#i hope this fic is enjoyable ^^

[athousandbyeol]

tangerine. [thamepo fanfic]

"as long as you're happy, that's enough for me. nothing in this world matters more to me than you, phi po." and po knows it's the truth. he knows it's never white lies masked in broken promises or dinner dates for two long forgotten. it's always in the comfort of giving and receiving, eating sandwiches and watching a movie, drinking coffee and brisk walking at night—it's always in this realisation that the other shadow beside po belongs to thame, and it's the only manifesto po wants to listen to.

or po has always looked at thame like he's something divine, something too brilliant to be his. but thame only ever sees po as his equal, his love, his everything. in the quiet space between them, where hands touch and whispered words linger, reality and dream crash and burn, leaving po questioning if he's ever enough. he wonders if they could ever be enough.

[hyruling]

hello 👀♥️ for prompts, free choice out of the following (can be combined too): 3, 67, 68, 70

3. “Could you be happy, here, with me?” & 67. “Don’t look at me like that.”

—

The sun hangs low in the sky, rays throwing shadows across the trees and vegetation in the field beyond the house. Buck’s beer sweats in the heat, condensation running from palm to elbow and staining the wood under his arm.

He doesn’t mind. It’s nice in the thick Texas heat, sweltering even this late in the day. Even better, Eddie is next to him, the two of them swaying on an actual porch swing that Buck helped him install only a few hours ago. He’d spent all day teasing him for being a cliche, but he can’t find it in himself to poke fun at him now. It’s nice, sitting on the porch after a hard days work, watching the sun set in shades of soft orange and brilliant pink — taking in the sounds of humming cicadas, the whoosh of cars passing by. The occasional horn blaring from the train a few miles from Eddie’s house.

And then there’s Eddie himself, lit up golden and beautiful in the sun, a contented smile curled on his face. If this were a movie, and if Buck wasn’t already painfully aware of his feelings for him, this would certainly seal his fate. The sight of Eddie at dusk is devastating, otherworldly.

Or maybe he’s just in love.

“Gotta say,” Buck says, breaking the comfortable silence at last. “I see the appeal now.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks, smiling over his shoulder at Buck. He lifts his bottle to his lips, and Buck holds his breath watching him take a long pull.

“Yeah,” Buck agrees. “The splinters and bashed thumbnail were all worth it for this. Good old southern porch-sittin’.”

Eddie hums and glances down at Buck’s left hand. Buck watches him reach over and brush his own thumb over Buck’s bruised finger, and Buck has to remind himself to exhale.

“Still hurt?” Eddie asks, eyes fixed on his thumb pressing gently against Buck’s.

“Nah,” Buck says. He wonders if Eddie would keep touching him if he said yes. “Not so much anymore, the ice did the trick.”

“Don’t know why I assumed you’d be able to handle a hammer. Should’ve known after the bathroom sink incident,” Eddie teases, taking his hand away at last.

“That was a wrench, and it got the job done, didn’t it?” Buck says.

Eddie barks out a laugh. “If you say so. We’ll see how well it works when Chris brushes his teeth later.”

Buck snorts, and they share a look — of mingled relief and joy — that Chris is where he belongs, back in a familiar routine that they both helped establish.

Buck had booked a ticket almost the minute that Eddie told him he was back home — when it no longer felt like overstepping, when Chris had not-so-subtly hinted at missing him and Eddie had not-so-subtly mentioned that Southwest was having a sale. And Chris throwing himself into Buck’s arms at the airport after nearly a year apart definitely ranks among the top ten moments of his life.

“Sucks that tomorrow is my last day,” Buck says with a heavy sigh and a sip of beer. “Should’ve put this up day one. I’ll be missing out on some major porch time back home.”

“You could stay longer,” Eddie suggests with a half-smile aimed at his lap. He twirls his bottle around, presses it into the knee of his jeans until a ring of water appears in the fabric. “You’re welcome for as long as you want.”

“Yeah,” Buck says noncommittally.

He feels Eddie’s eyes on him, burning into his temple like a brand, and keeps his own trained on the horizon. He’s spent three perfect days here, full of home repairs and dinners and exploration of Eddie’s hometown; of movies and video games and a trip to the planetarium. He hasn’t wasted a moment, soaking up every second he has with Eddie and Chris while he can. The idea of having to board a plane roughly forty hours from now and leave them again makes him nauseous. Makes him want to fuse himself into the very foundations of the house so he can’t leave.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Buck says, eyes still fixed on the sky.

“Like what?” Eddie asks. Buck can feel him still looking.

Buck squints against the light of the dying sun, against the tears pricking at his eyes. “The way you’ve been looking all weekend. Like — like you want me to…”

“Want you to what?” Eddie asks, so soft he almost can’t hear him over the cicadas.

Buck drinks, to buy himself time. It isn’t enough.

“To stay.”

It stretches, the silence — taut like a rubber band ready to snap. Eddie watches him, and Buck watches the sun. He blinks and the imprint of light is still there, burning and blotting out Eddie from his peripheral, but he can still feel him.

It’s the way he’s looked at him since he arrived — he can feel it in the way his skin prickles with it. He’s felt Eddie’s eyes on him the entire weekend, and while Buck usually craves Eddie’s undivided attention, there’s something different about the way he does it now. A longing Buck recognizes from the mirror, from photos — the way he looks at Eddie reflected back at him. A curve to his smile that Buck rarely sees directed at anyone else; a warmth in his eyes that sets his blood on fire.

“I always want you to stay,” Eddie admits, hushed in the thick silence.

Buck swallows hard and doesn’t reply. He takes another sip of beer, lukewarm now and bitter on his tongue.

“Buck. Look at me?”

Buck sighs. He closes his eyes briefly, and the light sticks behind his eyelids. It’s still there when he looks at Eddie, distorting his features into something unreadable.

“Hi,” Eddie says when their eyes meet, and Buck smiles despite himself.

“Hi,” he echoes.

Eddie’s mouth twists, then relaxes. He asks, “What are you thinking?”

Buck’s eyes clear, and he can see the same smile that he has privately come to think of as his. A piece of Eddie that belonged only to him. The one that sparks a dangerous flicker of hope in his chest.

“You don’t want to know.”

“I asked, didn’t I?” Eddie says, knocking his bare shoulder against Buck’s. He keeps it there, presses their over-warm skin together. It sticks slightly in the humidity, and he has the insane urge to superglue himself to Eddie’s side.

“I’m thinking it’s hot as shit out here,” Buck says, and Eddie huffs out a laugh.

“It’s only April, this is nothing. You’ve been in Cali too long.”

“Maybe.”

“What else?”

Eddie nudges him again as he speaks and takes a swig of his beer. Buck watches his throat as he swallows, watches the droplets drip down his fingers and feels too warm. A drop of sweat trickles down his temple and Eddie’s eyes catch it, follow it down until it disappears in the neck of Buck’s tank.

“I’m thinking I don’t want to leave,” Buck admits, and Eddie’s eyes snap back up to his. “I’m thinking none of this is fucking fair, and that I must have pissed someone important off.”

Eddie smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His voice is hoarse when he says, “Yeah. They’re not too happy with me either, I think.”

Eddie looks down at their laps, hand reaching out to touch Buck’s injured finger. He wraps his fingers around the digit, pushes gently at the bruise, barely enough to hurt. The throb of it ricochets up his arm and into his ribs anyway, makes him reckless.

“And I’m thinking — I’m thinking about how badly I want to kiss you.”

Eddie pauses, goes completely still. He glances up, eyes falling to Buck’s mouth for a split second before meeting his eye, and Buck knows he isn’t misreading this. His heart sits like a stone in his throat anyway.

“But I’m also thinking that I can’t lose you. Not again.”

“You won’t lose me,” Eddie is quick to say. His fingers twine with Buck’s, squeeze hard. “You haven’t lost me. I’m right here.”

“For now.”

Eddie exhales shakily, the warmth of it hitting Buck’s cheek, and he just looks at Buck — the same way he has all weekend, the same way he has for years. The same way that Buck knows he looks at him, has always looked at him. The way that they were both too scared or too deep in denial to face until separation forced their hand.

“Buck are you,” Eddie starts, stops. He lifts his chin and looks Buck square in the eye. “Could you be happy, here? With me?”

“That’s — Eddie, I can’t,” Buck says. It feels like gravel in an open wound, like razors in his throat. “Don’t ask me that.”

“Why? You don’t have a monopoly on big sweeping confessions, you know.”

“Is that what this is?” Buck asks. He’s dizzy, even sitting down — lightheaded from the heat and the alcohol and Eddie, always Eddie.

In response, Eddie tilts forward and brushes his lips over Buck’s. A ghost of a kiss, the briefest taste of tangy sweat and beer and skin before Eddie pulls away, too soon for Buck’s heart to even finish skipping in his chest.

“Yeah, Buck,” Eddie says softly, still close enough Buck can almost feel the vibration of it against his mouth.

Buck drops his chin, presses forehead against Eddie’s. He tucks the empty beer bottle between his legs and cradles Eddie’s face in his hands, thumbs skating along his jaw. Eddie shivers at the shock of his cold fingertips, slants his chin up, and then Buck is kissing him properly.

He takes his time, savoring each drag of Eddie’s lips, the way he twists closer and brushes their noses together. Eddie lifts his own chilled hand to Buck’s neck, sends a cold shock into his heated skin, then trails it down to fist in Buck’s shirt. Buck nips at his lower lip, soothes over it with his tongue, and Eddie makes a soft sound that Buck knows he’ll hear in his dreams.

Buck pulls away to breathe before they end up flipping the swing over — he’s not sure he trusts his handiwork well enough to support climbing into Eddie’s lap. Eddie has a faint flush on his cheeks, eyes tracking over Buck’s face before meeting his eyes.

“Yes,” Buck answers him. Eddie furrows his brows, question long forgotten, and Buck can’t help but chuckle. “Yes, Eddie. I could be happy with you anywhere.”

Eddie smiles and tucks his hand back in Buck’s. “But.”

“But,” Buck echoes, and says nothing else. Eddie already knows.

Eddie nods and rests his head on Buck’s shoulder, a comforting weight that settles his racing heart. They watch the sun sink lower, Eddie’s thumb tracing patterns on the inside of Buck’s wrist. His hair sticks to Buck’s sweaty neck, and they listen to the music of the fading day.

