fine, I got this.” Fuyumi pops on a fuzzy hunter’s hat, which protects her head, exposed now more than ever thanks to the short layered haircut she got in order fit in better with the Berliners. “And I have that bottle of whisky you recommended back at my place.”

The bartender grins. “That’s my girl.”

“Gute Nacht,” Fuyumi chimes as she steps out the bar and into the dark.

It’s louder outside than in the bar. Berlin loathes sleep. A light always burns, a building always churns out the thud of music, voices caught in the distance, carrying on a wind. For how sprawled out the city is, a beat carries across its veins, keeping the whole place alive.

Fuyumi has spent nights like these joining the nocturnal crowd. She wanders block by block, walking long distances that could be felt in her joints the next day. Every time she runs into someone on these predawn explorations, she wonders if it’s them.

Almost four million people in one city, and not once has Fuyumi ever seen a glimpse of one of the Guardians. She has scrutinized faces, trying to draw details onto them that aren’t there. A map of facial moles; a jaw sculpted finer than a statue’s; lips as downy as the pillows she hoards on her bed.

Today, the thought of EXO becomes more painful than ever. She can’t bare another walk spent on hoping, longing for a family She once took for granted.

She goes home to a shabby upstairs apartment, swinging the key around her finger on the five-minute walk over from the bar. It’s freezing outside, but lucky for Fuyumi, she has always liked the cold.

Not that she can do much with it anymore. Once, with the furrow of her brow, or the quirk of her lips, Fuyumi would be able to cast a layer of frost across every surface in sight, but ever since she was ripped away from her friends,since their last mission, she can barely drop the temperature around her to sub-zero with a heavy sigh.

At least she can still chill her whisky glass with touch alone. As soon as she’s back in her apartment, She grabs the first clean glass in her cabinet and carries it while rummaging for the whisky bottle she always places just a toe out of reach, so she’d be less tempted to knock an extra glass back at the end of the night. By the time she brings it down from the shelf, frost lattices the glass, a filigree of stark white outmatching the carven designs.

She pours two fingers worth of liquid fire and plops down onto the couch. The TV setup that came with the apartment is powered off. Usually she finds no need for its programs, but she wants them tonight. Left to her thoughts, and she’ll be seeing red all over again.

She turns on the TV and looks for a soccer match to watch. It’s a sport she has come to enjoy while stuck on this planet.

A channel broadcasts the German women’s national team’s friendly match with Nigeria from earlier in the week. She has already heard the score and a highlight reel from chatter around her, which it makes it all that more comforting to watch.

she tries to relax into her seat and simply watch as the ball darts across the field.

It has only been a minute of playtime, when she looks over the scoreboard broadcasted on the corner of her screen. Germany vs Nigeria.

Nigeria…

Could one of the Guardians be there?

She throws her head back and groans. It turns out soccer isn’t safe for her mind either. Matches between different countries always makes her question whether she is in the right place. What if Junmyeon has made a home in Argentina? What if Baekhyun is part of the South African crowd, cheering obnoxiously louder than the rest?

And if that isn’t the question on her mind—thewhere—then the other is: is she trying hard enough to find her family?

Watching the players sweat and fight and hit the grass hard enough to bruise reminds of every single battle Fuyumi has waged and defended. Every sweat-soaked, blood-drenched, frost-ridden fight he has carried out as a member of EXO. Back to back with Bronte, dealing out punches as Noa holds back her enemy, using Junmyeon’s conjured water as supply to feed her own war path of ice and fury.

All of it is scar tissue now, but she picks at it every so often, indulging in the pain of memories. She’d reopen any wound if it meant being back with EXO.

Then why has she stayed here this whole time? Since appearing in Germany’s largest city, she has never made any attempt to step beyond the country’s borders. she has searched Berlin’s streets, its bars, its museums and railways for EXO, but has stretched no further.

Around 7.7 billion people in this world, gathered together in countries and provinces and villages. How is she to know where eight people fit into that jigsaw of civilization?

she brings her head back down to watch the game.

The match has been erased from the TV screen. All color has leeched out from the picture, and so have shapes and solid sound. Though the remote rests out of her grasp, the channel has seemed to change over to something strange—something she has never seen broadcasted before.

The screen is made up of numbers, words, flickering pixels of black and white, pumping like a heartbeat. The newfound light strobes across the darkened room. Fuyumi’s face is painted in streaks of white one moment, before falling into true darkness the next.

Then, all at once, the screen freezes. While it has gone still, the room hums with new life, an energy that raises the hair along Fuyumi’s arms.

Through petrified streaks of black and white cutting through the screen, barely seeable through static, is a series of numbers.

She rips a page out of a nearby book and searches for a pen. By the time she finds one beneath the coffee table, she’s afraid to look back at the screen, in case the haphazard numbers have vanished.

They’re still there, and she drops to her knees right in front of the screen in order to make them out as clearly as possible. she copies them down onto the ripped page, digging the pen’s tip so it threatens to split the paper.

Once she is certain she has them written correctly, copied over in bold so they overpower the printed words of the damaged book, she lowers the pen and paper.

She stretches her hand towards the screen to see if it will move under her touch. The closer she gets, the louder the hum grows around her. Louder, louder, LOUD—

Electricity lances up her arm, so jarring she yelps and tumbles onto her backside. The power is snuffed out from the TV, and the screen goes dark, taking all light with it.

Seated in the dark, shaking from the bolt of electricity that ran up and down her body, using her spinal cord like a conduit, an incredulous laugh leaves her chest. “Bronte,” She murmurs. “It’s you.”

It has to be. Who else has such a striking power? Who else has a knack for the impossible?

Fuyumi has no idea how Bronte found her. She has no idea where the thunder Guardian is leading her, but she will follow. She would follow her blind, would follow her numb.

And though Fuyumi has gotten used to the cold, once loved it like another brother even, this burst of heat coursing through her body is something she treasures more.

[aboysbestfriendishismum]

Chapter 55 - Wine, puzzles and spoonmen (Part One)

In the previous chapter: Eddie and Angie woke up at her apartment. It's the third time in a row they sleep together but, although Eddie is constantly teasing her, they haven't had sex yet. Angie starts to get worried about this too and believes something's wrong. Eddie, Stone and Mike go to Roxy's on that same morning, right during Angie's shift at the diner. Eddie cheekily jokes, teases her, sends her subliminal love messages through juke box songs, then follows her in the back and kisses her; she thinks he's doing it on purpose so that their friends will find out about their relationship. The two of them have a brief argument but they soon make it up. Meg tells Angie about her new project: becoming a tattoo artist. She also understands Angie's worried about something and has her friend spill the beans. Angie confesses she has doubts about Eddie's physical attraction towards her. Meg tries to talk some sense into her and suggests her to set up a romantic night for Eddie and her at their apartment.

***

“Ian, can you come here a sec?” I call my coworker as I look through the sketchbook my roommate has just slipped on the counter top together with her purchases.

“What's up?” I hear him answer from afar.

“I need your help”

“Can't you do it by yourself? That guy who dropped the jarred Bolognese sauce made a mess!”

“Umph if that's Bolognese sauce, then I'm Julia Roberts!” I comment right when Hannigan comes back from the storage room, probably because of the commotion he heard.

“ANGIE?” he gives me a nasty look and I'd want to sink into the ground.

“Err I meant that it's a sauce produced in our beloved America! Healthy American food, tasty and nutritious... which gets inspiration from an Italian recipe to... to...” I try and make up for that as I address my audience, that is basically Meg, looking at me as if she could burst into laughing any minute, my boss and two perplexed customers, a young man and a fifty-something woman.

“To give a new interpretation of it?” the guy suggests from the snacks department.

“EXACTLY! A new interpretation. Different from the original”

“But as valid as the original” the boss adds.

“Very valid!” I say through my teeth.

“She's half Italian.” Meg explains to the customers “She'll be fucking fussing about everything but the sauce is good” the guy snickers and the lady shakes her head and walks towards the frozen foods.

“I'd have liked for you not to use the F word but you perfectly summed up my thinking” Hannigan's face relaxes and maybe I still have a job.

“Anyway it's all Ian's fault” I point out as soon as I see my colleague show up behind the back of the boss.

“What did I do?”

“I called you and you didn't came”

“Well, now I'm here, what's wrong?”

“Now Hannigan's here, I don't need you anymore”

“Can you please explain what the fuck's happening? I didn't understand a fucking thing!” the boss blurts out in the middle of our quarrel.

“I thought you couldn't say the F word here” Meg chimes in raising her hand as if she was at school.

“Not to custumers, but to employees...  yes”

“Meg needs to buy some wine” I point at my roommate and the bottle she's placed on the counter.

“So what? Your shift ends at 13:00, you still have 10 minutes” Ian gives me a glazed look and right now I'd stick my thumbs into his eyes.

“It's not for the timing, it's that I can't sell alcohol...”

“Oh right! Well, you'll take care of that, right?” he asks to our boss.

“Yeah, sure Ian! I'll take care of that, I'm already here! By the way why should I have my paid personnel work when I can do everything by myself, right?”

“Uhm... ok, I'll go and put some more sawdust on that stain” Ian walks away and Meg can't resist this time and explodes laughing.

“Haha he's so dumb! Anyway isn't it funny that you cannot sell me wine, considering you're the one who'll drink it?” my friend remarks while Hannigan's ringing her items: red wine bottle, sliced bread, salmon, cheese, butter, various snacks.

“You're kind of dumb too, you know” I hide my face behind my palms.

“You could avoid telling me, at least...” mutters the boss and shakes his head.

“Who? Telling you what? I didn't say a word! Oops, I forgot the dessert, wait a minute!” Meg realizes the shit she just did and plays dumb, walking away towards the sweets section.

“She was just kidding anyway hehe” I say and I hope he doesn't notice I'm sweating.

“Of course”

**

“They're great!”

“Thank you Meg for grocery shopping for me and bringing all the bags up for four floors for me... that's what you just said, right?” my friend is putting everything into the fridge as I keep looking through her sketchbook.

“Exactly”

“Anyway you don't have to tell me you like them only to make me happy, I want a honest opinion”

“I am honest! I must say I like the ones in black and white better”

“Right? I'm not confident with colors yet. I mean, it's not like I can't draw stuff in colors. It's just, whenever I draw something and color it and I think it'd be supposed to end on someone's skin, everything seems shit to me. I did very few drawings in color”

“The flowers series is perfect, also the one with the animals” she's really good at drawing, I've always known that.

“They're just doodles to get started, to try some themes and styles”

“They're not doodles... what about this?” I focus on something drawn on a separated sheet of paper, folded and stuck in the middle of the book, which falls down to the floor as I turn the pages.

“Which one?” Meg distractedly turns around then closes the fridge door shut and runs up to me, snatching the paper from my hand as soon as she sees what it is “Oh this? This is nothing, this... I did it last night at the salon, during downtime, it sucks”

It's a page made entirely of pieces of a puzzle, they're all different in shape and shade but don't create any image. They're all blank and fill the whole sheet of paper except for a small space, a missing piece. Instead of the missing piece, in the layer underneath, you can see something that looks like live flesh and muscle tissue, and it's the only colored part of the drawing.

“It's simple but of immediate effect. This could really become a tattoo”

“Do you think so?”

“Yeah, it also seems very realistic. It's disturbing but in a positive sense, I like it!”

“Oh, well, thank you”

“What does it mean?”

“That I thank you for your compliment?”

“Haha no, what does the tattoo mean?”

“Ah”

“There's always a meaning behind, right? What would such a tattoo mean?”

“Well but... but this is not a tattoo is just an excercise, there's no reason behind”

“No?”

“No! Ok, now that you make me think about it, it could represent, I don't know, a missing piece in someone's life? I mean, everybody has their own void inside, right? Nobody feels 100% complete, there's always a piece of the puzzle we can't find or that we lost in the way. And it can be very different things: a person, a passion, a goal in life. What do you think?”

“I think it'd be the perfect matching tattoo for a couple”

“A couple? Hahaha I didn't know you were so romantic!”

“Not necessarily a romantic couple. Also between two big friends. Or brothers. Think about it, one person can have the incomplete puzzle tattoed and the other one can have the missing piece, which fits in it perfectly”

“That's an idea. It should represent a strong bond. Between brothers... or a parent and a child”

“Sure, also” the latter not necessarily being a strong bond...

“A mother... a mother could get this one, with one or more missing pieces depending on how many children she's got.And the children will be the missing pieces” and what if the missing parts are the parents instead?

“And they you'll inject ink in those chubby baby arms of theirs!”

“Hahahah shut up! They can have it done when they're grown up. OR... you can draw the missing pieces in the same tattoo, a little further” Meg takes the sketchbook from my hands and starts drawing as she speaks, taken from sudden inspiration.

“You can also put the name in it. Or initials”

“Which name?”

“Of the child. Inside the puzzle piece”

“Sure, if I knew the name”

“What do you mean? Haha how can a mother not know the name?”

Meg gives me a weird look, then smiles: “I meant, if only you could give me a name to have a try”

“Try with Angie” I smirk.

“A random one”

“Totally random”

“Don't even try, I'm not gonna get matching tattoos with you, forget it” she shakes her head as she starts sketching a cursive A inside the drawing.

“SHUT UP! I'm scared of getting my earlobes pierced, do you think I'd get a tattoo?! You're crazy”

“Oh, I see, you wanna get one with Eddie?”

“Come on, hurry up, we need to go shopping”

“Hahaha this enthusiasm from you surprises me, abstinence can be powerful”

“MEG!”

**

“Do you really think we can find a slutty nightgown in a thrift shop?” Meg doesn't watch her tone as we stop in front of Rummage Hall.

“Shhhhhh! I don't wanna buy a slutty nightgown, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“You don't want to? We went out exactly for that”

“You said I should wear something nice but not too much. I don't wanna go too far or Eddie will understand...”

“Excuse me, isn't that the purpose of the whole thing? Make him understand?”

“Yes but...”

“Well, slutty it is, then!” Meg enters the shop and I tag along.

“Shhhhhhhhhhhh”

“Anyway we're not gonna find shit in here” my friend takes long strides towards the clothing section.

“Where did you want to go? Nancy Meyer? I've got no money for that stuff”

“No, but Fantasy Unlimited is a short walk away”

“BUT THAT- ehm... that is an adult shop” I raise my voice too without noticing, then shush myself up.