“I can’t promise anything,” Eddie says when the sun has almost disappeared. “It’s — it’s delicate, right now. With Chris. I think he’s ready to come home, but until he says something…”

El Paso is beautiful in twilight; the heat starts to give way to the evening chill at last. Buck shivers and presses a kiss to Eddie’s hair. “I know. I can’t either.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

Eddie looks up, and Buck swears his heart stops at the way Eddie smiles at him — arresting even from the weird angle.

“Buck, I—”

“Don’t say it back,” Buck says. Eddie frowns and straightens up to face him properly, and then Buck is laughing at the look on his face.

“Don’t say it back yet,” Buck corrects, smoothing over a frown line with his thumb. “Not until — until this can be real.”

“But I do,” Eddie says, a bit petulant, and Buck gets honest to god butterflies about it. “And this is real. To me, anyway. You’re not just — some fling.”

“I know. It is to me too, baby, trust me,” Buck says, and Eddie visibly softens. “But I’ve wanted you for so long, I just — I can’t have you halfway. You’re forever for me, and I want — I have to do this right. And if you can’t come to me, if this place is your new forever, then — then wait for me. Please.”

Eddie stares for a long time, expression unreadable. Buck’s heart beats wildly, irregular enough that he might need Eddie’s defibrillator to shock it back into rhythm.

And then Eddie sighs and drops his forehead to Buck’s shoulder. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

Eddie squeezes his hand. “Of course. As long as it takes, I — yes.”

“Okay,” Buck says, and drops a kiss to Eddie’s brow.

“I do, though.”

Buck huffs, smiling against Eddie’s skin. “I know.”

“Don’t make me wait forever, Buckley.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Eddie lifts his head, presses a soft kiss to Buck’s mouth, and says, “We still have tomorrow.”

Eddie settles back into the crook of his neck, and Buck wraps an arm around his shoulders, tugs him close.

“Yeah. Tomorrow.”

—

prompts ❣️

[numbuh424]

new game, same toys

Rated T | 6,556 words | read on AO3

“I’ve been searching for you, Nate River.” Or, a string of heart attacks is traced back to a Shinigami who only wants a bit of L’s attention.

Day 1 of @dnrarepairweek | Prompt: SHINIGAMI

Light is reincarnated as a Shinigami AU. Even without his memories of being human, he finds his way back to settle a score.

[moonsglare]

every day, once a year, yelan takes a day off.

this is written directly into her contract with the tianquan. there are no exceptions, no special arrangements. on this singular day, yelan does not belong to the qixing; on this singular day, her leash and collar are abandoned, and she has free reign to do as she pleases.

what does she do? well, prepare for your anniversary, of course.

she hops out of bed, cleans up, tugs her jacket on and then slips out the door with the clink of her jade bracelet. it’s a clear day, and yelan tilts her head to the sky briefly, letting the golden sunrays warm her face almost like an embrace. you were never really a morning person, but the sun on your skin always suited you. she’d have to drag you out of bed to see it, but it was always well worth your grumbling in the end when you finally cave and offer her a smile which she would then steal with a kiss.

“ugh, yelan—“ you giggled, your hands on her chest gently pushing her back. your bracelet was cool against her skin, and the matching one on her own wrist hummed. she nosed along your jaw, pressing more and more kisses until she reached your neck. playfulness turned into something a little more heated, and her blood sang at the sigh she pulled from your lips. emerald eyes flicked up to you, teasing, challenging, and you managed a wry huff before tangling your fingers in her hair and tugging her back to properly kiss her again. it stung, beautifully, but yelan grinned all the way."

she shakes herself out of the memory, and steps into the busy street. liyue’s morning scene has always been crowded, and she blends into the throng with practiced ease. she follows the flow of the crowd down the wharf until she reaches the shop she’s looking for—a florist, tucked snugly between two other stores on the higher levels of the shopping district.

the owner, a midde-aged woman, looks up from tending to her orchids to smile at her. her eyes crease with familiarity at the sight of yelan as the spy steps into her store, fingers brushing the petals of a few flowers. the woman rounds the counter, and rummages in the storage for a few moments.

“the usual, i take it?” she asks, and yelan nods, leaning against the counter and tapping her fingers over the grainy wood. the shop hasn’t changed much, if at all, since she last came here with you.

you leaned down by a bouquet of white chrysanthemums, lips curving upward into a smile as you breathed in the soft, floral scent. yelan looked curiously over your shoulder, a hand casually resting on your hip. she asked if it was your favorite flower—you nodded, your other hand rising to just as casually cup her face from over your shoulder. “they’re quite pretty, aren’t they?” you hummed, and yelan took a moment to ponder the question. in the end, she said they were nowhere near as pretty as you, and took the light smack you delivered to her shoulder with an easy laugh.

the florist clears her throat, coaxing her out of the memory. yelan recieves the bouquet—white chrysanthemums—with a smile, settling it in the crook of her arm. the woman’s expression is measured, but there’s a slight waver to her tone when she speaks. if yelan really had to name it, it sounds close to… pity.

“yelan—“ she begins, but she only flashes the woman a signature grin, before slipping out the door as quickly as she came. she has other things to get, after all, and the clock is always ticking.

(or maybe her clock stopped ticking a long time ago and all this is just extra. maybe it cracked when the rocks fell and the earth buried—)

she dissolves back into the crowd as she heads to her next destination: wanmin restaurant. she can smell the chili in the air as she makes her way down the street again, a sharpness only wanmin seems to be able to make. when she gets there, xiangling is boisterously calling out orders while her father toils away in the kitchen, with guoba tirelessly maintaining the roaring fire for his wok. when she sees her, xiangling’s grin only widens, and she waves her over enthusiastically.

“miss yelan! welcome, welcome,” the young chef says cheerily. “here for another batch of dried chillies?”

yelan chuckles, shaking her head. “no, not this time. i’m here for a few rice buns. with a sweet filling, preferably.”

“ooh,” xiangling coos, nodding. “are you planning to go on an expedition? rice buns are both portable and satiating.”

“you could say that,” yelan says vaguely. the little chef is right, in a way, since she’ll have to hike a little to get to your spot—but really, it’s because rice buns have always been a comfort food of sorts for you.

“how can you not like them?” you asked defensively as you trudged along with her behind the group. there was a slight smear of filling on the corner of your lip, and your expression scrunched up a little more as she wiped it off. her jade bracelet was cool against your heated cheeks. yelan only shook her head, teasingly remarking that spice was a much greater wake-up call than sweets. you huffed at that, taking another bite of your rice bun. “not all of us are masochists, lan’er,” you grumbled, and yelan laughed softly. her nimble fingers encircled your wrist, tugging you closer so she could take a quick bite of your bun. it was sweet, sweeter than she’d like, but maybe that was because you were there. and somehow, that made it good.

yelan pulls herself out of yet another memory when xiangling deposits the bag of warm rice buns into her hands. they’re freshly steamed, and the scent of warm buns fill her senses. she thanks the chef, and disappears much the same way she came before the young lady can get even so much as a word in. in the back of her mind, she can almost hear you chastise her for it.

(she always hears you in the back of her mind. if not, where else—)

there’s only one thing left on her list, and it’s incense. it’s late in the morning now, so the crowds have thinned out—and without her cover, yelan takes to back alleys and rooftops instead. she sighs, relieved almost, as she slips into the shimmering, reflective cover of hydro, darting like a minnow between buildings like rocks, barely a blur in the eyes of anyone nearby. the secrecy isn’t strictly necessary for what she’s doing now, but she’s been so used to being unseen that being in the open feels… unsafe.

it doesn’t take her that long to reach wangsheng funeral parlor. the young lady running the parlor isn’t in today—instead, it’s her ‘assistant’, the elegant man shrouded in such thick mystery that neither her nor ningguang has been able to pierce. he greets her with a solemn expression, no doubt because director hu has told him the reason for her visit. “incense?” he asks again anyway to confirm, his voice low and soft. yelan nods absently, her nose stinging slightly from the intense scent permeating the parlor.

she watches as the man disappears into the back of the parlor for a moment, before he reappears with a delicately wrapped packet of incense sticks. she slides a pouch of mora his way, which he takes wordlessly. she tucks the packet into her little pocket dimension, then turns on her heel to leave. just as she exits the door, he calls out to her.

“safe travels.”

she doesn’t deign him with a response.

her feet take her out and away from the city, down the familiar path to the bleeding wound in the earth—the chasm. the land goes from valleys to large, curling momuments of rock, carved by the force of a falling star. she feels that familiar tug in her chest, the voice that calls to her, that tells her to forsake the surface as her ancestor once did. she listened to it, once. and—

“go,” you whispered, pushing her away. half of you was buried under rock, and she could only see one of your eyes; the other was forced shut by the blood that trickled down your face. yelan nearly screamed herself hoarse, but you grabbed her face and kissed her. it tasted like salt, and her heart lurched at the wrongness. your kisses had always been sweet. you slipped your bracelet onto her wrist, then pushed her again, and then the earth heaved and groaned, and it was the last she ever saw of you—

she turns her head and rips herself out of the memory and the temptation; she has other, more important places to be today. she has other days to chase down her demons. she skirts the side of the chasm, slowly ascending to the top. she passes by the memorial to the millelith, and leaves a rice bun and a few sticks of incense as an offering. they too, deserve to be remembered after all.

(she wonders if anyone else comes out here to remember them. she wonders who will come when she’s gone for—)

it takes her a while, but eventually, she reaches the highest point in the chasm. the sun has traveled across the sky by this point, the afternoon heat mellowing out into a slightly cooler evening warmth. the sky is alive with shades of gold when she finally stops, drawing to a halt right before a smooth stone, standing upright from the earth like a silent vigil. she kneels before it, producing three sticks on incense and inserting them into the censer before the stone and lighting them. she sets a rice bun on the plate by the stone, and saves one for herself. the bouquet of white chrysanthemums, she lays on top of the stone.

yelan takes a bite of her rice bun, letting the sweetness settle on her tongue, as the floral scent mixes with the incense, filling her lungs and settling on her shoulders. she tilts her head to the sun, and the warmth feels almost like an embrace. and when she closes her eyes, the wind in her hair feels almost like a caress. when she opens them again, she lets them rest on the stone—the headstone, and she offers it a smile.

sitting on the edge of the cliff, your legs swinging, you smiled at her, nearly blindingly bright like the golden hour. your pinkies were twined together, your shoulders flush with hers. there was a bouquet of white chrysanthemums on your lap, and just a few crumbs on the corner of your lips. your voice carried in the wind when you spoke.

“happy anniversary, yelan.”

“happy anniversary, sweetheart,” she whispers. the wind carries her voice as well, and she hopes you hear it, wherever you are now. one day, she’ll join you, but for now she takes another bite of her rice bun and breathes in the scent of incense and chrysanthemums.

[sihtricfedaraaahvicius]

Love is Blind

note: Love is blind dating show, but make it medieval. And accidental.

warnings: angst/fluff. mention of getting locked in a dungeon, death, and battle, happy ending tho!

pairing: Sihtric x fem!reader (no mention of Y/N)

summary: You fell in love with a man's voice when everything seemed lost.

word count: 3,6k

Masterlist

Reblogs & comments are immensely appreciated.

The dungeon you were held prisoner in was dark and cold at night. During the days the temperature in the gloomy fortress basement was a little more bearable, as the sun warmed the grounds above you while you were hidden from its comforting rays, always living in darkness. Your now dirty dress, which was ripped to shreds at the arms during your arrest, was the only piece of cloth keeping you warm, albeit barely. You were locked away violently several days ago, after you had spoken up against your King and his way of ruling. Your future was uncertain and you were to be imprisoned until a decision had been made on what your punishment would be. You feared death, but even worse you feared to become a pleasure slave to the King or to be kept locked up to rot away slowly. So death was unfortunately the favourable option out of those.

You hadn't seen much of the dungeon when you were shoved in there as it was completely deprived of any natural light at all times, but you had caught a glimpse thanks to the flickering flames of torches held by the guards, and you knew there was at least one other cell next to you. The first day you were convinced that someone was imprisoned next to you, as you heard rustling nearby every now and then, but whenever you called out you received no answer. Even when your eyes had adjusted to the darkness surrounding you it was hard to tell if you were alone, as the rustling continued daily, but huge wooden crates were stacked on top of each other in between the makeshift prison cells, making it impossible to even try and look for the vague figure of a person in the cell next to you.

However, you soon found out you were a lonely prisoner, with your only occasional visitors being a few rats and a couple of mice who would rustle nearby as they came to feast on the few crumbs of old bread you left behind every afternoon, after you were brought some food. Well, brought was not even the right word to describe it, as it would simply be thrown towards you through the thick and rusty bars of steel that made for your enclosure. The guards would always try to hit you, wanting to embarrass you as much as possible, but the place was so dark that they often missed as you hid in the far corner of your cell.

You were treated worse than a dog and you had no idea how you would be able to live through this suffering. The quietness was too loud and the dungeon was too dark. You prayed for a miracle every waking hour. You prayed to have someone there with you, someone to talk to and someone to remind you that you were still human. No matter how horrible it was to wish someone else to be captured and imprisoned too, just knowing you weren't going to die alone in that forsaken place would be a tragic comfort, so you kept praying for some human company.

And surprisingly enough your prayers would soon be answered.

You were rudely awoken by some commotion that sounded from the long and dark corridor that led to the dungeon you were locked in. Male voices, which seemed to argue loudly, came closer rapidly and suddenly you saw the lit torches which were held by guards. There were more guards than usual, you managed to notice in the dim light of the burning flames, and you jumped up. You were terrified yet relieved that your fate had probably been decided, that being the reason why there were so many men present, but you quickly realised it wasn't anything like that. Because instead of hearing your door open, you heard the door of your neighbouring cage slam shut, followed by the sound of someone spitting at the guards and then kicking at the door, rattling the heavy chains that kept it shut.

'Spit on me again, you Dane scum,' the familiar voice of a guard barked, 'and I will kill you.'

'Not if I will kill you first,' a new male voice sounded threateningly, yet calm and confident as he spoke.

You held your breath as the guards left, your eyes were wide in the darkness while you listened to the breathing of the prisoner next to you as it became harder and heavier. You recognised it all too well, for you too had been in a state of panic after you were left on your own once you were locked up in this pit of blackness. You swallowed hard, your slightly parted lips were chapped and dry as you breathed in and out through them as calmly as possible, finding the courage to speak as whoever had just joined you remained silent.

'H-hello?' you carefully said.

Your voice sounded weaker than expected and different than you had remembered. It's strange how fast one can forget their own voice and lose the strength of it, you thought for a split second. But the man next to you stopped breathing abruptly upon hearing your voice, and the dungeon became momentarily as quiet as it had been since you arrived, which pulled you away from your thoughts. For a brief moment you thought you had imagined it all and that there was no one there, so when you finally got a response you nearly jumped out of your skin.

'Who's there?' the man who shared your fate asked.

You managed to stammer your name and told him how long you had been there and why, giving him a brief summary of your most recent life.

'My name is Sihtric,' the man replied calmly, 'I am sorry we seem to share the same destiny, lady. I was caught spying here today,' he sighed, 'it seems I will also be kept here until they decide what to do with me.'

'I am sorry,' you barely whispered.

You fought your tears as you felt overwhelmed with emotions. A part of you felt horrible that this man next to you would face death probably sooner than later, but you were also relieved and somewhat happy that you weren't alone anymore, however selfish that may be.

'Who are you spying for?' you asked, curious to the man who gave you a spark of hope again.

'Lord Uhtred,' Sihtric responded.

You listened carefully while it sounded as if he was making himself comfortable on the cold, straw and sand covered floor.

'Of Bebbanburg?' you then asked.

'Of Bebbanburg,' Sihtric confirmed, his voice sounding a little closer suddenly, 'the lands have been at peace for a while but Uhtred doesn't trust your so-called King. Uhtred is afraid he will not rule by the newly made laws and start another war soon.'

'I have said almost the same thing,' you scoffed, 'and that landed me here.'

'So it is true?' Sihtric asked, his voice hopeful and even somewhat excited, 'he wants to spill blood?'

'I don't know,' you said with a sigh and sat down yourself, leaning against the cold steel bars as you faced the crates that hid your new companion, 'but it is clear that he does not agree with one united country. But what do I care,' you shrugged, 'I don't have much longer anyway. I will soon be dead and forgotten.'

Sihtric was quiet for a moment, and you carefully listened to any sounds that may tell you what he was doing, but it remained completely silent until he spoke again after a few long seconds.

'Your punishment is death, lady?'

'I hope so,' you half laughed, 'I'd rather die than become a slave or just rot away here.'

'I understand that,' the man's warm voice replied, 'that is an honourable way to go. If anything you would die standing for your opinion.'

You softly smiled in the darkened prison, as Sihtric's voice warmed and soothed you in ways which had been simply unthinkable only moments earlier. There was a calmness whenever he spoke which brought you comfort, and hearing the sound of his breathing nearby was enough to make you feel safe, however strange that may be as you had no idea who exactly he was. You then realised you had no idea what he looked like either, and your curiosity began to take over. Because what did this mystery man look like? What hardships and joys had he experienced? You figured Sihtric was the last person you'd ever get to know and talk to, so you wanted to know all about him before it was too late, and you had nothing to lose anyway.

'Are you married?' you blurted out, breaking the long yet comfortable silence.

'Married?' Sihtric asked with a light scoff, then laughed, 'I am not, lady. Why? Do you seek a husband?'

'I might,' you chuckled, suddenly forgetting your doomed reality, 'not many men come by here, so I must try my chances.'

You heard Sihtric laugh softly, and you could tell he moved closer to the wall of crates that kept you hidden from each other. Your heart fluttered when his soft voice sounded closer and clearer than before, as if it embraced you tightly and held you close, that's how it made you feel. His voice was the most beautiful sound you ever had the pleasure of hearing.

'Very well,' Sihtric said, clearly amused as he knew there was nothing else he could do other than play along, 'what makes you think I am a suitable husband?'

'I don't,' you smiled and felt yourself blush, 'that's what I'm trying to figure out. I want to know all about you.'

While the sun began to set and the dungeon started to cool off again, you learned a lot about the man who resided next to you for the time being. Sihtric told you what he looked like, after you asked him, and you tried to paint the picture in your head of a tall and strong man, with dark loose hair and a face with some old battle scars. You tried to imagine the colour of his eyes, which he told you were not both of the same colour. You were desperate to see his smile and to see the tattoos he has that he told you about, but you could only create a version of Sihtric in your head, not knowing if it was even close to what he really looked liked. But it was comforting nevertheless and it brought you joy, as you imagined him as a man you could easily fall in love with.

He also told you about his past and his present, that he is the Lord of Dunholm but still serves Uhtred whenever he can, which is how he ended up next to you. And in return to all he told you, you also opened up to him about your life before you were captured. And you then described the way you looked, and Sihtric was clearly captivated by you as he'd often pleasantly hum while you spoke about yourself.

'I'm wearing a white dress,' you said, 'well, it is not white anymore I'm afraid. And it has been ripped, my arms are bare and my skirt has ripped in places too.'

'Are you not cold?' Sihtric asked, concerned.

'I am okay,' you lied, 'what are you wearing?'

'I, eh, have a cloak,' Sihtric said, feeling guilty for realising he was rather comfortable and warm compared to you, 'and underneath that I am wearing leather and wool tunic.'

'That sounds nice,' you smiled.

You tried to hide the fact you were freezing in your prison after the sun had set hours ago, but your clattering teeth betrayed you. You heard Sihtric move around and he told you to go up to the door of your cell, and you did as he asked while shivering. At first you didn't understand what he was doing, but you then realised he tried to throw and shove something your way. There wasn't much distance between the two prisons, but the darkness made it hard to aim right and a struggle for your hands to find whatever he wanted to give you on the ground once it got within reach.

'What is this?' you asked when you finally got a hold of some heavy cloth and dragged it in through the bars.

'My cloak,' Sihtric answered, 'use it, it will keep you warm.'

His heavy cloak was made of thick and soft fur, and it was still warm when you threw it around your shoulders. Your attempt to fight your tears was futile, as Sihtric reminded you that there were still good men out there, and you needed a moment as you sniffled quietly.

'Thank you,' your voice trembled, 'thank you so much, but will you not be cold?'

'Do not worry about me, lady,' Sihtric said, 'I will be fine.'