“And you're an adult, aren't you? Anyway they've got very cute things, I bought a lot of stuff there, that for the record I use also to go to clubs. Well, now only to go to clubs” she shrugs as she's examining a satin-like robe and then puts it back.

“You just need two triangles of fabric to be dressed and look nice, Meg, but for me it's slightly different”

“You just need triangles a little bigger, what's the problem?”

“The problem is there are no triangles big enough for me”

“Shut up!”

“And I don't know if Eddie would like that, I mean, I don't know his preferences” maybe he doesn't like this kind of seduction artifices, maybe he prefers a simpler style, a more natural approach. Why the fuck am I not naturally hot?

“He's a guy and he's heterosexual, what would his preferences ever be? The more skin he sees, the happier he is” it's Meg's very easy answer.

“My skin?”

“Yes, why?”

“There's too much skin in my case, maybe I'd better hide it” who am I kidding? You don't just put something cute on and turn into an attractive girl. You must be able to carry it around and feel confident in those clothes. I don't even feel comfortable now that I have a coat on. I'm never comfortable, except sometimes, with Eddie. Why ruin everything? I'll just show up like this, with a coat on. Or my fleece robe, I mean, he's used at my shitty outfits, this would be nothing new.

“Angie, what the fuck are you talking about?? He wants to see your skin because he likes you, I thought that had been already established by now”

“He likes me, altogether”

“No, fuck altogether, fuck mind, personality and all the other bullshit”

“Bullshit?”

“Angie, he likes your body, you turn him on, he wants you”

“He wants me so much than I gotta dress slutty to have him notice me?”

“The point is not having him notice you, that's what you got totally wrong. He already noticed you, you're with him basically! The point is letting him know you're ready for the next step. And stimulate him a little, warming up the atmosphere”

“If you say so” warming up, uh?

“Fuck, Angie, you're gonna give me a nervous breakdown sooner or later!” Meg pinches the bridge of her nose and I'm afraid she's really about to explode.

“Don't yell! There's people here” I complain looking around in embarrassment and hoping no one is listening to our conversation.

“Listen, when you're together... don't you ever notice anything in him?”

“What do you mean?”

“Whenever you kiss or hug... I mean, when you make out and stuff”

“Well, he looks... invested, focused on me and always gives me those looks that-”

“Ok ok, the look of love. But apart from that? Nothing else? Can't you feel anything?”

“What am I supposed to feel?”

“You know, since you also sleep together... and stuff”

“Stuff and stuff... Couldn't you be more clear?”

“Have you ever felt... something knocking?”

“Knocking?”

“Hasn't mini-Eddie ever popped up to say hi?”

“Mini... MEG WHAT THE FUCK??”

“Does he get hard? You must have noticed”

“DID YOU LOSE YOUR FUCKING MIND?!”

“Shhh stop yelling, there's people here” Meg chuckles and I'd kick her ass.

“You're to lock up” I grab her from the sleeve of her jacket and try to drag her out of the shop with me but she pushes me towards the books section.

“Jeez, you're such a prude”

“I'm not a prude, I'm just... discreet”

“Ok so have you ever discreetly checked if he gets a boner or not when he's with you?”

“Apart from the fact that it doesn't mean anything”

“Sure, now Eddie gets random boners with no reason, after all he's in his full pubescent phase”

“You're joking but it's true. Erections are not necessarily linked to sexual arousal only. Do you know men can get erections at the point of death too under certain circumstances?”

“Oh really? And how many times did Eddie die recently?” she smirks.

“Anyway, that said... it's none of your business” I turn the other way trying to look upset and as I look towards the clothing section, where we were until five minutes ago, I spot something I hadn't noticed before.

“I already know anyway!” Meg yells behind my back as I walk away towards the object of my interest, then she catches up with me “Come on, don't be mad. I'm sorry. I just wanted to prove my point! And tease you a little”

“What do you think about this?” I turn around showing the item I've just taken from the line.

“I think that... well, considering it's Eddie, we would never find something better to stimulate him, not ever at Fantasy Unlimited. Buy it!”

******************************************************************************************************************************************

I'm halfway between the first and the second floor when I realize I took the stairs instead of the elevator. I stop for a second, contemplating how stupid I am and trying to remember the moment I put autopilot on. I probably lost some lucidity once I parked outside Angie's condo. Was the doorway open? I think so, 'cause I don't remember buzzing and I'd remember if I had heard her voice, even through that shitty croaky buzzer. It looks like spending more time together hasn't changed the effect that the idea of seeing her has on me. I hope it'll never change. I shake my head and start walking up the stairs, two steps at a time, to arrive sooner. I didn't exactly run but when I get to the fourth floor I feel flushed. I take a deep breath, pull up my backpack and walk down the hallway to Angie's apartment. The first weird thing I notice is a sound: the sound of a saxophone, which becomes louder and louder as I get closer. The second weird thing shows up as soon as I turn down the corner and see something's wrong in Angie's door. As I come closer I realize the hallway lamp casts a narrow beam of light on the floor inside the apartment and from that I notice that the door is half-closed. As far as I know Angie double locks herself up even in her bathroom when she's home alone, she'd never let the apartment door open. I walk up slowly and in the meantime I open my backpack and stick my hand in it to find something I could use as a weapon. I don't really wanna waste some good wine crashing the bottle on the head of an elusive burglar. But I also doubt the videotape of Harold and Maude would have the same effect. I grab the bottle from the neck as I push the door open and cautiously enter the apartment. And I immediately notice two things. First of all I see there's something on the floor and at first they seem parts of a colorful object that broke into pieces. But as I lean down to see better, I take some of these fragments in my hand and figure out it's nothing but flowers, abandoned on the floor. I grope my way looking for water or glass pieces of a fallen and then shattered vase but I can't find anything. Now that I think about it, there was no vase of flowers here, at least not until this morning. Almost at the same time, I realize it's not really flowers but only petals and they seem to form a path towards the living room. In that moment I figure out I can follow the path of the blue and red petals on the floor with my eyes because the entrance is not lit only by the external hallway light but also by some burning candles placed on the phone table and on the shoe cabinet.

Oh.

I quickly stand up, feeling stupid for mistaking a romantic setting for a crime scene. I finally close the door behind me and follow the way led by the flowers, walking towards the living room and imagining the different scenes I could find, which have all the same main character. But she's the one missing when I get in the room, all that I find is more candles, the small table laden with delicious food and further away, between the two couches, a basket with a composition of blue and red flowers, just like the petals on the floor. Your love is king sings Sade in the background, that is not exactly background, since the volume is pretty loud. And I'm just standing here, wine still in my hand, waiting for Angie to magically show up, maybe with a little ambush behind my back, covering my eyes with her hands or in any other way she came up with. But that doesn't happen. Suddenly I think I hear a sound, more sounds, actually an almost regular sequence of sounds. I go and turn down the music a little and the series of dull thuds sounds clearer. Maybe a romantic setting doesn't exclude a crime scene... what the fuck is happening?

“Angie?” I call her and get no answer.

The noise comes from the kitchen and that's where I go, quickly but with caution. At first I slowly open the door to peep in, then I fling it open when I see Angie at the window, leaning outside, basically perched on the windowsill.

“Angie!” I call her again but she can't hear me. So I put the wine bottle on the table and reach out for her, shaking her by her shoulder “Angie what th-”

“AAH! Oh shit, Y'ALL WATCH OUT DOWN THERE!” Angie jumps and starts yelling outside the window, then I can hear a sharp noise, like something shattered into pieces and that's when I look out too to see what's happening.

What's happening is that there a small group of people on the pavement just outside the condo, standing in a sort of circle around a red expanding stain, while a guy curses and gives the middle finger in our direction.

“Angie... what did you do? What does it mean?” I ask as we both stuck our heads back inside the apartment.

“I've just lost a bottle of red wine and a boot” Angie sighs and replies as if it's the most normal thing, finally turning to face me.

And I finally focus for a moment and see what's in front of me: Angie, dressed in just a black The Who t-shirt that leaves her legs almost entirely uncovered, eye liner or whatever it is on her eyes, with those little wings on the sides pointing upwards that make her look more like a kitty, a glossy lipstick on her lips, vanilla scent. Maybe the burglar hit and killed me and this is heaven.

“Well, I can make up for the wine because I brought some too...” I walk backwards towards the table without taking my eyes off her, pointing at the place where I must have put the bottle “and I can go out and get back your shoe in no time. So, you see? Everything has a solution hehe, don't worry” why the fuck am I laughing? Do I think I'm funny? And why am I sweating?

“I'm sorry you have to go, you've just arrived” she replies with an irresistible pout, moving away from the window and breaking eye contact looking down.

“No problem, I'll be back in a minute.” I'm about to leave the kitchen, then I come back in “Oh wait, I can't”

“Oh ok... why? I mean, it doesn't matter Eddie, don't... don't worry” she starts stuttering and I smirk inside, trying to look cool.

“I forgot I have to do something first”

“What?” she asks puzzled before I get close and take her face between my hands to kiss her.

“This. I'll be right back, ok?” I whisper right after.

“Ok” she smiles and I kiss her again.

“And just so you know, when I'm back I got a bunch of questions about all this to ask you”

“Ok” her smiles widens and I kiss her once more.

“I'm telling you in advance so I won't catch you unprepared”

“Ok...” she repeats and I'm about to kiss her once again but she holds me back with her hands against my chest “Now go though”

“Uh is that so?” I try and get my kiss but she pushes me harder away.

“Hurry up”

“I'm going, I'm going. So bossy...” I let go of her and leave the kitchen, only to show up on the doorway a second later, only for a moment “I like it”

**

It takes me a while to find the boots, I mean, the boot, Angie's brown one, cause it rolled down the sidewalk under a parked car. When I find it, I instinctively look up, as if I'm expecting to see her still there, at the window, with her colorful hair fluttering in the night breeze. But she's not there and  I immediately go back inside. And during the whole way, this time using the elevator, I try and figure out the connection between wine and boot and the dynamics that brought them both out of the window. I walk up to the apartment and Sade is still singing.

“Thank you, Eddie. Do you want some?” I turn around the corner in the hallway and Angie's on the doorway with a bowl of chips in her hands and she holds it out to me as I get closer.

I want you I'd tell her but I just give her the boot and take the bowl and bury my hand in it.

“Anytime” I watch her quickly walking away into her room, quickly walking on her naked legs... GET IT TOGETHER MAN, YOU'RE SWEATING.

“Why are you standing there like that? Come in” Angie comes back and I'm still here at the door eating chips.

“I was waiting for you” I shrug and follow the flower path and her steps once again into the living room.

“So?” she asks when we're in front of the couch and I put the bowl of chips down on the small wooden table, since I believe we're about to sit down. Yet she keeps standing and smiles at me, with the tip of her canine popping up and diggin into her lower lip for a second as usual.

“So?” I repeat getting closer till my face is inches from hers, but without hugging her or kissing her, as if there's a game, a challenge between us, a challenge I'll surely fail.

“The bunch of questions... “ she looks down and, tugging the hem of her t-shirt down, she quickly takes a seat and I'm sure she's blushing even though she's not looking at me.

“Ok... Sade?” I point at the record player and sit down beside her, as I take off my jacket and throw it on the other couch.

“Hahaha of all this mess, the strangest thing to you is Sade's record?”

“No. But it's the first thing I thought of now”

“Don't you like it? It's... it's a good album” she turns towards me and subtly closes the distance between us on the couch at the same time.

“She's very good, it's just I didn't think you liked her. Can I ask the second question?”

“Sure”

“What the hell were you doing at the window with a bottle and a boot?” Angie's grin widens again.

“I was trying to open the wine bottle” she shrugs as if this is the most obvious explanation.

“By kicking it?”

“Hahaha more or less. My dad taught me”

“I sense a memorable anecdote is coming, I'm all ears”

Angie tells me about that time when she went on a camping trip with her parents to Lake Payette, her father's idea to celebrate his and his wife's birthdays, that I guess must be very close. On night one Ray pulled out a bottle of wine he had brought for the occasion but realized he forgot the corkscrew. He pounced on the cork with a knife but it seemed he couldn't open the bottle. Janis wanted to postpone the toast to the following evening, after going to the nearby shop and buying the bottle opener. There was no way to convince Ray though. So Angie's dad, as nothing happened, took off his boot in front of them, stuck the fuckin' bottle in it and, without saying a word, walked clumsily on a single boot up to the closest ponderosa pine and started slamming the bottle, protected by his shoe, against the trunk.

“You know, the pressure inside the bottle pushes the cork out, until you can grab it and take it off with your hands. My mom and I were doubled over in laughter” as she tells the story, Angie crosses her legs and moves on the couch and this makes her shirt go up little by little. I notice that and feel kind of an asshole.

“But it worked”

“And that was the first time I tasted wine: I was 11. It was good, although it had been shaken for 15 minutes”

“This means you got no corkscrew here at home?”

“Yeah... I mean, actually we had one, but I can't find it anymore. I guess someone took it at my birthday party or Matt or Chris borrowed it and haven't returned it yet. Sure it didn't seem wise to go there and ask them now, you know...” yes, I know, you didn't ask them because they'd have asked questions you don't wanna answer, at least by now.

“And you decided to use the Pacifico technique”

“And since I don't have any tree here, the only way to do it was beating the bottle against the wall. But I didn't want to risk getting the kitchen dirty so...”

“Hehe so you figured you'd do it out of the window?” I adore this woman.

“Yep. And it was working fine, until a certain someone scared me and made me drop everything. And I made a mess” she gives me a playful nasty look and scoots away from me.

“You're right, it's all my fault.” I scoot over on the couch to sit back close to her “But I know how to make you forgive me” ok, more than close basically glued to her.

“How?” she looks up at me amused, basically batting her eyelids against mine.

“Opening the other bottle” I stand up out of the blue and I leave her there, maybe a little disappointed? I go into the kitchen, take the bottle and open the window.

“With the Pacifico technique?” she asks as she shows up at the kitchen door.

“Nuh, with the Vedder one” I peer outside, remove the wrapper, pull out my lighter and start heating the end of the bottle neck with the flame.

“Isn't this dangerous?” I feel one arm circling my hip and for a minute there the red wine bottle was about to end the same way as Angie's one.

“No, I did it so many times” I answer as I rotate the bottle.

“Hey, it's coming out!” Angie exclaims behind my back while the cork starts moving.

At that point I tilt the bottle slightly as to prevent the cork from exploding like a bullet inside the apartment or into somebody else's window. Finally the corks pops out and falls into the street, where it looks like he doesn't hit anyone. Wine is safe too.

“See! Hot air expands inside the bottle and pushes the cork.” I close the window and triumphantly show the uncorked bottle to Angie, who arches her eyebrow at me “What? I can do science too, you know”

“So you also know you could have caused an explosion and get hurt?” she rolls her eyes and by the way is still hugging me.

“Not if you know how to do it and and to be careful. So, am I forgiven?” I ask, raising the bottle at her as if it was a toast.

“Sure!” she chuckles and looks at me in silence for a while. And I'm expecting a kiss but instead, she lets go of me and exits the kitchen, but not before addressing me again “Let's go taste you boiled wine”

The wine is not boiled at all and it's not bad. Angie and I are at the second round and, as I'm stuffing my face with chips and sandwiches, I realize it's getting hot in here. I mean, I can't be this heated for two glasses of wine. And neither for the half nakedness of Angie. Even though... And this is the moment I figure out my usually chilly girlfriend is dressed only in a t-shirt and I can't hear her teeth chatter for the cold, so there must be something going on here.

“My bunch of questions aren't over anyway...” I say and Angie makes herself comfortable on the couch, half laid and leaning on the armrest.

“Shoot”

“It's fucking hot in here, isn't it?” I ask as I take off my flannel and she starts laughing uncomfortably and, as she tries to sit up, her feet get closer, touch my legs and push against me a little to leverage. But I don't move an inch.

“Hahaha yeah, you're right... as you can see, tonight's really the perfect night: just one disaster after another”

“Why? What happened?” I throw the shirt there were my jacket is.

“I don't know, it must... the heating system must be broken, and that's not unusual. The new thing is... this time, I don't know... they kind of broke the other way round and it's been heating non stop at full power since this afternoon”

“Do you want me to check your radiators?”

“No point trying, it's not just here, the whole building is burning basically”

“Do you want me to go down and check the boiler room?”

“NO!” Angie basically kicks me, then regains her composure “Err no, no worries. And then, I mean, the apartment manager is the one who's supposes to take care of this stuff and call technicians, that's what he's paid for! He'll do the work”

“Ok”

“And what if you can't solve the problem and maybe no one can and they blame you because you put your hand in there...”

“Alright”

“And by the way, at least it's not freezing, for a change”

“Well, yeah, still better than freezing but...”

“I know. Shitty building. Anyway, now you know the... ehm, you know why I'm dressed like... this” Angie goes on and pulls down her t-shirt again to cover her thighs.

“I wouldn't call it a disaster then” I smirk and rub the back of my hand softly against her leg, from her ankle to her knee. She stares at me in the eyes and for a moment I'm sure she's about to throw herself over me and kiss me, but I'm wrong again.

“So? Which movie do we watch first? Mine or yours?” she asks out of the blue.

“You decide” actually I even forgot about the movies, the heat, the wine, about where we are and maybe what year we are as well.

“No, come on, you tell me” my hand is still going up and down.

“It's the same for me, Angie”

“Same for me too”

“You're the host, you choose”

“You're my guest, so it's up to you” of course, as always: it's up to me.

“Uhm... alright! Let's watch yours first then”

“Ok! The tape is there under the tv, would you put it on? I'll get some water” in a fraction of a second Angie sneaks away into the kitchen and I find myself alone. I turn off the stereo then crawl in front of the tv to get the Goodfellas tape and as I do I think about one thing. Well, actually two. One worse than the other. The first thing is that I'd rather have gone to get the water instead of Angie, so I could come back here and see her on hands and knees as she fumbles with the videorecorder, and that it'd have made for a very nice view. My second thought is that the tv looked much better in Angie's room and it'd have been much more enjoyable to watch it with her from her bed.

Disgusting thoughts indeed.

“Did you find it?” Angie's question startles me as if I was caught red handed doing something illicit.

“Yep” I press Play, stand up and try to get back on the couch before her. I do and sit right in the middle of it. So she won't be able to sit far from me. I gloat for my smar idea.

“If you want to be more comfortable, just lay down. I'm gonna sit there. Hehe we have one couch each if we want to” is Angie even aware of her endless power? The power to leave me totally speechless with such statements?

“Actually... I don't want to”

“Are you sure?” well, I don't know... WHAT DO YOU THINK?

“Very sure, I don't want a whole couch for me, I wanna share it with you” I hold my arms out and grab her by her waist, pulling her gently towards me until I finally take her back on this couch. And I hold her and kiss her and touch her, pushing her delicately towards the armrest on her side. And at some point I feel her hand moving right under my body. I think I know what she's about to do and I feel euphoric all of a sudden. But Angie is able to surprise me again, because even if I don't see her doing it, I can clearly feel her gesture of grasping at the hem of her t-shirt and pulling it down for the umpteenth time. I internally laugh at my stupid X-rated delusions, although on the other hand I'm sorry Angie doesn't feel comfortable with me yet. I don't wanna hurry, really, I'd just like to know what the problem is. I give her one last peck on her lips and back away so we can both sit up properly.

“Ok. Let's fastforward all the commercials and advisories. Where's the remote? Oh there it is!” Angie, the one who was about to abandon me all by myself on this couch, the one who was coy and bashful during my approach like two minutes ago, it's the same girl that basically climbs on me to jump over on the opposite side and stretch out to take the remote on the other armrest. And then does the same thing backwards to get back to her place. And I'm not complaining at all.

**

We're almost at the end of my movie and this is the situation: we finished the wine I don't even remember when, as for food only a few snacks and two small chocolate cakes are left; I'm in my t-shirt and boxers because it's really hot, although we opened the window in the living room; Angie's smoking a cigarette, resting on the couch with her legs over mine and I've been genty stroking them for literal HOURS, something that contributes in heating the atmosphere even more. And I also feel kind of guilty, because Harold has just rushed to the hospital with Maude and I already know what's about to happen and the ending breaks my heart every time... and I'm here, basking in the softness and smoothness of Angie's skin under my fingers.

“It's so sad. But also beautiful at the same time” she remarks during the credits.

“Yeah. You really haven't seen it before?”

“Never. And now I see why you like it”

“Hehe right, Cat Stevens has something to do with it” I reply since I think she's referring to the soundtrack.

“Uhm yeah but that's not what I meant. What I wanted to say is that... well, this movie is like you” she takes one long last hit of smoke, then puts out her cigarette in the ashtray she placed on the floor. And she's amazing. Not because she's smoking but... I know it's not nice to say, and it's also unhealthy, a bad bad habit, but... there are times, particular times in which, maybe fuelled by excessive domestic heating and subsequent nudity, I see something extremely sexy in a woman who's smoking.

“Absurd?”

“Absurd, eccentric, thoughtful, bitter and sweet...” Angie slowly counts the adjectives on her fingertips and I can't say she didn't get them right. This means she knows there's something bitter, and dark inside me. Maybe that's why she doesn't trust me completely yet.

“Eccentric uh?” a devilish grin appears on my face.

“Oh well...”

“Said the girl who tried to open a bottle with a shoe outside the window”

“Ok this is gonna be another of those recurring jokes you're gonna use to take the piss out of me for the rest of my life, isn't it?”

“Yes... after all, I can't make fun of you for your nights out with Meg to pick up guys anymore, I have to find a substitute”

“Really? And why?” she adjust herself better on the couch to sit up and for a minute I'm afraid I'll lose touch with her legs, but she still keeps them over mine.

“Because you're not having those anymore” I hold her by the hips as she puts her hands on my shoulders.

“Are you sure?”

“You don't need to”

“So can I hang up my infallible pick up techniques now?”

“Sure, now that you picked me up”

“How I made it is still unknown...”

“With your infallible pick up techniques, of course”

“That are? Not doing absolutely anything?” as if she needed to do something to have me fall for her. I lay down on the couch and pull her with me.

“Being yourself and not doing absolutely anything, the best way”

“If you say so...” she mutters and she tries to sit back up but I hold her tight and prevent her from sneaking away. At this point, also not to slip and fall off the couch, she has to more or less straddle me.

“It worked with me, can't you see that?” I grab her as she tries to wriggle free, I hold her tighter and slip my hand under her t-shirt, to caress her back.

“Eddie! Come on, let me sit up...”

“Why?”

“Because I'm hurting you...”

“Shut up!”

“It's true and you know it”

“You can't crush me, I can feel you got all the weight on your knees and arms”

“Because I wanna spare you asphyxiation?”

“Cut.The.Crap.” I decide I'm gonna do this the hard way and my hand sneaks across her back towards her armpit so I can tickle her, but she gives up long before I get there. Mental note: Angie is very ticklish “Oh, that's better!”

“Hahaha stop it!”

“Much better” I repeat when we find ourselves basically nose to nose and then I stop torturing her, close my eyes and breathe in silence with her for five minutes, I think, waiting for something... that never comes. Angie removes her hands from my hair, where she had casually buried them in the heat of the moment. Then she holds on to the pillows, pulls herself up and backs away from me.

“I'll turn off the tv” Angie stretches out her hand to get the remote from the table where I put, then sits back down at my feet. I take a deep breath and sit up too.

“I'd better go” I'm about to stand up but Angie, with a quick move, grabs me by the arm and pulls me back down on the couch.

“WHERE ARE YOU GOING?”

“Home, so I'll let you sleep” I pinch her cheek and try to stand up again but Angie doesn't let me.

“But I don't wanna sleep! Well, I mean... you can sleep with me, you know, you can crash at my place”

“Even tonight?”

“Yes, why? Don't you want to?” Angie's torturing the hemline of her t-shirt again and if she tugs at it some more, it'll become a tunic.

“Sure I want to. I thought that it may be a problem”

“A problem about what?”

“I don't know, because of Meg?”

“Meg won't be here, she's sleeping over at her friend's”

“But she'll be back tomorrow morning, right? What if she sees me again? What will she think?” I'm saying it for her, not for me. If she sees me and does the math, I'll be nothing but happy.

“What will she think? Nothing. Anyway, I already told her”

“You told her?” I ask, suddenly interested and full of hope. Did she really tell someone we're a couple?

“Yeah, I told her you'd come over tonight. And that maybe you'd sleep here” hope destroyed in ten seconds. Maybe.

“And what did she say?”

“She said ok” Angie shrugs and takes the last two cakes left from the table, biting on one and handing me the other one.

“Ok? Only ok?” I take a bite too.

“Sure, what were you expecting?”

“Nothing. But... I think Meg knows then”

“Sure she knows, I've just told you! Why all these problems all of a sudden?”

“No, I mean she knows... about us...” a second bite and no more cake.

“NO! I... I didn't tell her anything”

“Angie... it's the 4th time we sleep together in a week, I don't think you need to tell her. If she's not stupid, she'll understand by herself.

“She knows we sleep together but she doesn't know... what... ehm... what we do” Angie eats the rest of her chocholate cake and pours herself half a glass of water to swallow it better.

“She can assume it, I guess” seriously, Meg's assumptions surely go well beyond what actually happens between Angie and I in reality.

“Meg has no trouble to say what she thinks: if she had suspects, she'd have openly told me”

“You should do it”

“What?”

“Openly tell her, about us”

“WHAT? WHY?” why the hell is she so scared?

“'Cause she's a friend to you and you have to start somewhere, don't you?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Listen, we already talked about it, do you wanna keep it secret? Ok, I'm in. But you could take things gradually, with no big collective announcements, just by telling it to one single person. And why not your best friend?”

“I don't know, maybe because she's totally incapable of keeping a secret?” Angie looks at me as if I was stupid and rolls her eyes.

“Well, that's so much better, isn't it. We only need to tell Meg, then she'll get the word out for us” I try and hug her and she slaps my chest in response.

“Fuck you, Eddie”

“Let's go to bed?”

“Mmm... ok”

[mobius-prime]

213. Sonic the Hedgehog #145

Shadows of Hope

Writer: Ken Penders Pencils: Ron Lim Colors: Jason Jensen

I've pointed out misleading cover pages before, but it's been a while since we've seen one. This issue's cover page makes it seem like Shadow is gonna beat up Sonic or something, but in reality they never even come face to face within this issue, so I don't know what the cover artist was thinking. Shadow isn't interested in antagonizing Sonic as of yet - instead, he's been coming to Knothole for several weeks in a row, watching Hope Kintobor from the bushes near where she likes to hang out. That's not creepy at all! A mysterious robed figure, in turn, has been spying on Shadow all this time, referring to him as "it" and wondering what "its" purpose here is. Of course, we know why he's been watching Hope - because she looks very much like Maria. Shadow is surprised by a sudden flash of light behind him, and turns to find the mysterious stranger looking down at him.

…dude, what the hell? I'm sorry, but did you really think that your plan of lassoing the literal ultimate life form with a $2 roll of twine you got from Home Depot would be a good idea? Shadow is similarly baffled by the sheer audacity of this figure, and leaps forward to attack, but suddenly finds himself being teleported away by another flash of light, and Hope finds herself also being caught in the light. The three end up in a hidden facility somewhere, where the figure kicks Shadow off him and slams a glass door shut, locking him in a pod. Shadow has a few quick flashbacks, first to the nutrient pod he first awoke in when he was created by Gerald, and then the healing pod the Bem put him in after his tangle with the Biolizard. The figure removes their hood to reveal themselves to be none other than Locke, who has captured Shadow for the purpose of using him to find his missing family, the other members of the Brotherhood. He's really just kind of a piece of garbage in this issue, even more so than usual - asking if Shadow knows what it's like to lose everything, and when Shadow angrily replies that he's never had anything in the first place, replying with a callous "That's not surprising." Seriously, dude? Apparently, the reason he isn't surprised is because according to his scans, Shadow is neither "biological, mineral, nor vegetable," which makes absolutely no sense. Like… he's not a robot, dude, he's a biological creature like any other, just with some unusual origins. I chalk this up entirely to Penders just not knowing anything about Shadow's history or circumstances, because as I've mentioned before, he's almost bizarrely proud of how he's never played a single Sonic game while writing these comics.

Anyway, it's not even clearly explained why Locke seems to think that Shadow of all people can help him locate the missing members of the Brotherhood, nor why he thinks kidnapping him is an acceptable thing to do toward that end.  Hope steps forward at this point, scolding Locke for enacting this terrible, terrible plan, and when Locke turns around to pull a "you're just too young to understand my wise adult ways" on her (keep in mind she's like at least fourteen by this point), Shadow's PTSD kicks into high gear.