You buried yourself underneath his cloak, as it was big enough to wrap all around you and it brought you some much needed warmth. The cloak smelled earthy and a bit like ale and horses, but it was pleasant and you felt all tingly inside as you buried your face in it to inhale Sihtric's lingering scent deeper.

It didn't take long before you dozed off, and only when Sihtric heard you were peacefully asleep did he allow himself to get some rest too.

Surprisingly enough you and Sihtric were left unbothered for several days in a row, with only a guard appearing to provide you both with some food and water to somewhat survive. You couldn't tell day apart from night, but awaiting your verdict was much more bearable with the pleasant company of the man next to you as the hours passed by. You had long fallen in love with his voice already, you thought his jokes were not that great but funny nonetheless, and you couldn't contain your smile whenever you heard him laugh at his own words. Despite the fact that you still didn't know what he really looked like, you felt attracted to him regardless, and it turned out that Sihtric felt the exact same way.

'I wish I could hold you,' he confessed in the darkness, after who knows how many days had passed.

'I wish that too,' you said and smiled sadly as you were wrapped in his cloak again, 'I wish I could see you.'

'I wish I could see you too,' Sihtric whispered, 'I want to hold you in my arms and kiss you. I…,' he hesitated, 'I know it makes no sense, but I think I'm in love with you.'

You swallowed hard after hearing those words, overwhelmed with both happiness and surprise to find out he felt just the same as you did.

'I think I'm in love with you too, Sihtric.'

You could tell he smiled, by the way he hummed softly and breathed out in relief, you had already learned to tell apart some of his manners by ear.

'I promise I will get you out of here,' he suddenly said, 'I know Uhtred has men looking for me since I never returned, it's just not easy to get in here and get out again at the same time. It will take time, but I promise I will get you out of here.'

'I have time,' you chuckled, but then felt your heart drop, 'until the guards will come and get me.'

'No,' Sihtric said, 'I won't let that happen. I won't let them take you from me.'

You smiled sadly, knowing Sihtric meant every word while also knowing he couldn't possibly protect you if the guards decided to come for you.

'You are too kind,' you whispered, 'I hope I am fortunate enough to see you before my end.'

'You will see me,' his tone determined, 'you will see me and we will get married. I will marry you if you allow me to.'

'Marry me?' you laughed softly, 'I would love that, but you have no idea what I look like.'

'I don't care,' Sihtric scoffed, 'I love you for you, and I am sure you are just as beautiful as I imagine you to be, if not more.'

'Oh, Sihtric,' you sniffled, 'I could only ever dream of finding a man like you. A man who makes me feel safe even in the worst of times. And how horrible it is that I have found you, and yet I have no way of being with you eventhough you are so close,' you said as you reached out for him in the dark.

'You will be with me,' Sihtric said and his voice broke, 'we will be together, you hear me? We will-'

Sihtric was cut off when a horde of guards with torches suddenly stormed down the corridor and into the dungeon. What followed was a mixture of men shouting in the faintly lit room, chains rattling and a lock turning, followed by the sound of a heavy steel door opening and rapid footsteps. You were suddenly yanked up by your arms and you yelped, causing Sihtric to shout at the top of his lungs while kicking and slamming against the locked door of his own cell. Your heart broke as he shouted your name, promising he would come for you somehow, but you only fully broke after hearing him shout after you how much he loved you. And that was the last thing you heard before you were dragged onto a wooden platform in the middle of your town's square. You were blinded by the sun and couldn't open your eyes for how bright and painful it was, but you knew you were about to be beheaded when your feet were kicked out underneath you, your neck pressed down onto a wooden frame and your wrists tied behind you back with some rope.

You kept your eyes closed as you awaited eternal darkness, and for a moment you weren't sure what was louder; the sound of your beating heart before it was about to stop, or the sudden stampede all around you as people began to scream in panic and hooves stomped through the town. You looked through your squinted eyelids, your lashes blurring most of your view but showing you enough to realise your town was under attack by none other than Uhtred of Bebbanburg and his men. A blonde monk, who you later would learn was named Osferth, released your wrists from the painful rope you were tied with and he grabbed your shoulders once you started to mumble.

'S-Sihtric,' you stammered.

'Sihtric?' the monk asked, 'where is he? Do you know where he is?'

You lifted your heavy arm to point a trembling finger towards the castle, 'Dungeon,' you said, 'I… I have to go back for him.'

The monk refused to take you with him down the dark corridor, and so you sheltered yourself underneath Sihtric's cloak as you waited just outside the castle, at a safe distance from the brutal battle that went on around you. Your eyes slowly adjusted to the natural light again and you began to see more of the horrors that had unfolded just before you were to be killed, but you also noticed that most people slaughtered where guards of the King, and you then found your King at sword point of the Lord Uhtred, who gave him two options; death, or rule by the laws of King Aethelstan. You didn't know which option your King would choose, and you didn't care much either, because you knew that once you would be reunited with Sihtric you would leave town with him, to Dunholm, and you would marry him and become the Lady of Dunholm, as he had promised. But you still had no idea what exactly Sihtric looked like, all you knew was that you were destined to be together.

You waited anxiously when suddenly the monk appeared again as he stepped out of the castle's corridor, alone, and your heart sank.

'Sihtric?' you asked as you jumped up, his cloak still wrapped around you to cover your torn and dirty dress, 'where… where is my Sihtric?'

'Here,' Sihtric's voice sounded from the darkened hallway and he then appeared.

It was as if the world underneath you disappeared and you floated around like a feather upon seeing him. Sure, quite a few long days and nights locked away in a dungeon made everyone look rough, but nowhere did it hide the fact that Sihtric was the most beautiful man you had ever seen. And Sihtric felt the same about you, finally seeing you after his eyes had adjusted to the daylight and not believing the beauty he was witnessing as you stood before him.

You were both breathless and nailed to the ground, until you finally leaped into his strong arms and crashed into the kiss you had both yearned for ever since you started talking. You felt warm and safe in his embrace, even when the cloak fell off your shoulders as you kissed him and brought your hands up to rake through his long and messy hair. Sihtric made sure to keep you warm and your torn dress from falling further apart as he held you tightly against his chest, kissing you until his lungs burned for air and Uhtred commanded his men to leave the town, after an agreement was made with the King. And as Sihtric was too busy kissing you and roaming his hands all over you while being completely smitten, Finan had already found and brought him his horse back so you could both get on it and leave.

And you were to start a whole new life together, in which you were getting married and would live happily ever after, and neither of you would ever be able to tear your eyes off each other.

@mrsarnasdelicious @neonhairspray @sihtricsafin @errruvande @penumbrie @lexeirikrleif @diiickbrainn @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @bubblyabs @dixie-elocin @alexagirlie @stupiddarkkside @urmomsgirlfriend1 @gemini-mama @foxyanon @man-i-be-that-pretty-motherfuckr @thenameswinter99 @m-a-s-h-k-a @superblyzanynight @hernakedmuse @ewanmitchellfanatic @lady-targaryens-world

[calmlb]

skk | 3.2k | hurt/comfort

read on ao3!

[gomzdrawfr]

I just got through all your tags. And I know dropping into your inbox with a wagging tail is probably getting old, but here I am again to say thank you and tell you you're precious. Sounds like you are out there saving the world during the week day, so I'm privileged to provide you some chuckles at the end of the day.

Hi hi no please by all means you are welcome to come scream in my inbox (and request if you wish) xD it's great really! your fics and stuff legit made me look forward to the weekend :D

I was going to draw one of the many nikprice you posted (the, the one where Price has heart eyes for Nik when he was drunk) today but the ghostprice fic took over my brain KAJSHD for now I have this for youuuuuuuu

grumpy Price who just woke up and Nik looking for a snack

[muzzlemouths]

[CW: Death/implication of death]

The clock reads a quarter to midnight when Sun powers on. Too early. He isn’t meant to come online for another six hours, and the daycare itself won’t open for another hour after that. He promptly runs a scan to determine the reasoning behind his premature entrance and when it returns inconclusive he turns to Moon. It is his metaphorical toes he is stepping on by encroaching on the night as he is, after all.

It’s quiet. The kind of quiet that settles like dust. A quiet that makes one aware of the breath that stirs within their lungs or, in Sun’s case, the gentle whir of an internal fan that perpetually keeps his system from running itself into the ground. A quiet so frequently interrupted by the welcomed voice of his other half…and yet, nothing. His question goes unanswered, left to gather with the dust, and he is forced to proceed as though these strange happenings haven’t disrupted his entire morning routine.

A routine further disturbed upon having to remind himself for the second time already that it isn’t morning, he isn’t meant to be going through the start-up procedure to begin with, and he can’t be blamed for the corrupted sense of awareness he feels as a result. Sure, the lights are on, and his systems, too, return with normal results after a precautionary scan, but there is a discomfort to all of this scratching at the inner plating of his frame. Something is wrong wrong wrong.

“…Moon?”

His second attempt at communication yields no better results than the first, only a vague static answering the call, murmur-soft background noise, as though someone had plucked a phone from its receiver and then walked away. Frustrating is what it was. To ignore him was childish at best, but at worst, it was concerning. His relationship with Moon was reasonably amicable even on the longest of days, he worked better with Moon than without, so the absence was unusual as much as it was alarming.

Alone with his thoughts for the foreseeable future, Sun decides there is little point to sitting around in the midst of this confusion when he could be using the time to busy himself with more important tasks, such as tidying up all the apparent dust around here. Better yet, he can get a head-start in preparation for that day’s activities. Something to keep his mind from wandering into worrywart territory, at the very least.

An ache stemming at the tail of his exoskeleton twinges with particularly horrendous vengeance upon finally convincing his legs to move. He buries the vocalization of a wince and carries on across the carpeted room with little more than a brief mental note to mention the pain to a mechanic if it worsens by tomorrow. No use in wasting company time for what he’s sure is only the result of one or both of them landing wrong after receiving a hug from one of the daycare’s more excitable children (or several).

Still, it makes the process of retrieving a stray toy from the floor that much harder when he sees it lying in wait by the slide. If anything, bending down to reclaim the doll only exacerbates the ache until it grows into a proper sting, now difficult to ignore. Yet ignore it he does, to the best of his ability. There are things to do and he isn’t about to let a pinch of soreness slow him down now. No, sirree! He has play equipment to wipe down, craft supplies to ready, and–

and…

His hand stops just short of reaching the doll, long yellow fingers curling inward, against his palm which is painted with splotches of salt and pepper, as though a bottle of dully colored glitter glue had exploded across his fingers and hand. He straightens again and lifts his other hand, noting a similar stretch of television static, one that carries beyond his wrist up the length of his forearm in smeared blotches and specks like splattered paint in dirty snow hues.

Messy messy messy. What could Moon have gotten up to that resulted in such a mess? He’d have made a face, had he a nose to wrinkle in the first place.

Instead he allows for one small tut of disgust to escape his voice box before turning his attention back to the doll, taking note of the static that stains the carpet beside its head, and just beyond it, too; a trail made up of one scattered drop after another.

Ever curious, he knows not what to do besides follow it, hoping for an answer to the many questions burning through his system. Each continuous speck leads him in the direction of the exit, every patch of static more plentiful than the last, and as he allows the strange color to guide him forward he begins to question not only its existence, but why it all seems so familiar, as though he’s seen it somewhere before.

There is little time to mull it over. He arrives at the service desk where the trail ends abruptly, and Sun pauses with the toe of his slippers stood just an inch before a stray, black shoe that might have sent him stumbling face first into carpet had he not already been looking down. A shoe isn’t the most bizarre thing to lose in a daycare of all places, and he decides right away that it isn’t anything to worry over, just another item to drop into lost and found, but where there is a shoe there is bound to be someone missing it and, well…

Sun finds the answer he’s looking for just a few inches behind the service desk.

Face down and tucked in on themselves as they are, cloaked in the desk’s shadow, it’s impossible to tell anything about the person beyond their age, and even that is somewhat uncertain — though the size 9 shoe left behind offers a decent clue. This discovery does wonders to quell the anxiety in Sun’s chest. An adult was much easier to escort from the daycare, given the lack of parental contribution it necessitated, and it looked like this one was just sleeping! An odd place to go about it, sure — against the rules, most certainly — but it’s nothing that can’t be fixed with a purposeful tap to the ankle.

So, that’s exactly what he does. Bending dramatically at the knee, head swiveling to one side, Sun’s fingers dance as though he intends on tickling the trespasser awake before extending his index finger and tapping twice in quick succession against the exposed skin between their pant leg and sock. “Rise and shine, friend!” He chirps, “It’s time to head home now.”

He’d have preferred the tried-and-true method of rousing someone (that is, a gentle rock of the shoulders), but given that their guest was currently resting in the one area that Sun was not permitted entry to, he was forced to resort to more…creative measures. Unfortunately, this action does not yield the results he is hoping for.

“Friend?” Sun calls again, allowing his voice to raise a decibel from the polite mumble it had been before. The laughter that cuts from his voicebox is nervous and too loud on its own, his anxiety returning tenfold. The points of logic he had used to reassure himself before were now quickly dwindling with each passing second in which he received no response.

With his steps now admittedly growing frantic, Sun tiptoes around the desk to the other side, hoping for a better view of their comatose companion. What happens instead is an almost comical flailing of limbs as his slipper takes to an unseen puddle of static like it were a banana peel, resulting in a scramble to keep himself upright that only comes to an end when he braces against the nearest wall for support. The distraction is agitating, but short lived. A commotion like that would surely have awoken anyone, no matter how deep in slumber they were, and the continued lack of response does nothing to relieve Sun of the stress threatening to fry his circuits.

“Friend, this is n-no time for jokes!” He asserts, speaking at full volume, now, every word drenched in tense frustration. His gaze falls to the puddle of static soaking into the bottoms of his slippers, that twinge of recognition rearing its head once more. “I’m not in the mood for games, right now, so if you’re only pretending to sleep—” his hand comes away from the wall feeling wrong, the familiar sensation of sticky static blanketing his palm and crusting in the grooves between his joints as it further dries. His fingers curl into a loose fist long enough to observe the way each digit smears against his palm and leaves behind a tacky residue that he can feel, but not see.

He looks up. There, on the wall, two handprints interrupt the static. The first is larger, an obvious testament to the humbling misstep he’d only just finished recovering from, but the other…it was far smaller, surely left behind by the same stranger currently snoozing away beneath the desk, and it ran from the lightswitch down down down to the floor, where the accusing hand now rested just outside the desk’s shadow.

How strange, Sun thinks, tilting his head to get a better look. The way the static paints their skin, it almost looks like—

“You’re doing so well, dewdrop, just a moment longer and you’ll be right as rain again!” Sun gives the small hand intertwined with his own an encouraging squeeze as the other, equipped with an antiseptic wipe, dutifully dabs away at a scuffed knee. His young patient, having tripped and burned her skin along the carpet, is nothing less than a trooper as he cleans the static from the shallow wound. Not even a sniffle!

He tucks the wipe into the flat of his palm and trades it out for ointment, smearing a healthy dollop of it along the reddened surface before wiping his finger along the striping of his pants and reaching for a bandaid; Chica pink with pizzas on one side and cupcakes on the other.

“There, now. I’m sure that feels better already!”

Blood. Viscous, cold, pooling at his feet. On the walls, the carpet. His hands. Cherry red like a lollipop and twice as sticky…or so he’s told. Nothing a robot of his nature is meant to see or understand. His censors make sure of it. Rather than allow him to see things are they are, the incarnadine color is suppressed behind a layer of static, as if he won’t care to acknowledge it at all beyond its existence on scraped knees and split lips. As if he is meant to ignore the way it feels in its abundance, caked against his palms and festering between his open joints.

Messy, messy, messy. He feels dirtied beyond repair, filthy in a way that even a deep cleaning won’t fix. The wires in his stomach feel twisted, begging to come undone, shorting like sparklers against their ports and threatening to make short work of bringing him down. His screens are flooded with alerts that warn of an inevitable shut-down if he can’t manage to pull himself back together, but moving feels impossible, an insurmountable task. He can not think past the sensation of someone else’s life soaking into the cotton of his slippers.

And what of their guest? Sun can hardly get himself to look again, pleading with the matter of logic itself as he is forced to reckon with the knowledge that this is a rest they may never wake from. But he does look. He has to.

He wishes he hadn’t.

The brief glimpse he endures before looking anywhere else is more than enough. From this angle, the static – the blood – paints a grim picture. In spite of this, Sun finds himself circling the desk a second time and preparing to draw the body – the visitor – out from under the desk. It is a daunting task, but a necessary one, by Sun’s account. If there is nothing to be done in such a hopeless situation then, at the very least, he owes this stranger the dignity of recognition and an attempt. He can claim to have looked for a pulse. Even so, he hesitates.

There is not one to be found; Sun knows this. He knows painfully well from the static lingering on his silicone that it is already too late. Oil is warmed by the processors it fuels, and similarly, blood is meant to be hot. The soles of his slippers are cold. The pads of his fingers, against even the raging inferno of his overworked circuitry, are cold.

The body is cold.

He perseveres, regardless, dragging the stranger out from under the desk by a shaky grip on their ankle one inch at a time, pausing every few tugs to look away and regather his confidence, trying so, so hard to tune out the ever-constant music as it merrily sings through the speakers.

He begs the underlying silence. “Please have a pulse.” Tug. “Please don’t be cold.” Tug. “I don’t know what to do.” Tug. “I can’t do this alone.” Tug. “You have to wake up.” Tug. “Please.” Tug. “Please!” Tug. “Please, please, please, pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseple—”

He knows this visitor. Not a friend, but not quite a stranger, either. His scanner attempts to process the identification of a man whose head is so thick with static that it returns as an error. His face is contorted grotesquely, mouth slightly agape and eyes wide with fear. They don’t look like they’re sleeping.

A security guard whose name fails to ping in his registry. Sun had spoken with him once, maybe twice before. He drank coffee by the mile and hardly stuck around long enough to do more than complain about the weather. Sun hadn’t been in a hurry to befriend the man, but he only wished the best for him. Squeezed a joke in where he could in an attempt to turn his frown upside-down. It had never worked before, but Sun was no quitter. Now he would never get the chance to try again.

“Focus, focus.” Sun carefully lowers the man’s foot back to the carpet again, choking on the sensation of bloodied clothes slipping through his fingers and resisting the urge to tear the rays straight out of his faceplate in response. He is inconsolably panicked and at a loss for what to do, two steps from outright laughing, the complete absurdity of the situation driving him to hysterics.

He needed to call security. He couldn’t call security. Security was–

Management. There were other employees that worked the night shift if Moon complaining about them making too much noise during naptime was anything to go by. If he sent out a general call for assistance surely someone would come and tell him what to do, even at this late hour. It was his best option. His only option.

“Don’t.”

The voice makes him jump clear out of his casings. He has half a mind to swear, but as it stands, Sun thinks the long divots he dragged into the service desk out of surprise are enough damage already. On top of everything else.

“Moon?” He whispers. “Nice of you to finally join us – and by us, I mean me and the deceased guest I discovered a moment ago. Do you have a clue what’s going on here?”

“Don’t?” Sun echoes, agitated, “Don’t what?”

“Don’t.”

If the tether keeping his sanity intact was fraying before, it’s now down to a single thread. “Why not?” He asks with great exhaustion, “Did you not hear me? This is an emergency! There is a dead body in the–”

“Call management.”

“I know.”

Silence answers. Despite having a hundred and one snarky retorts building in between each crackle and pop of his voice box, Sun has nothing to say to that. Nothing good, anyway. It takes nine steady ticks of the clock for him to recollect his thoughts.

“You…you know?” He stutters, “How could you…” but he doesn’t finish the question, and he doesn’t need to. Realization strikes him with an iron fist for the second time that day and it is no less kinder than the first. “Did… you do this?”

It’s Moon’s turn to go quiet.

That silence stretches on for what feels like hours to Sun, each passing second more agonizing than the last, until he starts to believe Moon had simply disappeared like before. He waits, and waits, and finally decides to interrupt the silence with a repeat of the question, despite already knowing the answer. Moon beats him to it.

The tired sigh that escapes Sun’s throat is thoroughly earned. “Well, it’s too late to figure something else out, I already sent out the emergency ping.”

“Not sure,” he says, and Sun can tell from his tone that it’s the truth. “Blurry. My head hurts.”

A sound like nothing he’s ever heard before tears itself from Moon’s voicebox. A growl, if he were to put a name to it.