Shadow starts beating the everloving crap out of Locke, who at first tries to fight back with some Chaos powers of his own but is ultimately overwhelmed by Shadow's sheer strength in his frenzy. Shadow is on the verge of actually killing Locke when Hope yells for him to stop, saying she thought he was better than that and that he's scaring her. This appears to snap Shadow out of his flashback, and he recognizes once more where he is.

So this is the beginning of a series of really weird issues in the comic, led primarily by Penders. I'm not sure exactly what his angle was here, but after everything that came before, it seems he's decided to take a break from focusing on his favorite echidna in favor of a few other characters - namely, Shadow, Locke, and Evil Sonic. Evil Sonic and Locke are his own creations, so I guess I can't really fault him for whatever he decides to write about them, but I'm not really a fan of the way he writes Shadow. Shadow is easily my favorite character in the entire Sonic the Hedgehog franchise, across all canons (though his iteration in the games is my favorite), and I'm very particular about how he's portrayed. He can be a bit of an anti-hero at times, a bit brooding and sometimes violent, but in the end he's much more hero than anything else. He's not some vicious killer edgelord, he's a confused and traumatized individual just trying to figure out where he fits in the larger scheme of things. This is something that becomes abundantly clear if you play through Sonic Adventure 2, Sonic Heroes, and Shadow the Hedgehog in order, as those three games contain the bulk of his character development. Interestingly enough, while Shadow's amnesia is a big part of the story of the latter two games and has a huge impact on how his story goes, Shadow doesn't appear to have amnesia at all in the comics. Instead, his main motivation is finding out exactly why Gerald created him in the first place. It's a bit of a bizarre turn from the games and anime, as while the motive is similar, it makes a lot more sense in the games and anime due to his amnesia, which makes him far more suggestible to those trying to manipulate him. I don't know, I can't even point to one specific thing about the way he's portrayed in the comics that bothers me - all I know is that it's different from the games in a way that just rubs me wrong, and makes me feel like Penders kind of missed the point of Shadow's character development in the first place.

As for Locke, suddenly making him out to be this callous bad guy who forcefully kidnaps others to study their biology for his own purposes is really jarring considering his deathbed redemption speech not two issues ago. Like, I know that all takes place in the future so he hasn't gotten that redemption yet, but if anything that just goes to show how weird and out of order everything in the comics lately feels. I really feel like Penders actually should have stuck to focusing on Knuckles, since at this point he's made him into such an author's pet that he seems to be horribly rusty at writing literally anyone else in the comic. On the other hand, I suppose it's valid to argue that the quality of Penders' work has been declining for quite some time now, first with the entirely-too-long Green Knuckles Saga and followed up immediately by Mobius 25 Years Later. Honestly, most of my defenses of his work have fallen flat ever since the cancellation of the KtE spinoff a while back, which if you ask me was the main point in time where his writing abilities actually got a chance to shine. In these last couple eras, he's gotten his head so far stuck up his own ass that he's lost sight of what things readers actually find interesting in these comics. I suppose it's fitting, then, that in the next fifteen issues we'll be witnessing the final death throes of Kenders' writing in the Archie preboot, in an era of flux where no one really knows what kind of story they're going for anymore.

Training Day

Writer: Karl Bollers Pencils: Al Bigley Colors: Jason Jensen

Oh, speaking of a story that doesn't really go anywhere, we've got one here! I'm not being facetious here either - the "plot" of this story is just that Eggman has some data files on why he hates the Freedom Fighters, and does a little presentation for his army of mindless swatbots informing them of the dangers of several key players in particular. Of course, he covers Sonic first as his most hated enemy, then talks about how Tails is dangerous due to his precociousness and expertise with machinery. Knuckles is up next despite not being a member of the Freedom Fighters proper, and finally we end with Amy of all people. Not to insult Amy of course, as she's quite a bruiser in her own right, but I mean… why not cover someone like Bunnie, who has power enough to wreck an entire battleship loaded with nuclear missiles?

I only include this picture to sort of show that at least, as I've mentioned before, the comics actually do Amy proper justice as a character - she's the definition of a kickass girly-girl, a perfect demonstration of the idea that being feminine doesn't make you weak. The tarot card thing is a new one for the comics, but that's actually established backstory for her in the games, for those who don't know - the whole reason she met Sonic in the first place in Sonic CD was because she did a tarot reading for herself and the cards told her to go meet the love of her life in a specific location, which just so happened to be where Sonic was on his latest adventure. Ultimately, this story doesn't really tell us anything we didn't already know apart from that, so we can safely move on, as it distinctly smacks of filler.

Harbinger

Writer: Ken Penders Pencils: Dawn Best Colors: Jason Jensen

Knothole is experiencing a moment of calm, and thus Tails lounges in his room engrossed in a book about the history of technology on Mobius. No one is aware that some distance from the village a huge explosion has just gone off, because why would they be aware? It happened several hundred miles away! Sonic and his friends (minus Tails) are spending their free time playing idle games, with Sonic and Ash becoming overly competitive over their game of darts while the girls in the room giggle knowingly at their bristling and strutting. Tails becomes intrigued by something-or-other that he read in his book and decides to go ask Rotor about it, only to find him already preoccupied with something else.

Tails suggests the three of them pile into the Tornado and check it out, but Rotor says they should at least take along Sonic and Bunnie for some muscle just in case. Tails gets weirdly offended by this, prompting Rotor to give us an explanation of the roles each Freedom Fighter plays in the group for whatever reason, including listing off himself and Tails as the tactical support and Sally as their leader. I mean, it's accurate at least? Tails heads out to find Sonic as Ash stomps out of the hut in a huff, with Mina trailing him and complaining that he's only upset because he and Sonic were deliberately antagonizing each other. He finds the others still hanging out in the game room, and is initially offended that they didn't invite him until Sonic mentions offhandedly that he knocked at Tails' door several times to no answer since Tails was so caught up in his reading. Tails explains the situation to everybody, and soon everyone, including Tommy, is ready to head out in the FFS and check out the disturbance, while Sally comes over to see them off.

I mean, Sonic's got a point, Sally - he's been on a million missions before with little more than a few scratches here and there, what makes this one any different? Oh, severe trauma, right. The story concludes with a final page showing a familiar pair of air shoes stepping into a ruined facility, their owner pleased at finding the location of some kind of prototype that he learned of in Gerald's old encrypted data files…

[gracieisnotmuchofawriter]

Junk Ramble

It's a Wednesday morning, the air is cool and humid and I haven't been to bed since Tuesday morning. The fever is gone, the diarrhea is gone, and now it's just me. My leg has been bouncing since I got to the dorms in the evening. I keep thinking of that stupid orange bottle in my drawer, just at my right foot. I can feel the smoothness of the paper on the plastic tube. I can hear the clicking and clacking of the pills jarring against each other. The feeling of the plastic lid popping off with that airy, wispy sound. I can feel that chalky, acrid taste hit my tongue, the one that used to make me gag when I was a child.

I can almost remember Sunday night, Monday morning. The feeling of warmness, how abstract the idea of pain had become. I almost felt new, like whatever filth that lingered on my body and in my hair, just washed off. Like I had become that once pure little girl, dancing to whatever music she could find or hear. That girl who would devour books and go through crayons like she'd never run out of pages to color on. I remember the feeling of safety and security, curled up on my bed, wrapped around a pillow. I felt like I was floating, just in a constant state of the feelings of my kid self. When my eyes popped open, I felt disappointed. The feeling of filth came rushing to my senses. I knew, that after those warm feelings, my body would turn on me, punish me for this. I walked into the bathroom, starting the shower, feeling dizzy. Getting myself to class would be more like an out of body experience, like the translation of some supplies to a faraway land. I couldn't remember what I needed to do that day like my whole world just reset, or was it a forced shut down? I don't know, I'm not a computer, a computer wouldn't know what to do with a painkiller.

I sat on the toilet afterward, I held my face in my hands. I wanted to tell someone, I wanted to yell at my aunt, my brother, my sister, their partners, I wanted them to know that I'm being pulled apart. But I'm always the one who's scared of everything, the one who makes a mountain out of a molehill. Once, I went to the clinic because of this lump that appeared on my shin. It was plushy, everything around it was hard. I worried it might've been something serious, so I asked my aunt to take me. She kept telling me it was just a simple fatty deposit, she had a few of those on her own leg. But I was adamant about going to the clinic, hoping to get some clarification. In the end, my aunt was right. On the way home, she would only give me nothing but one-word responses or just noises. She didn't even look at me. When I asked if she was mad, all she said was that she was thinking about supper. My family speaks in silence. How do I get out of this? How do I have a conversation about this? How do I exhibit more disappointing behavior to people who are already beyond disappointed? What if I just said what I needed to say? Just have a long, eight-page letter about my growing dependence on my painkillers. How it makes me so sick I can't even concentrate in class after the weekend passes. How the cravings keep me up at all hours of the night, the morning, and the day. But if I know it's a problem, why don't I just stop? Why do I need anyone to know? What if this just makes me feel more like an outsider? Even now, here at school, it feels like my life is dominated by questions I can't really answer without worrying anyone. Maybe the love that drives the disappointment, the worry, and the anger is what's really important. Maybe in all those disappointed sighs, rolling eyes, and everything else, is the support I'm longing for. Maybe when I'm ignored, maybe when they give me silence, maybe that's the connection I want. Or maybe I'm just trying to justify shitty behavior. Maybe I'm just emotional and it doesn't call for this interrogation. I feel so alone.

When I got out of the bathroom, my shoulders started to ache. I put on pants, a shirt, a sweater, but when I went to put on shoes the stiffness made it's way to my knees. I had dropped myself back into the chair, the creaking echoed in my room and out into the bathroom. My face crumpled, trying to hold in any sort of sound that could escape my lips. I rubbed and I rubbed, but the dull ache wouldn't budge. I put my shoes on carefully, packed up my bag, and went on my way to the school. As I left the dormitory, my neck started to ache, the space between my shoulder blades started to stiffen up. I think I took too much.

I could feel the room get colder, my chest felt like it was freezing. I scratched the side of my head and saw my fingers were wet. I was sweating. Soon enough, everything sounded like an empty auditorium, just reverbed voices, and computer noises. I put my head onto the table, relieving some pressure on my neck. Finally, nausea came, my stomach felt like it was swirling. The room was freezing. I looked up, seeing everyone stare at the projector, everything looked like it was shaking. I got up in a hurry, barging into the hallway, walking earnestly around the corner into the bathroom. I ran into the open handicap stall, everything I ate last night came up. My face felt an insurmountable pressure, my throat stung as the bile and chunks of a microwavable Salsbury Steak poured into the toilet bowl. I sat back on the wall, in the dim stall. My fever started to ebb, but my stomach still felt slushy. I sat there, wishing for this to be over, I didn't want to lie to my instructor again for another Monday.

My stomach started to wring itself out, the ache was unbearable, I got up and sat down on the toilet. Trying to relieve pressure, I leaned forward, only for my abdominal muscles to constrict. I shot back up, gasping, pressing my back into the toilet, my stomach didn't hurt all that much at that point. It wasn't gone for long, as I sat back, my stomach poured itself out into the toilet. I felt like I was burning up, from my stomach and from my backside. I put my hands on the walls beside the toilet, trying to hold myself up as my stomach ached from the inside out.

After getting myself cleaned up, I saw that I had only been absent for fifteen minutes, I wouldn't have to answer so many questions this time. I walked into the hall and everything started to turn and my head felt hollowed out. The dizziness. I hugged the wall to get back to the classroom, jumping to the opposite side where the door was. I stood out of the way of the window in the door, trying to shield myself from the potential stares that I could attract. I took a few deep breaths, then I did my best impression of someone who isn't dizzy. My foot dragged when I tried stepping in, I know I said an expletive because everyone looked away from the projector and at me. I used my other foot to pull myself into the room, I still ate shit and dropped to my knees, but I wouldn't have to keep walking. My chair was right there, I lifted myself into it. My laptop on the table was spinning and resetting, spinning and resetting, spinning and resetting. Someone spoke to me while I watched my laptop spin and reset.

"You okay?" A person with a light concerned voice next to me said. I looked at them, I could see short white hair but I couldn't focus on their face.

"Hi." I said, I could hear everyone suppress their laughter. The white-haired person next to me giggled, I let out a light chuckle, too.

"Amber, do I have to call someone? Are you alright?" My instructor asked. At least this time had some humor to it.

"No, I'm okay, I just didn't get much sleep last night." I lied, my eyes felt pristine and unbothered (unlike right now). My body still ached, but it was much duller now.

After class, I went next door to get ready for the next one. The room was dark, lit up only by the window that overlooked the main hall. I opened my computer up, going to the Salient Design Cooperative to listen to the "The Salient Podcast". A new episode was up, "I Miss Calling My Teacher TEACH". I got my headphones out of my bag, but then I saw a green bottle levitate over my computer. I look up to see that person from earlier who asked if I was alright, I could see their face more clearly now. They were pretty.

I took the bottle from their hand, "Thank you." I say, as politely as I can muster.

"You seemed out of it earlier, you okay now?" They ask, their face filled with concern.

"I'm fine, thank you, I'm just tired." I chuckled at the end of the sentence, "Why a soda? You didn't have to do this."

"Uh, yeah I—" they looked behind me at the wall for a second or so, "I can't think of any excuse other than it made approaching you easier." She chuckled, though it was a bit awkward. (I'm just gonna call her a her until I get confirmation, she's very masculine but also very feminine and I don't know what to do, but she has girl hips so...)

"Do I have a resting bitch face?" I asked. The reality is though I'm just dealing with withdrawal most of the time.

"Yeah kinda." She nods. I almost want to tell her what actually happens, but then I'd be that girl who overshares everything with people she just meets. I may actually just have a resting bitch face.

"Why didn't you say before?" I say. My voice was small but kinda whiny, I put my hands on my cheeks, kneading the plushy deposits.

"You don't just tell people they have a resting bitch face." She says, her voice is kinda incredulous. I read that word somewhere and liked it.

"Why not? It'd be kinda fun watching people tell you to fuck off." I said.

"Is that a hint?" She asked, squinting her eyes at me.