“Get rid of it, then.” Moon insists through the noise, “Clean up, clean up.”

“It?” Sun gawks, “Moon, that – that’s a person. He has dignity, a family!”

“Had a family,” Moon corrects, “dead, now. No dignity. Who will they blame?”

The question gives him pause. Surely there was a better way to go about this, a solution that didn’t have his morals (and wires, for that matter) all up in a twist. Yet the longer he thinks about it, the more he realizes Moon is right. Management hardly listens when he tries to explain that it was the children who broke a piece of playground equipment, not him! They aren’t likely to give his explanation of simply having found the body any mind, much less understanding. With his counterpart practically admitting to the heinous act, already, informing management of the body would sooner see them decommissioned.

“Running out of time,” Moon reminds him, “Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick–”

“Alright, alright!” He wails, “What should I do, then?”

“Clean up.”

“Where?” Sun looks around with the desperation of a teenager attempting to play hooky, rays practically nonexistent with how he’s tucked them away. His eyes search the room from top to bottom before landing determinedly on the ball pit.

“Good enough,” Moon tuts, a rather uninspired response to the happenings around him. Of course he isn’t panicking, it isn’t him who takes the body by its ankles and drags the dead weight across the carpet. It isn’t him who shoves aside enough plastic to carefully hide a corpse in. But it should be him worrying, it should be him panicking, because if management finds out about their secret, it’ll spell doom for both of them.

“You’ll get rid of it – him – properly once there’s no one around, right?” Sun finishes reshuffling the ball pit, mostly confident that the ill deed is successfully hidden from view. “I’m going to have to wash each and every one of these balls before the kids arrive in the morning.”

Right, the kids. When they arrive in just a few hours, will he have things tidied up? Will he be able to carry on as though nothing happened? He’s a brilliant actor – or he used to be, anyway, before the company decided he better fit the role of a nanny – but this is well beyond the scripts he is most familiar with.

“They’re close,” Moon warns him, “Don’t let them see–”

“I know, I know.” No time to dwell on it now, he makes quick work of crossing the distance between the ball pit and the exit, and manages to slide his head and torso through the gap between doors within seconds of it opening, scaring the living daylights of the poor employee sent to greet him in the process.

Unlike Sun, they do swear, clutching a hand over their chest and fitting him with a downright awful deadpanned stare. “Fuck, you couldn’t have waited a few seconds longer for me to come inside?” They hiss.

“Sorry, friend! Didn’t mean to spook you,” Sun chirps. He is careful to keep his bloodied hands safely tucked behind his back. “It’s just a mess in here, is all, and I’m rather embarrassed. There’s still equipment to clean, toys to organize, papers to fold–”

“Sure,” the employee interrupts, “It doesn’t really–” they pinch the bridge of their nose, exhaling with notably less exhaustion than Sun is feeling right about now, “I don’t particularly care. What’s the big issue that I was called down here for?”

“Oh! I just wanted to know if the next shipment of wipes had come in, yet. Like I said before, much to do! Always busy, busy, busy!”

Their stare turns into an outright glower. “That’s why you called the emergency line? For cleaning supplies?”

Sun shrugs, feigning ignorance. “Well, that’s an emergency to me. Apparently our standards are not the same.” He watches them roll their eyes with more enthusiasm than necessary. ”Do you know how messy children can be? It’s practically a barnyard in here, every single day, and don’t even get me started on how much of a health code violation it would be if one of them were to pick their nose and then–”

“Fine, I get it,” they snap, “I’ll make sure your damn supplies are delivered before the daycare opens. Anything else?”

“Told you they were annoying,” Moon chimes in.

“That’s everything!” He replies, “thank you a mighty amount, friend!”

“Mhm,” they mutter, waving him off with nothing more than the noncommittal sound. When they do turn to leave, it’s not soon enough, and Sun just barely manages to close the door with a whisper instead of a slam.

His back rests against it a moment later, and he allows himself to collapse from there, sliding down the smooth wooden frame until his tailbone reaches the floor. His knees twinge as they tuck against his chest, and he folds both arms atop, resting his temple against them and taking one long, much needed moment to just breathe.

It had only been half of a lie. There was much to do, much to clean, and only so many hours remaining to get it done. The wires nestled deep in his chest had calmed, yet the tremor in his hands continued, as it likely would until the very last speck of blood was washed clean.

“…Moon?”

“Hm?”

Sun tucks his knees ever closer. “Why…why did you do it?”

“…”

“I w-won’t be mad, promise! I’m sure this is all just one big misunderstanding, after all – a one time event, no biggie! But…was it out of anger? Fear? I mean, did he hurt–”

“In my way,” Moon replies.

Sun’s head lifts from the dark haven his arms provide, noting with growing exhaustion that, for the very first time, the lights felt too bright even for him. “What do you mean by that?” He asks, “Did he keep you from doing something?”

“…I don’t know.”

Again, Sun’s head falls against his arms in defeat, and again, not two seconds later, it lifts, determined not to lollygag any longer.

His legs creak with vocal effort as he gets back to his feet. “Well, no point in dwelling on it now, I suppose. I’m sure it’s nothing.” He takes in a wide view of the daycare – static trailing everywhere – and deflates with a sigh. “Guess I better get started. The sooner we get the place cleaned up, the sooner we can forget about all of this.”

He takes a step forward, and only that, swiveling on his heel when he catches last night’s roster from the corner of his eye. A single drop of static had landed and smeared across the name of a child meant to go home later in the evening.

Strangely enough, it appears they were never picked up.

Sun shrugs, gathering the paper in both hands and crumpling it into a ball to dispose of the smeared evidence. A simple mistake with the roster, that’s all it is. The parents often forget to sign their name after all. Accidents happen all the time!

The paper lands with a soft thunk in the nearest trash can and is just as quickly forgotten. Sun pivots towards the play area once more and heads for the supply closet, steadfast in his determination to be cleaned up on time, and feeling more confident than he ought to be about how things ended, all things considered.

More than anything, he is just happy to have all of this behind them.

[haveihitanerve]

Priscilla's Final Petal

He said he loved her.

That was the thought ricocheting around in Cilla’s head as she wandered the empty halls of Saxony Manor, a glass of brandy cradled in one hand. She usually tended to opt for lighter drinks, but tonight called for something harsher. Something that burned. She needed the sharp sting of alcohol for the gloom of this eve.

Earl was out, going through a stroll through the garden, off to plant another one of his incessant buttercups at her grave.

Buttercups. Cilla shuddered, setting her half empty glass on the windowsill as she peered out into the ice chilled night. Frost had built up, crackling along the edges of the windowpane and she drew a lazy finger through it, tracing random shapes.

It had been four years now. Four. Why was he still…

Cilla withdrew, frustrated, heading off again down the hallway. She was already around the corner when she realized she’d left her drink behind. She halted for a moment, torn between her desire to pace, to move, to get away, and the need for the soothing burn of the liquor.

Before she could make her choice, a wail pierced the air. Cilla set off, relieved by the excuse not to have to make a decision, and rushed into the nursery.

They had released the nanny a few days ago, and while a few tasks that now fell to Cilla were… unpleasant, she much preferred the more intimate contact she got to spend with her daughter, rather than the nanny.

She knew it wasn't usual, for a woman of her standing, and the nanny had given her quite a few snide looks over the past few years, every time Cilla tried to hold her daughter, burp her, do any basic motherly things, but that could have also been do to… other reasons.

Cilla reached the nursery and rushed to her daughters bed.

“Shhhh.” She cooed, smiling gently as she wiped the few stray tears that had escaped her daughters eyes. “Shhhh, its alright Priscilla, I’m here. Mummy’s here.”

She slid her hands underneath Priscilla’s body, hefting her up and into her arms.

“Mummy.” Priscilla murmured, legs kicking fitfully as she buried her head into Cilla’s neck.

“Are you alright, my darling?” Cilla murmured, rocking slowly back and forth.

“Mm.” Priscilla hummed in response, pressing closer. “Had a nightmare.” She whispered, like it was a grave secret.

“Oh?” Cilla swallowed, tucking her daughter closer. “About the woman again?” She asked, trying to calm her pounding heart as much as she was her daughter.

“Mhm.” Priscilla nodded, tiny arms circling around Cilla’s neck. “I don't like her Mummy.” She whispered. “She’s scary.”

And as much as the words comforted Cilla, they were simultaneously like daggers to her heart. Twisting. Sharp. Jagged.

She tried her best, of course she did. She loved Priscilla, loved her like her own daughter. She was her own daughter, as far as Cilla and the public was concerned.

But she could never quite silence that whisper, that curling thread of guilt, that she was a horrible mother. That she didn't quite deserve the title. That one day it would all come crashing down.

But that was foolish. It wasn’t like Earl still visited Annabelle’s grave or anything. Even four years later. It wasn’t as though he still had Rumpled employed, while the rest of the staff was slowly being let go.

What if Annabelle, despite all her faults, was everything Cilla wasn't? Her arms tightened around Priscilla, already on her way back into dreamland in her arms.

Cilla felt tears choke her throat, the way they so often did when her thoughts turned like this. Which they did far too frequently.

She was trying. Trying so hard to do the dead woman justice in the only way she could.

She’d hated the woman, hated her with every breath of her being, but she was still trying to give her daughter everything. Trying to do her justice, one mother to another. But was it enough? Would it ever be enough?

Cilla rocked a little faster, clutching Priscilla in her arms. No one was taking her daughter from her. No one. Especially not a cold, dead woman.

Cilla turned sharply on one heel, heading back out into the hallway. Priscilla shifted, but stayed asleep, fully relaxed in her arms. Cilla wasn't quite certain of her destination, but she didn't want to set her daughter down. Leave her alone. Not tonight.

She found her glass on the windowsill where she’d left it, but pushed it aside. She didn't need the alcohol now, she’d found something much more soothing.

Dawn was beginning, she’d spent the whole night pacing restlessly through the house, and filtering glimpses of sunlight speared through the fog still blanketing the Saxony Estate.

She spotted him coming over the hilltop, a flower in his hand, hat planted firmly on his head. She knew the flower would remain in a vase on their dinner table for a week, at least, before he would give to Rumpled, who would dispose of it “the proper way” as the groundsman liked to say. Cilla rolled her eyes.

Earl spotted her, his hand lifting in a wave as he meandered his way towards the two way door.