"I mean you don't just tell people to fuck off." I say with a shit-eating smile on my face, the bottle hisses and cracks as I take the cap off.

Her eyebrows raise to the roof and holds her hands up, "Alright, alright, I'm going—"

"I'm kidding, sit down!" I said.

To be honest, I'm not sure where this entry is going, I just started thinking about Monday. Monday was so weird, from dealing with heavy withdrawal symptoms that don't cripple me, to making a friend. I guess I'm just trying to translate it into something cohesive. It's also really helping with my cravings right now, I don't feel so stir-crazy. A week ago I did it with painting, this week I'm doing it with writing. I guess I can add some color to that painting I did, now that design and painting aren't the only things in my life. I can add a splash of color to it now, to account for Jude. Oh and her name is Jude, we had a lot of get to know you date questions.

"So, where do you come from?" She said as she sat down across from me.

"I'm from here, this city." I say, though in all honesty, this city is quite small, it's mostly just five Burger King's and eight McDonald's with three Wendy's. "If you can call it a city."

"Lot of fast food joints..." She stops to nod her head, "There's like eight shopping centers that are just a Walmart and fast food joints."

"Where are you from?" I asked, but then I got to thinking of a more important question. "Actually, what's your name?"

"Jude and I'm from Lincoln." She says.

"Oh, my sister lives in Lincoln." I reply, at this point, I'm a feeling a little awkward since I just blind-sided her with the 'where are you from' question.

"That's cool does she like it—"

"Yeah there's a lot of fast food pla—"

We both stop to say 'Hmm?' Then I handwave her to continue, but she does the same at the same time as me. A long silence stretched over us, we sat there smiling at each other, expectantly. The silence grows bigger and my stomach coils into my chest, I know I have always been awkward, but this awkward?

"I really like Mountain Dew, thank you." I said, breaking the silence but my stomach pulls itself into a knot.

"Yeah, no problem," she paused, probably regretting spending the money on me at this point, "so which is your favorite Burger King?"

I can't help but giggle the knot out of my stomach, Jude joins in the laughter.

I really don't want to continue writing this, it's so awkward it makes me want to die. The fact that I could die tomorrow and my family and friends will read this will make me want to die again.

Amber

[sanguinecalamity-a]

fck discord and its 2000 characters limit, if I have to send a chap in like 23 pieces again I’m gonna sob- Just posting it here real quick so I can just throw the link at a few people who want to read it.

I should just make a temp sideblog or something so no one has to be subjected to my unedited, unproofread, generic love triange-- :’D

At least I’m nice enough to put it under a read more, go away

CHAPTER 01

"I love you. Be mine." Sound seems to fade as the taller man’s mauve gaze meets Kiara’s own. Seconds pass, her heart skips a beat. The man's larger hand is holding her own to his chest as if she's a lost princess who has just been found. "What...?" "I have loved you since the moment I first laid my eyes on you." the beautiful man's low baritone promises a myriad of things Kiara can't quite understand. He towers over her by a solid eight inches, his short black hair a hot mess of thick waves which fall in a layered style, framing his well defined face perfectly. Mouth dry, Kiara can only stare up at the man for a few seconds, before finally uttering out a, "Who... are you...?" The naturally narrowed gaze seems to pierce through her own before his brows droop, expression forlorn. The expression lingers a mere seconds before a saddened smile curves his lips. "Of course you don't recognize me." he murmurs, voice dropping. "Uhm, what?" Kiara awkwardly tries to tug her hand back, only for the man's grip to tighten. Pulling her closer, the man's smile turns utterly charming, making the young woman wonder if the previous expression was a mere figment of her imagination. "My name is Dante... it's a pleasure to meet you, Kiara Cross." raising her hand to his pale face, his thin lips graze against her knuckles, before he finally releases the appendage. Turning on his heel, he abruptly walks off, a final smile cast upon the confused woman from over his shoulder. He's gone before she can even ask him how he knows her name.

   "Kiara, are you okay?" Kiara blinks slowly to snap herself out of her stupor. The sounds of the college classroom register in the back of her mind and she shakes her head, before turning her attention back on the male seated next to her. Luca White's baby blue eyes have widened slightly in concern, his shoulder length dark blonde hair pulled back in a partial ponytail as has become usual for him. "Yeah, I'm fine," Kiara gives an apologetic smile, trying to push the events from last weekend out of her mind. "Just thinking, that's all." "You've been out of it all week," Luca's eyebrows raise a bit "Did something happen?" "Nothing's out of the ordinary, don't worry." Kiara is quick to assure. If she's being honest, she should tell her childhood friend about the odd encounter she'd had at the mall the other week, especially since the stranger seemed to know her name. But for some reason she can't bring herself to do it. The more she thinks about him, the more Kiara can't help but think that the man, Dante, was oddly familiar in a way... but she's certain she'd never met him before. She'd never forget a man like that, especially not with those eyes. Not only was the purplish shade strange, but there was something about them, something that pulled her in... she hasn't been able to get the encounter out of her mind all week. Averting his gaze, Luca licks his lips briefly, before turning his attention back to the other. "Was it one of your dreams again?" "No, no," Kiara shakes her head quickly "It's nothing like that, don't worry." she'd rather not think back to the vivid dreams she's grown up with. Fortunately they became rare as she grew up. "Really?" Luca gives a small, relieved smile, ruffling his messy fringe with his hand a bit. "That's great, really..." "Yeah, so don't worry about that, okay? I'm just thinking about later. You know, Matt..." she trails off, and just like that the smile leaves Luca's lips. "What did he do this time?" With a sigh, Kiara props her chin up on her hand. "He got into another fight. Seriously, just because mom and dad aren't around, he thinks he can do whatever he wants..." she sighs. "When are they going to come back?" "No idea. End of the month, maybe? Next month? Who is to say?" Luca nods once before resting his cheek against his hand to level his gaze with Kiara's. "Want me to go talk to him? I can smack some sense into him, if need be." "Don't worry about it," dropping her voice to a whisper as the Professor starts his lecture, Kiara gives Luca a weary smile. "I can handle it." They both know it's a lie. "Good afternoon, everyone. Please open your books to page-" The class passes in much of a blur for Kiara; nothing the professor says really seems to stick, her notes are filled with random doodles she wouldn't be able to explain as anything other than 'art is in the eye of the beholder'. She can still hear Dante's low, sultry voice now, the memory bringing a pleasant shiver down her spine. In the end it's the final bell which jars her out of her daze, forcing her to stop her artistic rendition of what might be a burning hill if the scribbles count for something, and to make a quick note on what the assignment for this week is. Avoiding the piercing gaze she can just _feel_ coming from next to her, Kiara messily shoves her books and pencil case into her bag before getting up. "Well that was interesting." she tells the blonde. "Learned a lot. You?" "Yeah... sure." Luca responds slowly before also rising from his seat. He opens his mouth to ask something, then seems to think otherwise and changes his words: "Let's meet up tonight to get a head start on the assignment, okay?" "Uh-huh, sounds great." Halfway to the parking lot, Kiara stops in her tracks and looks around. That's odd... is she getting stared at? "Kiara?" Luca stops as well and looks back at me with a furrowed brow. The feeling of being watched disappears as soon as it had appeared and Kiara shakes her head. "No, just thought I forgot something, sorry about that." "Uh... huh. You know you look a little cross-eyed when you lie, right?" Eyes widening, Kiara splutters indignantly before swatting Luca's arm. "I do not!" Luca stops at his car with a laugh. "I'll drop by after dinner. Don't forget." "I won't, I won't." Kiara huffs softly while unlocking the car next to Luca's, pretending like she doesn't feel his concerned gaze boring holes into her head. "I see you tonight, okay?" "Yeah, okay." Luca agrees. Kiara gives him a faint smile, then gets into her car and closes the door. "Now for the next item on the list..." she stares ahead for a few seconds, unseeing, before buckling up with a sigh. Turning on the engine, she pulls out of the parking lot, before heading off to Matt's school.

Preston Academy is a private school for the intellectual and prestigious children. It's the educational grounds to those whose parents can afford them, or a lucky few who are able to grab hold of one of the three scholarships extended each year and are able to maintain those. Kiara pulls up in front of the gates surrounding the large, white building and soon walks past the familiar fountain of her ex-school. An ID check is required to enter the building, then it's through the large, arched doors and up to the first floor. The halls have quieted down. The school has been out for half an hour by now. She finds Matthew sitting outside the principal's office. He's holding an ice pack to his face. "Matt," Kiara approaches and tries to ignore how Matthew's scowl deepens. "I got a call again." she continues, trying to sound firm. "Good on you." Matthew mutters, glare fixed on the desk. "Your cheek too, let me take a look at it-" "Don't need you to." Taking a deep breath, Kiara clears her throat, leaning down a bit to be eye level. "Do you want to tell me what happened?" she isn't surprised when she doesn't get a reply, but that doesn't stop the disappointment sigh. "Matt, I can't help you if you don't-" "You can't help me anyway." He kicks the desk with a heavy scowl. "You're not mom. So stop acting like you are." Kiara purses her lips together. She reckons she should be used to hearing the same remark over and over, but it never fails to smart. "No. I'm not," she agrees "But I'm here right now, and I'm the best you got." "Joy." Kiara narrows her eyes a bit, "Matt..." "Miss Cross? Please enter." Kiara looks up when the cold, clipped tone cuts off what she was about to say. The door to the principal's office has opened, revealing the tall and thin woman who is dressed in a navy skirt suit with black stockings. The thin, pursed lips do nothing to hide the stern wrinkles around the aging mouth, graying hair pulled into a tight enough bun that many would like to attribute her ever sour mood to a headache and Kiara is certain the creases around the woman's steely gray eyes have nothing to do with smiling. She stares down at the siblings through half moon glasses. Kiara can only hope she didn't hear just how little control she has over her brother. "Mrs. Hawkings." she greets, straightening up as if she's the one in trouble. She gives Matthew a final, stern glance as the principal steps aside enough for her to enter. Once she does, the door closing behind her feels more like a death sentence, if anything. "Sit down, please." Kiara sits down on the chair she's found herself far too many times ever since Matthew started attending the school. However, rather than on the woman sitting at the other side of the large oak desk, Kiara's eyes are drawn to the lace tablecloth covering it. Plum in color; it reminds her of Dante's eyes. When no word comes from Kiara, Mrs. Hawkings clears her throat, drawing the young woman's attention. "So," she starts, beady eyes narrowed. "Here we are. _Again_." purposefully placing the emphasis on again, her thin hands lace together on the desk. "Yes..." "That would make this the fourth time this semester, would it not?" Kiara bites the inside of her cheek. She was here the other meetings as well, she _knows_ how many of them there were. "May I ask what happened this time, Mrs. Hawkings?" Turning up her nose at Kiara, Mrs. Hawkings straightens up even further. "Apparently young Matthew thought it fit to punch a fellow student in an attempt to grab his wallet." Kiara's eyes widen in response. "Come again?" She can't believe what she's hearing! Did he really sink that low? The accusing stare the older woman casts her doesn't make her feel any better about the situation, as if _she's_ to blame for whatever happened. "He had... requested Jamie Williams’ wallet, Miss Cross. In front of various witnesses, after bruising Mr. Williams’ rib with his fist. The only reason we haven’t contacted the police is because the testimonies are questionable in nature, being that they were solely from Mr. Williams’ friends." "So there's still a chance that it didn't happen, right?" Kiara asks quickly. "Be that as that may, an entire group of students has witnessed Matthew suddenly attacking Mr Williams. Based on that fact alone, I am forced to suspend your brother for a month." "But he'll be a month behind on everything! And you're not even sure about exactly what happened-" She is cut off by the way the principal's eyes narrow disapprovingly. "If one more incident occurs, miss Cross. He will be missing far more than just a month. Honestly, raising a 15-years old boy is no task for a _child_. If your parents would be even the _slightest_ bit more responsible-" Kiara drops her gaze back to the tablecloth, zoning out as the rant on her parents continues. Why is _she_ the one getting lectured now? It's not as if she asked for this sort of situation. It's unfair. "I'm sorry, but will this be all?" Kiara has no doubt that, had she looked up just then, she would have been met with a highly indignant look at her interruption. But that's the least of her concerns right now. "I suppose we are done," she concedes in  clipped tones "For now." Finally tearing her gaze away from the tablecloth, Kiara stands up and extends her hand for the elder woman politely. The long, slightly dry fingers wrap around her own just a tad too firmly and Kiara just _knows_ it's on purpose. "Call your parents. And tell them to come home and raise your brother. The way they _should_." "That is a highly inappropriate thing to say, Mrs. Hawkings." Kiara responds through gritted teeth. "The truth is often inappropriate, miss Cross." Turning on her heel, Kiara strides out of the office, firmly closing the door behind her. Matthew quickly leans away from the thin wall he'd be leaning against in an effort to overhear what was going on, but she doesn't comment on that. Instead, she keeps walking, not glancing back as she tosses him a swift, "We're leaving." Matthew sluggishly rises from his seat, icepack in one hand, his book bag in the other, before he follows at a leisurely pace despite the ever growing distance between the two. By the time he opens the door to the passenger seat, Kiara is already buckled up, the engine running. "She said you attacked someone to get his wallet, is this true?" Kiara asks, not taking her gaze off of the window as she hears Matthew close the door behind him. "Doesn't matter what I'll say, does it?" Matthew scowls, slumping on his seat "Not like anyone's gonna believe me anyway." "Seat belt." Kiara mutters, only pulling out of the parking space after Matthew is strapped in properly. "And it _does_ matter. If you say you didn't do it, then I'll believe you." "Yeah? Well, I say that’s not what happened." "What _did_ happen then?" Kiara asks, only to be met with silence. "Matt." she urges, briefly glancing at him from the corner of her eyes, but her brother's gaze remains solidly on the window. _"Matthew."_ "God, you're so annoying, just shut up already!" Matthew scowls, kicking the dashboard. Clenching her jaw, Kiara's fingers clutch the steering wheel until her knuckles turn white. "Matthew Davidson Cross, that is _no_ way to talk to me." "Yeah? Well _bite me_." Tears sting her eyes, and Kiara would like to think it's the soreness of her clenched teeth causing them, rather than the behavior of her brother. She can taste some blood. The silence lingers heavily in her car, the hairs on her arms standing upright from the sudden chill she's feeling. No matter what she tries, no matter what she says, will it ever be good enough? Will she ever be able to make this work out properly? A poster catches her eye when they're forced to wait before a traffic light. "Look, it's a poster of mom." she motions towards a movie of a hyped up, up and coming movie that is due to be released in two to three months. The familiar visage of their mother is plastered on the large poster board: the main character once again. Lucina Cross, known to the public as the famed Lucy Lawson. Still, not even the mention of their mother is enough to draw Matthew's attention, and Kiara gives up on further conversation. By the time they reach their home, a large Victorian themed building made up of three floors, an attic and a basement, and large arched windows spread across the high walls, Matt leaves the car before Kiara even has time to turn off the engine. "Matt, come back!" Kiara calls out, opening her door. "We're not done talking yet!" But the only response she receives is the front door slamming shut behind Matthew as he hurries inside without a glance back. "Damnit..." Kiara drops her head on the steering wheel with a groan. "How am I supposed to deal with this...?"

                           _"Kiara..."_

"Huh...?" Opening her eyes again, Kiara finds herself standing in a grand, dimly lit bedroom. The antique Victorian furniture looks like it’s made of gold rather than wood, and all the fabric is in varying shades of black silk and red velvet. The subtle scent of sandalwood incense penetrates her nose. Her heart pounces in her chest, gaze flitting around the room. The way the candles flicker gently in the distance make her think of a dream I might have had once or twice in the past, even if she doesn’t remember ever seeing a scene like this before. "This is... a dream...?" she breathes out, voice barely audible as she turns around. "Do you wish for it to be?" Kiara turns around at the sound of the smooth voice, shivers running down her neck at the familiar baritone. It's only when the skirt whips past her legs that she realizes that she is wearing a long velvety dress. The dark red color appears black in the dim light, the slit on one side going higher than she is comfortable with. However, any thoughts on the attire are wiped away when her gaze falls on the other occupant of the room. Dante is leaning against one of the poles of the grand four poster bed, red silken fabric draped across the mattress beautifully, littered with red and black rose petals. His fierce mauve eyes gaze seems to glow in the dim light, peering out from under his messy black hair. His black button up shirt is unbuttoned and untucked from his black jeans, while his black leather shoes reflect the light of the candles ever so slightly. Kiara's breath catches in her throat. "It _must_ be a dream..." Her heart skips a beat when Dante's lips twitch into a subtle smirk. "Then, we must be in your head right now..." his low voice sends another shiver down her spine as Dante pushes himself off of the bedpost. "_I_ must be in your head right now...?" he purrs, extending a hand for her to take. Kiara takes it without hesitation and in one smooth move she is pulled against his cheek. His other hand comes to rest on her lower back while his heated gaze doesn't leave her for even a second. Surely, it must be a dream, because Kiara is certain that it's impossible for a person's heart to race this fast without combustion. "So... Am I...?" "Yeah..." Kiara breathes out, barely taking notice of anything but his alluring eyes. He'd be able to ask her to admit to any crime in the world right now and she wouldn't think twice about agreeing. "Good..." he murmurs, his smirk growing as he leans down, lips next to her ear. "Because you are the one in my head, too. _Always_." A shudder of excitement runs down Kiara's spine when Dante's large hands gently ease her back onto the bed, his broad frame towering over her. "Let’s have you think of me even more, shall we?" He murmurs, slowly dragging his fingers up her leg via the skirt's slit as he leans closer, his breath landing on her lips gently. Kiara's back arches and her eyes flutter closed to accept the kiss- _"Tsk."_ "... Huh?" Did he just click his tongue?

When Kiara opens her eyes she is once again in the car, Luca worriedly shaking her. "Kiara, are you alright?" "Hm...?" She blinks a few times to get rid of the daze, slowly realizing where she is, and with who she is. "Thank Heavens..." Luca gives her a crooked smile, breathing out a relieved sigh. "I thought something was wrong. Looks like you just fell asleep." "Oh, uh..." Kiara stares at him for a moment before nodding. Of course it was a dream. What else could it be? It's impossible for it to have been real, no matter how real it all felt. But, to dream something like _that_... A flush works its way up her cheeks, only deepening when Luca's eyebrow raises. "You, uh... You're early." she stutters out quickly. "I saw you sitting in your car from my room, and since you weren't moving... Are you _really_ okay?" "Yeah, I'm fine, I just- I don't know, I didn't sleep well, so..." Kiara mutters, rubbing her eyes. Had she really been so tired to fall asleep in her _car_ of all things? How odd. "Hm..." Luca furrows his brow a bit, then shakes his head. "Come on, I'll help you get inside, okay? You can take a proper nap there. Or you can talk to be about how things went with Mrs. Hawkface. Mom'll call me when dinner's done." Kiara's lips twitch slightly at the juvenile name that was used back when they attended to school themselves. "Thanks... I could really use someone to talk to, about that." "That bad, huh?" "Yeah, and _then_ some." Finally leaving the car, Kiara tries not to push the dream from her mind. Why did she dream about a man she's only met once? Why did she dream something like _that_...? Luca's voice is a welcome distraction as she follows the blonde inside her house. It was just a dream. No point in giving it much more thought. What else could it be, right?

_Just a dream..._

[aliceslantern]

Beyond this Existence, a Kingdom Hearts fanfic, chapter 3

Summary:  After Xehanort's death, Demyx finds himself unexpectedly human in Radiant Garden. With nothing but fragments of his past and a cryptic statement from Xemnas, he's left to figure out who he is. When Ienzo asks for his help with a project, the two find common ground, but the trauma and secrets in both of their pasts could tear it apart. Zemyx (Demyx/Older!Ienzo), KH3 canon-compliant

read it on FF.net/on AO3

The cut had stopped bleeding overnight, leaving a red, angry scab that cracked easily. Demyx woke up feeling absolutely exhausted. For a while he watched the silvery-blue petals of his little plant sway in the faint breeze, utterly at a loss for what to do.

He was going to have to deal with this sometime.

What was he going to do now?

No more Organization. No more obligations. But instead of feeling freed, mostly he felt… dangerously untethered. If he had Arpeggio it would be a completely different story. With it, he could write and compose and experiment to his heart’s content. But without it… he really wasn’t much of anything.

The slickness of anxiety caught in his throat again, but he choked it off. No. He was not going to break down again. He’d just have to… find someone to bother, something to do. Anything to escape this feeling.

I hate being human.

Demyx decided to explore the castle. Maybe he would feel better if he had a more solid grip of his surroundings. The place was huge, after all. Some of it had to be interesting. He thought of it like a recon mission. Maybe something would help him figure out how to get out of here.

But then where would he go? Home?

The thought sent a pulse of pain through his head. Where… was home?

His memories were muddy and indistinct, more of the same blurry colors he’d seen recurring in his dreams. Only this time there other people, four or five of them, men and women in colorful robes and animal masks--

-- legacy that sleeps within you--

He gasped and choked on spit.

I don’t understand. I don’t understand. I don’t understand.

Why had Xemnas told them that, if only to go and die right afterwards?

He went to Even. In the lab, he was stooped over notes, flicking through brittle, yellowed pages every few seconds, his long blonde hair draping over the desk in front of him. Demyx knocked on the open door with his good hand.

“What do you want?” Even asked, barely looking up.

For a moment, Demyx nearly left. He didn’t have to tell Even about this. But Even had more facts. Even could help him see more clearly. He was about to wonder if understanding was something he did want when Even caught sight of his bandaged palm.

“What did you do to yourself now?”

“Last night, at the dinner party. Cut myself when I was doing dishes.”

Even stood and approached him. He unwrapped the purple cloth. “Right across your lifeline. Some cultures would consider that unlucky.”

Demyx reached to take the cloth back, but Even held onto it.

“This thing’s filthy. I might not have any magic, but I can at least provide adequate care.” He opened a cabinet and pulled out a roll of cloth bandages and a jar of some sort of salve. He pulled on a rubber glove and rubbed the salve into the wound. It burned terrifically. Once the wound was cleaned and bandaged, Even turned away. “Well, if that’s all you came for, would you do me a favor and leave me be? I’m in the middle of something important.”

Demyx felt anger rising in him, but he quashed it down. “That’s not why I came. Remember how you told me to keep track of my dreams?”

“My memory is very good.”

“They weren’t dreams at all. They were memories. But I don’t think they were his.” He exhaled. “They were mine.”

Even didn’t seem happy. “Oh. Is that all?”

He grit his teeth. And then he told Even about that day in the Keyblade graveyard, about Xemnas’s bombshell.

Even was silent for several seconds. “Are you… quite sure?”

“Of course I’m sure!”

More silence. Demyx could heard the analog clock on the desk ticking softly.

“That was… from the time of fairy tales. Many, many years ago. I had believed that was all legend… but then… well, if the X-blade has been forged again, who knows what else might be true?” He crossed his arms. “Biologically speaking, you’re barely in your twenties. If that were all true, then somehow you would be hundreds of years old.”

Cold, existential sweat gathered under his arms.

“And if that were the case, then--how did you get here? And why?”

“I don’t know.” He thought he might be sick. “I barely remember… everything’s gotten so fuzzy.”

“I don’t believe it,” Even said. “It must’ve been some sort of ploy… something to give you neophytes purpose… then again…” He came close to Demyx, seized a handful of his hair, and pulled.

He yelped in pain. “Hey! What are you--”

Even took the few blond strands he’d harvested and put them in a small sample bag. “You’ve piqued my curiosity. Sit down. I need blood.” He rummaged around in the cabinets and came back with a different box.

He hadn’t heard anything more threatening. “What--”

Even seized Demyx’s bad arm and rubbed a cold, wet prep pad against his elbow. “I need samples. I wonder if there’s any dating technique that could tell us more about this situation.”

“...Dating?” he asked.

“For your DNA,” Even said, exasperated, as though it were obvious. “And to see how your other cells might have been impacted by whatever means of preservation  that brought you to current day. That is, if any of this is true and not some lotus flower Xehanort was feeding you. There must have been something. This is your original body, yes? I think I’d have remembered making a replica for you.”

“It better fucking be,” Demyx said. He flinched when Even stuck him with a needle, but didn’t fight it. As cunning and cruel Even could be, if he was interested he would do the utmost to figure it out. All Demyx had to do was comply.

He took six vials of blood in total, enough to make Demyx a bit woozy, considering he’d also lost a good amount last night. He took spit, nail clippings, cheek swabs, and some skin cells.

“I dearly hope this isn’t a waste of my time,” Even said. “But imagine the possibilities… and why you? Why not? I don’t pretend to understand Xehanort. Not at all. It’s an awful lot of effort for vessels he could have just made…” His voice grew softer and softer as he spoke to himself. “I’ve all I need. I let you know if there’s more. You may go.”

Dizzily, he went to the library. He knew the worlds had different time streams, but there was no way it had been hundreds of years since the first time he was human. Time streams were different, but not that different.

The library was so staggeringly full, each shelf crammed with more books than he could count, books in all different subjects; psychology, biology, chemistry, literature, multiple different languages, religion, theology, photography. The words started to blur together. He found the history section. Volumes and volumes about Radiant Garden, and some about a few other worlds that sounded familiar, but not much else. No lore. No legends.

“What is it that you’re looking for in here?” Ienzo asked. He was passing by the same section, carrying several books.

“I was trying to find something about the age of fairy tales,” Demyx said. “I want to know more about that time.”

Ienzo looked confused. “That sort of thing is oral history,” he said. “There are very, very few printed volumes that survive from that time. Ansem may be a collector of rare books, but even he could never get his hands on something like that. Why is it you ask?”

Demyx hesitated. He couldn’t even be sure what Xemnas had told him wasn’t a lie. Maybe he’d just completely made up those memories, or maybe they’d been planted when he was a vessel. He forced a laugh. “I was just bored, is all. Wanted to know more about what I just got myself out of.”

Ienzo nodded slowly. “It’s unfortunate, but a lot of history from that time is just… lost and shadowed in legend. Perhaps that’s why Xehanort was trying to recreate the Keyblade war. Perhaps he wanted to understand it for himself.”

“...Maybe,” Demyx said lamely.

“Ansem might know more,” Ienzo said. “He studied quite a bit of mythology when he began his experiments. I could ask him for you. I admit, I’ve never seen you become intellectually involved in anything.”

“I just want to know,” he said, a bit more sharply than intended.

Ienzo frowned. “Are you quite alright?”

“Yeah. I mean, no. I’m just…” Demyx exhaled. “Trying to figure things out. And I have no idea where to start. I don’t even have my sitar. I don’t really have much of anything. And I’m not meant to be here.”

He blinked. “Not… meant…?”

“Face it. I’m just here because you are all too nice to get rid of me. None of you even like me. I don’t share a past with you, and I’m not a scientist.” He was starting to get worked up again.

Ienzo seemed to be at a loss for words. “Do you really judge your own worth using others’ opinions?” he asked after a tense moment.

“Of course I do,” Demyx said. “How can you not?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry you haven’t felt welcome.”

He shook his head. Tears pricked in his eyes and he blinked them back. “I have nowhere else to go,” he said. “I didn’t mean to dump this on you.” A strange emotion twisted inside of him. Words caught in his throat. He wanted, no, needed to talk to someone.

“It doesn’t bother me,” Ienzo said, but his voice was halting.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to lie. I’m not your problem.” He tried to force a smile. “I’ll let you get back to your work.”

The day passed in a sort of haze. He shifted from room to room in the castle, but the features and layout didn’t want to stick in his mind. His chest was hurting again, dully, and after awhile he realized the pain was anxiety. Demyx got himself spectacularly lost, and by the time he found his way back up to his room, it was time to eat. He heated some soup which sat in the old-fashioned fridge and picked at it.

He hated how quiet things felt.

He’d burnt out artistically a few times, awful weeks where he couldn’t compose anything worth listening to if his life depended on it. This felt just like that, but ten times worse. He felt as though he were… forgetting, somehow. He glanced down at the calluses on his left hand, partially obscured by bandages.

“There you are. I was hoping I’d see you around.” Ienzo had shed his coat, and the sweater beneath was a warm shade of gray. He held a sheaf of crumpled, yellowed, and brittle pages. “I asked Ansem about the age of fairy tales. He doesn’t have any texts, but after some digging, I found this. He doesn’t know I took it from his library. He’s been… somewhat unobservant lately.”

“What is it?” Demyx asked.