Cilla ignored him, eyes shifting past to the place he emerged from. The mound of buttercups underneath the Olive Tree.

A chill snaked down her spine, but she refused to look away, not until Earl was inside, arms wrapped around her, his beard tickling her cheek as he pressed a kiss to their daughters head.

As long as he lived, Annabelle would haunt their every step. But Cilla would not let the demons of the past drag her down. Priscilla was her daughter. And as long as there was still breath in her lungs she would not let the tendrils of the past infect her daughter. Not until the final petal. 

uhh this isn't my usual posting but i realized i didnt tag my usual people??? so idk if yall wanna see it or not but just in case:)

@dawn-speckled @snek-of-eden @bewilderednobody @scattered-stardust

[audentesfortunaiuvatt]

astra inclinant, sed non obligant

henry/hans // rating: E // words: 19,987 // chapters: 2/3

Henry's past starts to catch up to him. Hans does what he can.

Chapter 2 is up!

[strxwberrylemonxde]

joker joker 😣🙏 please pleaseee

a/n: SKDNJS I'M FINALLY FREE TO ANSWER MY ASKS 😭 allow me to use this ask to insert some random headcanons of our favorite pookie bear while I work on the other joker fics I got for you 🤩 these are so bad im so sorry

There is something about the Joker that gives "DARRRRRLLINNGGGGG GUESS WHO JUST ESCAPED THE PSYCCHHHH WARDDD"

He would say this to Batman after escaping Arkham for the millionth time

Kicks feet and giggles 

Someone please sedate me

I know damn well they had to put a muzzle on this man in Arkham because he bit someone for talking bad about Batman 

It was Killer Croc 💀

I think this man loves sprinkles for some reason -- specifically rainbow sprinkles 

Like he needs it on his ice cream or else he won't eat it

Like he would rob a store at gunpoint for rainbow sprinkles

 And then go, “Oh nooo, I hope a big, bad, Bat doesn’t come and stop me” type shit 😭

Speaking of ice cream, I wholeheartedly believe Joker is lactose intolerant

Does he care?

Not in the slightest

He is guzzling milk, cheese, and ice cream at all times

He went to extensive lengths to smuggle in a picture of Batman into his cell in Arkham, but don’t ask him how he did it 

You don't wanna know

He has a tattoo on his lower back a tramp stamp of the bat symbol

[toasted-buguette]

Into Your Own Hands

Summary: Ryis decides to pine from a distance in order to be a better wingman for March. The farmer has other ideas.

Ryis is many things: A son, a brother, a nephew, a pretty good woodworker if he were to say so himself. A friend, and he tried to be a good one. 

Ryis is also in love, although he would desperately like to not be. 

Mistria is, despite its constant activity, a very small town with a very close knit community. It’s one of the things that made him love it there, that and the quiet that let him hear birdsong with more clarity and variety. Everyone knew each other and everyone had some manner of bond that had existed for at least a year or two, so it made sense that the arrival of a new member of the community would spark interest in everyone. Ryis wasn’t exempt from this, after all the last time someone new came it was him, but he liked to think himself a little bit chiller about it than some others.

Chiller than March, he means.

March is, as much as he likes to hide it, a pretty good guy underneath all his bluster. He just doesn’t like change, when Ryis first moved in it took March a week to stop sulking and talk to him. It was only once Friday came along and Olric dragged his brother to the inn that he and Ryis actually got to have a conversation and that (Plus one or two of Hemlock’s drinks) was all it took to spark a friendship that would surely last a lifetime. Because besides being craftspeople and their mutual adoration of Mistria and its citizens, the quality Ryis and March shared in the highest quantity was their loyalty. 

Which is why Ryis can’t acknowledge his growing fondness for the new farmer. 

You see, after the earthquake a lot of things needed repairing and the citizens of Mistria needed a distraction, so a new face was just what the town needed. Ryis, on his part, was eager to welcome the new farmer into town, after all he knew better than anyone what it was like to be the new member of a well established community. Besides, he knew they would be working together on the myriad of reconstruction projects, so it was only natural that they get along outside of work. It helped that they were very easy to get along with. 

March, as is his wont, was not as receptive to this newcomer. No one was surprised when any conversation with him eventually led to him grumbling about the no good farmer who was only here for their own gain and totally wasn’t going to last the season. Ryis, at least, was surprised when these grumblings continued past the first week of the farmer being there. 

After all, the farmer went to very great lengths to talk to everyone frequently, March included, and usually once he got to know someone he mellowed out at least a little. But no, it seemed that March’s ire only grew with every attempt to make peace the farmer made. Ryis tried to reassure them that March would warm up to them eventually, (He had to, they were just too charming even for March to hate for long), but his reassurances could only go so far when March seemed to go out of his way to antagonize the farmer. It wasn’t until late spring that Ryis found out why March was being so… like that. 

For all his guardedness it only takes a couple drinks to get all of March’s walls to crumble like a termite infested fence, and once they did the blacksmith was the most open book in the world. There was no such thing as secrets with drunk March, so Ryis got a front row seat as March got to rambling about the farmer once more, and it instantly became plain as day that March’s blush that night was not caused by the beer. 

Ryis couldn’t remember a time March was ever so enthralled with someone. He sat there and listed out Ryis’ thoughts verbatim about how interesting and capable the farmer was, how helpful and hardworking, and Ryis realized two things simultaneously.

One: He was developing a crush on the farmer.

And Two: He could not, under any circumstances, let it continue to grow.

When was the last time March was so enamored with anyone? When had he ever been this animated when talking about something that wasn’t made of metal? March had always been a happy drunk but this was beyond anything that Ryis had ever seen from his friend and he wanted desperately for that happiness to continue.

So he resolved himself to try and help March realize the feelings he had while he was sober as well as pushing the farmer in his direction whenever possible. It was easy for Ryis to ignore his own feelings, at first, after all the farmer hadn’t been there long and was always running around going who knows where to do who knows what. Out of sight out of mind and all that, and when they were not out of mind Ryis could always find a project to take his mind off them for a little while. And when that failed to work he could always tell himself that once their novelty wore off so too would his unfortunate crush.

And then the general store was ready to be remodeled and all that flew out the window. 

Unlike with the bridge Ryis couldn’t do the whole thing alone in a single day, and aside from his uncle (Who he loved very dearly and wanted to enjoy his retirement as much as possible) the only person qualified to help was the farmer. So the two of them set to work and Ryis tried very hard not to think about how every time their hands touched when exchanging tools a shock would go up his arm and send his heart racing, or how every so often he’d look up from his work and see them so deeply focused that he fell just a little deeper in love. 

That, he thinks, is what finally broke the dam and now when he aims the farmer in March’s direction (Because he still does, because he loves March) it is accompanied by a horrible pang in his chest that he knows he’ll never be able to get rid of. 

‘It’s fine.’ He tells himself. He’ll make do with what he can get and he’ll blame the work on why he’s so flushed every time he joins the farmer on a project and when March can finally admit to himself that he doesn’t hate them Ryis will look on as two of his favorite people can freely admit their love for eachother and it will be because of him and maybe the ache in his chest will get a little easier to live with. 

The next time he sees the farmer, Ryis wants to hide in his scarf. They’re sweaty and out of breath and he can tell why when they hand him a stack of hardwood so big he wonders how they fit it all in their bag. They smile so wide when he accepts it and their face makes him want to melt. That doesn’t stop him from inviting them to the shop, of course. After all, it's hot and he can’t move all of that himself (he can) and wouldn’t they like to sit down and cool off for a second after all that work? Really it’s the least he could do after everything they’ve done for the town (for him). 

And now they’re alone in the shop and the wood is all put away and Ryis would talk about all the projects he has planned for it except the farmer makes it really hard for him to think and of course Landen is gone and can’t distract the farmer from him so they’re just watching him stammer with those intensely beautiful eyes of theirs and Ryis realizes a little too late that he said that last part out loud. 

Mortified, Ryis looks away and it takes him a minute before he can bear to take his eyes off the pile of sawdust they landed on and return them to the farmer. The sight that greets him when he does is not what he expected; The farmer is staring at him with a sort of half-smile and did they get closer? Their face is definitely closer to his than it was when he looked away. He bashfully tells them that he’s sorry and they should probably forget what he said and after a second they say that maybe they don’t want to. Maybe they gave him all that hardwood because to them his smile is the prettiest thing in the whole town. 

And every plan Ryis ever made to play matchmaker for March goes in the trash because hearing that makes his heart stop and when the farmer kisses him it is the most right anything has ever felt. And soon they’ll have to leave because it’s late and their chickens are still outside and then Ryis will have to grapple with the fact that he just kissed the person his best friend is in love with but for now none of that matters because after a season and a half of pining and pushing his feelings down it feels like he can finally breathe. 

And as the farmer leaves, trailing promises to see him soon behind them, Ryis revels in not having to dread their next meeting any more.

[siennaditbot]

Sethos x Reader: Mailed Flower

A story built with letters and flowers 🌻✨

Word count ~ 5700, oops xD

Pen pals, sending doodles and gifts, eventual meeting, pining

Masterlist

Greetings! I'm y/n, a florist from Chenyu Vale. I'm writing to inquire about the Akademiya and its courses about biology, specifically botany. I'm interested in enrolling in some classes, but it's a big move, so I wish to know more before committing to the idea.

I'll attach my personal details under this so someone can send me a response. Thank you in advance.

The letter was sent with excitement and hope. It passed through several hands, until it ended up in the hands of someone who lives and breathes botany.

~

Hello. We're happy to hear people from other nations are interested in studying in Sumeru. The Akademiya has all sorts of options for those who wish to learn. The entrance exams are a challenge, however, so we recommend preparing for it well.

Attached to this letter are a select few documents I often use in my teachings. I hope they're of use to you. Do send another letter if you wish to proceed.

~

She eagerly read through the attached documents. The questions weren't very hard, but some of the text took a couple reads.

So, she got comfortable in her study, grabbed some books, and made sure she understood everything.

When she did, she sent a ‘thank you’ letter, politely asking for more documents.

~

“Heyy, Tighnari, the folks directed another letter to you.”

“Ah, thank you.”

“Why don't they deal with this stuff themselves?”

“Master Saphis is often busy, so these more down-to-earth matters are occasionally delegated to me. It can be a bit of a nuisance, but sometimes I'm positively surprised.”