“I only saw the first page, so I’m not quite certain. Perhaps we may look at it together. Come to think of it, somebody should create some record of that time. We can’t repeat history a third time.” His voice was fast, excited.

“I smell a new project for you,” Demyx said.

“Yes. Perhaps. When I am done with my current research.” The joy in his expression drained, and he sat down across from Demyx.

“What's that?”

“...I'm… trying to help Sora,” Ienzo said.

“What’s wrong with him?” Demyx couldn’t help the bitter taste in his mouth; he had nothing but bad memories of Sora.

“He’s vanished. He overstretched his power… and disappeared from this world entirely. I'm hoping that something in our old research might help the guardians of light find him. I am not so sure. You can only meddle with the forces in this world so much before there are natural, irreversible consequences. The guardians are… naturally quite cut up about it. He and I had formed something of a rapport as well. As much as I wish for him to be whole… I don’t want to give myself false hope.”

“...Whoa,” he said, because he wasn’t sure what else to say.

“There’s never a moment wasted in researching,” Ienzo said. “For all I know, there’s some clue in these papers. And I think you can help me.”

“Me?” he asked incredulously. “What happened to “I’ve never seen you intellectually interested in anything?””

“Have a look.” Ienzo shuffled the fragile papers towards Demyx and opened to the first page. “While my scientific education has been excellent, admittedly it is somewhat lacking in the arts. I only have the most basic skills when it comes to music theory. This… seems more up your alley.”

It was a full-length musical score. Demyx touched the papers. It was some of the most intricate composition works he had ever seen; the meters were odd, all over the place, somehow flowing coherently. Trills, flourishes, complicated dynamics--just looking at it made his heart race. The way the treble and bass clef mingled was so graceful.

Beneath there were lyrics in another language he couldn’t understand.

“They’re ancient runes. I’ve studied them a little. But I recognize the characters for “Keyblade”, and they’re in there.”

Demyx read the score, his fingers itching to hear it out loud.

“Perhaps you can help me?” Ienzo asked.

“I need an instrument,” he said. “It’s too complex to sing.”

“There’s an old piano in Ansem’s quarters. We can have Aeleus and Dilan move it to an empty study space. I’m sure it’ll need tuning.”

“I can do that.” Something about this score gave him hope. He wasn’t sure what. “I’m in.”

[otterthewasted]

A Portrait of Love

Rhysand's birthday is coming up and Feyre wants to give him a unique, and extremely personal gift. She needs help from their family to accomplish it.

A short story containing all of the Night Court's inner circle; Feyre, Rhysand, Amren, Morrigan, Cassian and Azriel. Loosely set some time after A Court of Frost and Starlight. Contains unique memories of Rhysand's mother and sister.

I had the idea for this story will working on my other ACOTAR project, and decided to take a break from the chapter I was working on to write this.

Fairly gooey, but also some substance to it. There isn't a full fledged, detailed sex scene, but there is mention of it so I slapped a mature rating on this.

You can also read this on AO3 HERE.

I hope you all enjoy!

*Disclaimer - I do not take credit for the any of the characters or the world created by Sarah J. Maas.

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

To say I was nervous was a bit of an understatement.

I had come up with this idea weeks ago and then promptly agonized over it until I was almost out of time. Rhys’s birthday was only a few days away, and I wanted to give him something special, something unique, something he did not already have.

This idea would most definitely qualify – and it might also be painful.

However, when I explained what I wanted to do, to my family, they had whole heartedly agreed to help, and conspired with me to make it happen.

So now I was ensconced in the cabin, far in the mountains, it’s walls bedecked with colors and images of life and love, and our amazing family that I had painted years ago. The plan, or perhaps to put it better, plot, was that Mor and I were coming to the cabin for a short just-us-girls retreat. However, over the course of the next few days Azriel, Cassian and Amren would be joining us, one at a time while the other two made sure Rhys was distracted and did not notice their absence.

Right now though, it was Cassian sitting across from me at the table, leaning back comfortably in his chair, one elbow on the table, his head propped on his hand.

His eyes were closed, and his brows were furrowed, a look of deep concentration on his face.

Had there been a mirror in front of me I’m sure my look would have mirrored his.

In front of me on the table was a medium sized sketch book, and several sticks of charcoal. I was leaning over it and sketching, never once looking up at Cassian, too focused on what I was doing. Because right now, my mind was resting over his, like a fisherman in a boat over calm seas, and he was throwing me fish – or memories rather, for me to catch.

Memories of Rhysand’s mother and sister.

One by one, he would throw me a memory, and I would catch it and sketch it out, and he would wait for me to nudge him, and then he would throw me another.

Like the memory of the first time he met Rhysand’s mother, when he had been dirty and freezing, and she had ordered him into a bath and then sent him to sleep for the first time ever in an actual bed, promising him that she understood and that he would have a bed here for as long as he wanted. It had been the first kindness he ever remembered receiving.

He showed me the time he had fallen sick with fever, and she had sat beside his bed for days, bathing his forehead with a cool cloth, feeding him broth and tea, and reading to him while he recovered.

Or the time he caught her dancing in the kitchen to music only she could hear, twirling with happiness – until she saw him, and with a mischievous grin, had pulled him forward and taught him how to dance while he blushed furiously.

And of Rhysand’s sister, beautiful and wild, like her mother, laughing as she ran through the camp with the other younger children, her hair flying out behind her on the cold mountain wind.

The time he had taught her how to make soup in the kitchen at their old house in the Illyrian camp, laughing when she suggested putting honey in the soup, because she loved it so much. The soup had been terrible, and they had all eaten several bowls of it that night, just to see her smile.

He showed me a memory of her sitting on his lap at night by the light of the fire, while he had helped her learn how to read, the same way Rhysand’s mother had taught him, and the feeling of pride and quiet joy in the memory at something so simple was radiant.

I sketched for hours, filling the pages with his memories, until my fingers were tired, and he looked as though he had a headache.

Then there was a knock on the door and the memory Cassian had been showing me faded as we both looked up, startled. Mor walked over to the door and opened it and Azriel stepped inside, nodding to Mor then looking over at us. “He wants to see you, he was going to winnow to the camp, but Amren distracted him. We need to go now.”

Cassian glanced at me and I smiled at him, “Go, and thank you Cassian.”

He winked at me and stood up, “Any time.”

I looked back at Azriel and asked, “Are you or Amren coming tomorrow?”

“Most likely Amren, she has mentioned to Rhysand about visiting Varian for a few days.” A corner of his mouth quirked up and Mor snickered.

The romance between Varian and Amren was something that still continued to shock and amuse all of us even all these years later.

“Well that’s good, save’s the best for last then!” I grinned at Azriel, who I would have sworn blushed, but then he just bowed his head at me before the two of them headed out in order to winnow to the camp.

Mor walked over to my side then, leaning over my shoulder to look at my work. I glanced up at her, a little nervous, but she smiled and said, “They look incredible Feyre. Stop doubting yourself, he is going to love it.”

I blushed and let out a sigh, flexing my fingers a little, they were stiff from hours of clutching the charcoal.

She caught the movement and grinned, “Too tired for my turn? Or would you like to eat first?”

I groaned pitifully, “Food please. And wine. I can feel my stomach wrapping around my back.”

She laughed and walked into the kitchen, pulling out a pot and the jars of soup we had brought with us – neither of us could cook.

“We should have made Cassian cook for us before he had to leave,” I commented, getting up to wash charcoal dust off my hands.

Mor chuckled, “Yea, let’s remember that next time. Oh well, at least we won’t have to share the wine with him.”

We both laughed, and I helped set the table and before long we were both stuffing ourselves with rich soup and crusty bread and working through a bottle of wine.

After finishing our meal and cleaning up, Mor took the seat Cassian had perched in, and I started to sketch her memories – she had more memories of Rhysand’s sister than anyone else, it seemed that they had spent a lot of time together. Though she had a plethora of memories of his mother as well, it felt as though she considered Rhysand’s mother more like her own, than her birth mother ever had been.

My favorite memory that Mor shared with me was one she had of Rhysand’s sister. They had all taken a small vacation here at the cabin during the spring sometime before the War. Mor and his sister had found a field of wild flowers and sat in the middle of them, braiding the flowers into their hair – the memory was so sweet and innocent and colorful… I knew someday I would have to paint it.

When it became too dark, we had to call it quits – though I wasn’t concerned, we had the next few afternoons to work through her memories to fill the book with, while I was only getting a couple of hours with everyone else during the morning.

That night, after sitting up chatting for what felt like hours, we had gone to bed. I curled up under the sheets of the bed we had shared the first time we had made love after we had accepted the Mating bond, reaching up to curl my fingers over his pillow.

Busy day? I sent down the bond – careful to keep my thoughts of what I had done all day shielded. It might have been safer to not talk to him, but I couldn’t bear the thought of blocking him out.

Very. He responded a moment later. I miss you. The coloring of that thought was full of longing and desire, and it made my toes curl and I grinned into the dark room.

Just a few more days… I teased back, and I swore I could hear him groan.

I laughed and decided to tease him further, sending him a memory of my own of him on his back in this very bed, and me sliding on top of him, the feel of him inside of me, his hands sliding up over my hips, cupping my breasts…

Another groan, tinged with a seductive growl, You cruel wicked thing… Anymore and I will be joining you there tonight.

A shiver ran down my spine, and I was so, so tempted to invite him… but I didn’t want him to catch on to my little project, so instead I deflected gently, Save it for when I’m back…

Make it soon, he purred.

I fell asleep with a smile on my face.

- - - ~*~ - - -

Amren’s memories of Rhysand’s mother and sister were… different. Amren didn’t seem to see the world quite the way anyone else did, she failed to catch many of the nuances the rest of us would have noticed; not details in environment but in behavior. She also didn’t have all that many personal memories with them, but she did however recall their faces very clearly – more so than any of the rest of them. As though she had been able to map their faces in her own drawings, inside of her mind – ready to be displayed just for me. It was interesting, and a little unsettling, but I sketched them out just the same.

She was finished faster than Cassian had been, the lack of memories being the only reason, and though she had been happy to help she did not seem displeased to leave earlier – more time spent in the Summer Court with Varian.

I spent the rest of the afternoon working with Mor, and when she had a headache, I used the memories she had already shared with me to flesh out some of the details in both Cassian’s and Amren’s, giving each sketch as many details as I could. Some were rougher, the older the memory – and these were all old memories, the less defined they were, but they were still clear enough to sketch.

Later in the evening, after we had finished dinner and just finished doing the dishes. Mor sat the towel she had used to dry them on the counter and turned to look at me, her eyes dark and her brows furrowed.

I dried my hands off with another towel and looked up at her, frowning a little, “What’s wrong Mor?”

“I… have a memory, of Rhysand’s mother that…” She hesitated, and crossed her arms, obviously uncomfortable, but went on, “That I want you to sketch. It isn’t… it isn’t a happy memory exactly. But… it meant a lot to me, and I want him to have it too.”

I studied her face, then nodded, “Of course, come sit down.”

We sat at the table and I pulled out the charcoal, flipping to a new page, and reached out to Mor’s mind. It seemed to take her a few minutes to relax, but finally she sent the memory to me and for a moment, my hands froze. Then I began dragging the charcoal across the page as though those dark marks could draw out the roiling emotions that colored this memory for Mor, like leeching poison out of a wound. It was not a happy memory, she was right, but it was… beautiful in its kindness.

Her father had promised her in marriage to Eris, the heir presumptive of Autumn Court, and she had been devastated, nearly inconsolable with rage and frustration and terror… and Rhysand’s mother, who had heard the news, went looking for her and found her tucked away in a tiny room in the castle in Hewn City. Found her and held her for hours in a way that no one ever had before. This wild woman, who had starved herself to stop her own bleeding in order to keep her wings, who understood what it felt to be powerless and overlooked as she had once been in an Illyrian camp, shared with Mor her strength and understanding, and her love without saying a single word.

The gratitude Mor felt towards Rhysand’s mother was overwhelming, and I spent far longer drawing this memory than I had any other. When I finished it, and Mor let the memory slide back into the ocean of her mind with the others, I looked up at her and asked quietly, “Do you want to see?”

Mor’s face was pinched and pale, and she shook her head, “No. Thank you for sketching it though.” She smiled at me vaguely, “I’m going to head to bed. Don’t stay up too late, ok?”

I nodded and watched her leave. The Morrigan. A woman with such depths of strength and kindness, she never ceased to amaze me.

- - - ~*~ - - -

Azriel arrived a little later in morning than the others the next day, and after accepting a cup of tea from Mor with a brief smile, sat down across from me at the table. He looked… oddly nervous. I don’t think I had ever seen Azriel look nervous in all the time I had known him.

Fiddling with a stick of charcoal I leaned forward a little, “Azriel, if you aren’t comfortable…”

He shook his head, “I don’t mind you looking inside my mind Feyre, though it’s hardly a pleasant place to be.” A corner of his mouth quirked up in a smirk. “It’s that I think you might find it… disturbing. It is difficult to explain however – but please know that I will understand if you aren’t comfortable with using my memories.”

I frowned a little with confusion but said simply, “Alright. We’ll begin when you’re ready.”

He nodded once, took a sip of his tea, then leaned back and closed his eyes. The shadows that always hovered around him, turned thick and dark around him, almost like armor as though to protect him while his attention was turned inwards.

I watched him like this, and for a moment my mind turned from thoughts of working on the gift for Rhysand, to painting this – Azriel, the shadowsinger, swallowed by shadow and yet not an ounce of menace or evil leaked from him. No, everything about him spoke of peace and calm, even possibly, contentment. As though the memories he was summoning up were bastions of happiness for him.

I knew that I was what I would call it, A Bastion of Shadow.

I smiled briefly before looking down at the journal and the fresh blank page, then opened my mind and reached out, brushing against Azriel’s and… and I understood then what he had meant. The shadows that clung to him, danced around him – they were not just outside of his body, but inside of his mind. Tendrils of shadow that twisted and reached for me, like the legs of an octopus, wrapping over me, around me… And for a moment I panicked, and tried to pull away, when I realized – they were not holding me.

I stayed still and watched them caress my mind, gentle and inquisitive, but not invasive or restraining. They reminded me of a woman I knew once, when I had been mortal, who had lost her sight as a child from fever, and how she explored the world with her hands instead of her eyes. These tendrils of shadow were learning about me, learning the touch of my mind, and I had no doubt they were whispering to Azriel what they discovered in that language only he could translate. I relaxed and settled back in place, and as though the shadows told him I was ready, he offered me his first memory.

Like Cassian, Azriel shared with me the memory of the first time he had met Rhysand’s mother, on his very first day in camp. And like Mor, this was not a happy memory, except for the kindness that she had given him without question or hesitation. She had taken in the sight of him, thin and pale, and how the sunlight hurt him – and it was the first memory I had seen where she looked angry. He showed me how she had hovered over him, worried about him not eating enough, and helped him adjust to the sun with such simple kindness.

Next he shared with me the memory of his first winter solstice that he celebrated at the camp, the dinner that had been a feast, and the first gift he had ever been given – a sweater that Rhysand’s mother had made for him out of such rich, luxuriously soft wool that it had been a pleasure to touch.

He showed me the memory of the day that he, Cassian and Rhysand had returned from the Blood Rite, bruised and bloody, and victorious. How he had looked out at the crowd of waiting families – of which there were none for him – until he had seen her right at the front of the crowd, with tears in her eyes and a look of such relief on her face – not just for Rhysand, but for him and Cassian as well. How that night, in their small home, she had hugged him fiercely, and hadn’t let him go for what had felt like hours.

The memories he had of Rhysand’s sister held not an ounce of darkness in them, despite the shadows that swirled around them. His feelings towards her were achingly sweet, he had seen her like his little sister and doted on her.

The first memory he showed me was the first time he had held her when she was a baby – he had been terrified, she was so small and he was certain he would hold her too tight, or drop her, even frightened that the scarring of his hands would be too rough on her petal soft skin. But he remembered how she had looked up at him with her vibrant blue eyes, without fear, and smiled.

He shared with me the time he had found her near the edges of the forest by the Illyrian camp as a small child, crying over an injured bird. He had helped her carry it home and bandage it and they had cared for it together – and the day they had released it and it had flown into the sky and she had laughed with joy.

He shared with me the memory of her waiting for him, outside of her father’s war room for hours during the War. She had paced, waiting to see him because he had only just returned after being gone for weeks on a dangerous mission. She had thrown herself into his arms and cried when he had finally been dismissed by her father. He had held her tight, and had felt how afraid she was, for him, for all of them.

After hours of working, it was Azriel himself who broke both our concentration this time, drawing back his memories and sitting up straighter, making me look up. His eyes narrowed a little, head cocked to the side and listening… then chuckled, “And that’s my cue, Cassian tipped off Nuala who just reached out to me. Rhys needs some information I collected for him earlier this morning. Do you need me to come back later, or was that enough?”

I looked down at the journal, flipping through the pages, and realized… it was full. All except for the last page – which I had been saving.

Looking back at him I smiled brilliantly, “You finished it for me Az, thank you, so much.” Then suddenly I reached out, brushing the fingers of one charcoal covered hand over his and said, “There is nothing disturbing about your mind Azriel, thank you, for sharing with me.”

He froze, staring at me for a moment, then smiled faintly, “Thank you.” He stood, spotting Mor looking at us, and nodded to her before quickly heading out of the cabin so Rhys wouldn’t grow suspicious.

After the door shut, Mor joined me at the table, peering over my shoulder as she had done when I had finished with Cassian, admiring the memories.

“What are you going to put on the last page?” She asked me, stepping around to sit in the chair Azriel had just vacated.

I looked up at her and smiled, my stomach flipping a little with nervous excitement, “I’m going to paint a family portrait.”

She smiled widely, “That is going to be perfect. I’ll leave you alone, while the light is good.”

I smiled at her gratefully, then went and collected my box of paints. The next few hours were spent painting a brand-new memory, the pieces of it drawn together from the collective memories of everyone who had loved Rhysand’s mother and sister best.

I finished by late afternoon, and left the book pinned open so the paint could dry. The rest of the day was spent with Mor, enjoying what was left of the girls-only-vacation we had only been playing at until now. The hours were filled with laughter and stories, and quite a few bottles of wine, and that night I went to bed with my soul feeling light and my body jittery with anticipation.

- - - ~*~ - - -

The next day dawned bright and beautiful, and despite having slept soundly my body was still thrumming with excitement.

At the sight of me fidgeting, Mor paused at pouring me a cup of tea, “I’m not sure you need this, you look hyped up enough.”

I snarled at her playfully and she laughed, then poured my tea.

I checked the painting throughout the day, likely giving it longer to dry than it honestly needed, but by late afternoon, it was done. My chest tightened and I found my breathing hitching, anxiety suddenly hitting me hard.

“Feyre,” Mor said as she looked at me from the couch, “calm down. He is going to love it. Trust me, ok?”

I swallowed hard, then nodded. Checking one more time that it was dry, I unpinned the book and closed it.

Resting a hand on top of it, I looked up at her and smiled, still anxious, but holding it at bay. “How soon can you be packed?”

She laughed and stood up, “Already packed sister-mine, just give the word and I’m out the door.”

I walked over to her and hugged her fiercely, and she hugged me back just as tightly.

“Thank you so much Mor, for all of it.”

She pulled back, grinning at me, “Of course. Do you want me to send him, or…?”

I shook my head, “No, I’ll call for him, can you avoid him in Velaris for an hour or so?”

She nodded, “I might just go visit my estate for a few hours, that way we don’t have to worry about him sensing my return.”

My shoulders relaxed and I smiled at her gratefully, “Thank you again.”

She waved a hand, dismissing my thanks and made her way to the door of the cabin, pausing to glance back at me. “You two will be back tomorrow for the family party?”

I snorted playfully, “Yes, don’t think I am letting him get out of a party when he makes me have one each year.”

She laughed and opened the front door, “See you tomorrow then.” With a wave she headed outside, then winnowed away.

The panic bubbled up inside of me again and I had to take several deep breaths to work it back down.

Retrieving the book, I reached my power into the pocket realm that we could store things in, and withdrew from it a simple wooden box, carved of walnut and dyed a rich brown. On the front of it, etched into the wood and dyed black was the emblem of the Night Court – a mountain, with three stars.

I opened the box, and it was lined with fine dark blue velvet, so dark it was almost black. Lifting the sketch book up I placed it inside the box and closed the lid, then carried it over to the low table in front of the couch, setting it in place.

Heading to my bedroom I stripped out of my simple pants and shirt – and pulled on a dress of midnight blue, lighter in color than the velvet in the box down stairs, but still dark, reminiscent of the night sky. The hem of the dress fell to just below my knees, a loose flowing skirt that swished around my legs when I moved. The back and sides of the dress were sheer black lace and the top wrapped around the back of my neck halter style, leaving the upper half of my back bare and exposing part of the moon phase tattoo that ran down the line of my spine – the mark from the bargain I had made with Bryaxis.

I pulled on a pair of black satin slippers, and then went to the bathroom to finish. Gathering my hair up into a loose bun at the nape of my neck, allowing a few tendrils free to frame my face, and held in place with a pair of silver sticks that were topped with a falling star. I didn’t bother with make-up often, but I took the time tonight, darkening my lashes and lining my lids with kohl, then painting my lips with a dark red. Leaning back from the mirror I studied my visage, and blushed a little, the color highlighting my cheeks.

I was ready. It was time.

I walked back out into the main room of the cabin, took a deep breath, and then sent a thought down the bond.

Are you busy?

A second passed, then, Surprisingly no, are you ok?

I smiled, bless my friends, they had likely made sure his schedule was light today.

Yes, I sent and said, join me, please? At the cabin.

Not even a full minute passed, and then he was there, the darkness ebbing from him as he arrived and turned to see me and… froze.

His violet eyes drank me in, every inch of me. Traveling from my feet, along my bare legs, touching on my hips and waist, my breasts and shoulders, along my neck, tracing the curve of my lips… then he met my eyes. And I could see the delight, and the hunger and the love – the love that shone so brilliantly out of his eyes, it dazzled me.

“Feyre…” he whispered my name… and then he was across the room in two long strides, and had me in his arms, pulling me tight against him, and kissed me long and hard and so unfathomably deep.

I fell into him, into his body, into his soul, kissing him back with all the burning intensity of my love for him. I felt his hands sliding over my back, his fingers tracing over the lace and then gliding along the length of my spine, and I shivered with pleasure.

Days. It had only been a matter of a few days since I had seen him last and yet… until he was here, holding me, kissing me, I hadn’t realized quite how painful the ache had been without him, until his presence banished the pain inside of me and I was filled with a relief so sweet, it was almost its own form of pain.

After what felt like eternity, he drew back from me with an effort, and we were both breathing hard. He slid one hand up, cupping the side of my neck lightly, his thumb brushing over my jaw and leaned forward to press his forehead against mine.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered to me, “I carry the image of you in my head each day, all day, and yet when I see you again I realize it was a pale comparison to how breathtakingly radiant you are.”

I blushed and felt the heat of that blush trace a path down my neck, and over the top of my breasts. I reached up and brushed my fingers over his cheek lightly, and then teased him playfully, “You’re not so bad looking yourself.”

He laughed, rich and deep, completely unfettered. Leaning back he took in the sight of me again and then smirked a little, “Girls-only-retreat hmm?”

I laughed and titled my head, “Well… Mor was here. So were Cassian, Azriel and Amren.”

His brows furrowed in confusion, “Have you been playing with illusions again Feyre darling?”

Smiling, I shook my head, “No, they weren’t here the whole time, only a few hours each day.”

I took a step back from him, but reached down to take his hand, squeezing gently. “I have a gift for you… but it’s from all of us.”

He arched a brow, but followed me willingly enough to the couch, where I bade him sit. I picked the box up and handed it to him, then slid onto the couch beside him, leaning into his side and tucking my feet up beneath me.

He held the box, brushing his fingers over the smooth wood, then glanced up at me. “What’s the occasion?”

I rolled my eyes at him, “It’s your birthday tomorrow, but… I wanted to give this to you, alone.”

My stomach fluttered with nervousness, and he seemed to read a touch of it on my face, his brows drawn together again as he tried to understand why.

I nudged him, “Go ahead… open it.”

He studied me a moment longer, then opened the box and eyed the sketch book curiously. “If this is filled with Mor’s stick figures, then you must be a mind reader.” He teased, glancing at me, “I’ve been dying for an entire book of those.

I huffed a laugh and smacked his leg lightly, “I’ll get you that next year.”

He grinned, then lifted the book up, and I took the box from him, leaning over to place it on the table before sitting back to watch him.

He opened the book, and his entire body went rigid.

The first page was one of Cassian’s memories, his first memory, meeting Rhysand’s mother that night she had welcomed him into their home. Her face was soft and sweet, her lips curved in a kind smile, and her eyes were knowing and full of welcome. Home her eyes seemed to say, you are home.

My hands were fisted in my skirts, and my eyes never left his face – which was blank, in shock or anger, or a grief too consuming to be expressed, I wasn’t sure.

Minutes passed before he moved again, reaching up to turn the page.

The next page was a memory of Mor’s, walking through the streets of Velaris with his sister, her eyes bright and alive and fiercely happy.

Another minute, another page, another memory.

Amren’s this time, a stunning profile of his mother as she looked out over the city of Velaris from the House of Wind.

Then Azriel’s, holding his sister during the war as she cried with fear and relief.

He didn’t speak, and his body remained rigid, but over time the look on his face changed from blank nothingness to… relief. I didn’t know of another word to express how else he looked. Like a man gone blind from injury, having only the memory of the sun to comfort him, and then miraculously opening his eyes one day to see the radiance of the sun again anew.

I stayed by his side, still and patient, refusing to even touch him lest I distract him from the memories he now walked through.

A few of the sketches he lingered on, I would glance down to see what caught his eye, and sometimes it was a memory I knew he shared with one of the others, but sometimes it was one I knew he had never seen.

The memory Mor had shared, of his mother holding her as she wept, he lingered over for several long minutes.

But it was the memory Cassian shared that almost brought the hint of a smile to his lips, of his mother dancing in the kitchen, of teaching Cassian to dance.

As he flipped to the last page of the book, I stopped breathing entirely.

I told Mor I was going to paint a family portrait. A new memory, born of all the combined memories they had shared, and my knowledge, and love of him.

It was his mother, her face lit with kindness and freedom, his sister with her hair wreathed in flowers and laughter dancing in her eyes, and him beside them, his true face and not a mask, warm and compassionate, and happy.

He stared and stared… and then closed his eyes and I saw tears roll down his face.

“Oh Feyre…” he whispered to me, then turned, holding the book in one hand and his other wrapping around me, pulling me tightly against him as he buried his face in the crook of my neck, and I could feel the wet warmth of his tears trace a path across my skin.

I wrapped my arms around him and held him tightly within the shelter of my arms, stroking my hands over his back and through his silky hair. I felt his body trembling against mine and swallowed back tears of my own.

And then I felt his mind brush against mine, light and loving as he whispered to me, You gave them back to me, Feyre. You, all of you, gave them back… I… I don’t even have words…

His mind fell silent though he didn't retreat from me, and I reached out, brushing my mind against his, twirling myself around him, holding him even here.

They were never gone, I whispered to him, but now you can see them as others have loved them and were loved by them.

And I felt him shudder with a low sob and I held him tighter.

- - - ~*~ - - -

It was hours later, and we were still curled up on the couch together, his arm still tight around me, refusing to let me go, and he was going through the book, over and over. He told me about the memories he knew, that he had shared or been told about, and listened as I told him about the memories that were new to him – sometimes even showing him in his mind what had been shared with me while I sketched them.

And it seemed with each memory the old sorrow inside of him eased, the pain of their loss would never fade, but the sorrow of it which had weighed so heavily on his shoulders all of these many years began to lessen.

And it was hours after that, when he had finally sat the book aside and carried me into our room where we made love, slow and sweet, and so tender I nearly wept. Curled around each other, skin to skin, our bodies warm and damp with sweat, that he whispered in my ear, “I have a birthday request…”

I tilted my head up to look at him and smiled, “Anything.”

He looked down to meet my gaze, filled with such radiant love, and smiled, “I want another book of memories…” he leaned down, brushing his lips across mine as he whispered, “our memories together, our life… I want a book of those memories, so we can share it with our children someday.”

And the tears I had not shed earlier, that I had held in check, they came now, hot and sweet, trailing down my cheeks.

He kissed them away, brushing his lips over my skin, tasting the tears with his tongue light and teasing, then whispered, “My darling Feyre… I love you.”