Tighnari accepted the letter from his friend, who ended up as a mail carrier again.

“Oh, it's the same person.”

“Someone with a grudge? No, wait, is it a secret admirer~?”

“Just someone interested in enrolling. I sent some documents over last time, and she's already asking for more.”

“A bunch of nerds, all of you, hehe.”

Tighnari just deadpanned at him, and started gathering more documents to send.

~

By her third letter both Tighnari and the assigned-again mail carrier Sethos recognized her envelope and handwriting. Sethos stopped in front of Tighnari's house and did his usual playful knock.

The response was a barely audible ‘come in’. Sethos stepped in, finding Tighnari bedridden.

“Whoa, are you okay?”

“..Yes, just a bit queasy.”

“Well, that's good, I guess. What happened?”

“Ugh, heatstroke. Collei and I went to get some samples…”

“Glad she was with you, then.”

He waved the letter in his hand.

“Anyway, the same person wrote again. You still haven't scared her off, huh?”

“I haven't sent anything particularly difficult yet. Besides, she seems to find the documents interesting.”

Sethos was about to hand the envelope to Tighnari, but he gestured towards his desk instead.

“I'm in no condition to read or write right now. Mind being my secretary for a minute?”

“What's the hurry? Couldn't it wait until you're feeling better?”

“She's on a roll, hungry and excited to learn. I don't want to make her wait. Besides, I already have some documents ready from my previous lecture.”

“I can't deal with you sometimes”, Sethos huffed, but walked to his desk to sit down to read the letter out loud.

“‘Thank you again, master Tighnari. Your letters and documents have been a great help. I've already gained a completely different kind of appreciation for the flowers I see every day. It's like they're sparkling now that I know more about them.’ Pft, she drew some nice sparkly flowers here.”

“She does little doodles every time. Continue.”

Sethos grinned, cleared his throat dramatically, and continued reading.

“‘We seem to be following a lesson plan, so please send over whatever documents you find most fitting. Kind regards, y/n.’”

“See? She enjoys learning.”

“Heh, apparently.”

“The documents are in the top drawer. I've pinned them together.”

Sethos dug around, and once he confirmed they're the right ones, he folded them into a new envelope.

“I don't usually write back much. Just, I don't know, tell her that it's nice to teach someone who's so enthusiastic, even if remotely.”

“You got it, boss.”

Sethos grinned, and began to write.

Hiya, your usual mail carrier here! Tighnari is currently bedridden - just heatstroke, he'll live - so I'm his secretary for a bit. He wants me to write that “it's fun to teach someone who's so enthusiastic, even if remotely”. We'll try to keep an eye on him, so you just focus on your studies and flower shop, ok?

He tried not to grin mischievously as he drew some sparkly little flowers too, and slid the letter into the envelope.

“You rest now, I'll go drop this off. Okay?”

“Yes, thank you.”

And so he did, and went to run to the city, fast on his feet like always.

~

She was surprised to see the little doodles in the usually official-looking letter she got, and it made her smile that someone had noticed and maybe even liked her own doodles.

She did the work as always, went through everything properly, and stopped to do more research if something stumped her.

Eventually she wrote back, putting down her thoughts on the documents and her occasional question. She continued her little drawings, and this time doodled some on the envelope itself, as a little nod to the mail carrier secretary person.

~

Sethos immediately recognized the envelope again when it was handed to him. Seeing the doodles on the cover made him smile in surprise, and he soon ran to Tighnari, as had become a habit by now.

“Knock knock, your long-distance student wrote again.”

“I’m here, come in.”

Sethos stepped in, finding Tighnari at his desk.

“Hiya. What'cha working on?”

“Some assignments for Collei. She has an exam soon, so we're hard at work.”

“Got time to write to our florist friend?”

“To be honest, not right now. Could I ask you to write for me again?”

“Eh, maybe this one time”, Sethos grinned, not really minding the request.

He settled down on Tighnari's bed with paper and a pen, and read her letter first. He asked Tighnari the questions she had written down, and recorded the answers to the best of his ability.

Heyy, I'm playing secretary again! Tighnari didn't really give me anything to write, though, so I'm winging it, heh. He's busy with some assignments for another student of his, so you have to deal with my chicken scratch. Oh, I'm Sethos, by the way. Not actually a mailman, or a secretary, I just do a lot of errands. Anyway, good luck with your studies!

P.S. Your doodles are fun.

He added some sparkly flowers again, and even a cute little rishboland tiger doodle.

He gathered the appropriate documents with Tighnari’s help, and sealed the envelope.

“Your smug expression is making me doubt your professionalism”, Tighnari said, squinting his eyes.

“What? Me? I'm as professional as a non-professional can get”, Sethos just laughed in response.

“I'm doubtful, but you wrote last time too and she replied, so you can't be too bad.”

“See? I've got it, teach.”

~

To no one's surprise, Tighnari wrote the letters from then on.

But, to y/n’s surprise, Sethos started doodling on the envelopes instead. When Tighnari sealed them, he took them back to the city, and did a few tiny doodles on their back before sending them forward.

Then, one day, Sethos was handed two letters instead of one. The usual proper letter for Tighnari, and one that was addressed to him. He chuckled softly and sat down to read it.

Seems like master Tighnari caught you meddling with his professional letters, eh? Haven't heard from you since the tiger doodle.

“Heh, her tiger looks way better than mine.”

We're practically friends by now, and if I'm going to move to Sumeru to enroll properly, it'd be nice to actually know some people beforehand. So. Hi, officially. Sethos, a silly errand runner guy? I'm y/n, florist, Chenyu Vale, Yilong Wharf. Here's a doodle of me.

“Wow, she's good.”

No pressure to reply if you don't want to, you just felt like a friendly person so I decided to be brave and try. As a friendly little offering, I put in some locally made tea and a drawing I did of some fluff-fleece goats we have around here.

Your friend(?), y/n

Sethos smiled softly as he read the letter and studied her drawings. He's definitely going to write back.

He immediately got to work when he got home that evening.

Hello! Heh, yeah, we're friends. I do have an actual job, too, but I just like to run a lot of errands. It's fun. And I get to meet tons of people, as you can see.

I'm friends with Tighnari and his previously mentioned other student as well. Her name is Collei, she's young but very hardworking. Our usual group also has Cyno, the General Mahamatra (a judge/cop I guess?) who seems intimidating but is actually really funny.

I'm from the desert, but I live in the city now. I do like hiking, though, and often end up finding lost or troubled adventurers everywhere. Sumeru is never boring, heh.

I'm not as good at drawing as you, but here's a scribble that's supposed to look like me, hehe.

Your friend(!), Sethos

~

Sethos’ letter was received with a surprised grin. She wasn't sure if he'd write back, after all.

Hi! I visit Fontaine a lot, and get a good view of both the rainforest and desert from up there. The trees are scarily big and the desert is so vast I'd definitely get lost there. There's plenty of pyramids and temples from what I can tell, and I'm super curious about the blue bubbly tree towering over everything! It's really pretty.

I wouldn't call my exploration of Chenyu Vale hiking, but I do walk around a lot. It helps me relax and appreciate the beauty of nature and all that. I also walk to pick up my flowers from several locals who grow them.

I included charms made of clearwater jade for each of you. There's a jewellery merchant in my neighbourhood who makes them. I would like to learn more about what you and your friends like, though, so whenever I'm inspired to send little gifts, they aren't something none of you care about, hehe.

Anyway, until next time!

She did related doodles all over, like the shapes of the biggest temples and the bubbly tree she loves. She then sealed everything and sent it on its way.

~

Hiya! Yeah, the desert is big, and there are temples and ruins everywhere. Lots of people want to go digging for treasures around there, which is why I keep running into half dead adventurers trying not to get buried in sand. I'm still not sure whether it's funny or sad.

The big bubbly tree you're talking about is called “Harvisptokhm”. The area around it is pretty, I do recommend visiting the Vourukasha Oasis sometime if you get the chance. It has its roots (hehe) deep in Teyvat’s history, but that's way too much for a fun little letter like this. The ruins in the desert are also proof of times long gone. It's fascinating.

But, back to the here and now. Tighnari is all about plants, as you know. Collei is often busy, but I think she likes sewing? Cyno… consider this my warning; he's obsessed with Genius Invocation TCG. Do with that info as you will.

They all liked the charms you sent, by the way. Collei and Tighnari prepared some bookmarks for you as thanks. The pressed flowers are a Sumeru rose and a kalpalata lotus. Cyno… sent some starter cards.

As for me… I put in a mourning flower I picked a while back. They grow around the previously mentioned oasis! I'm not too familiar with plants, but these ones are funny to me.

~

Hii!

My studies are going well, even if it's just to prepare for actual classes. Maybe someday soon I'll actually be able to become a real student there, hehe. The questions occasionally stump me, but it's nothing too difficult, so I'm still excited.

I'm planning on visiting Fontaine again soon. I often go to get some Fontainian flowers in my shop, they're so different from all other plants. Some even look like they're made of water!

…hehe, sorry, I'll switch off from nerd mode. So. Do you have other hobbies aside from hiking? I like to go out to watch performances at the local teahouse. We have a Wushou Dance Troupe here, they're fun! I can't really play any music myself, but I do enjoy singing on my walks sometimes, hehe.

The flowers you guys sent were amazing, by the way. Absolutely made my week. And tell Cyno that I'm learning how to play his beloved card game. Emphasis on “learning”...

Anyway, have a nice day! :)

~

Hello hello!

Every time you sound more and more like our local nerds, hehe. You'll fit right in.

Hobbies? I like cooking, it's especially fun when I gotta be creative on my hikes. Sometimes it ends up amazing, other times… barely passable.

We have a theater here for performances as well. One of our friends is a dancer there, we go watch her shows sometimes. She even performed during our Archon’s birthday celebration! You’ll have to visit the theater too sometime.

I do like to entertain myself with a lyre on quiet camping nights, too. The clear starry sky above, campfire crackling, meat grilling and some soft tunes… Ah, there aren't many things better than that.

~

She noticed the stupid, brief tinge of jealousy at the mention of the dancer friend, but immediately stifled it. She barely knows the guy, getting jealous is just insane.

She slapped her cheeks and sat down to respond.

Stars, food, music and a campfire? That does sound perfect. Especially in the desert, I'm assuming. Unobstructed view of the stars, the warm fire when the night starts to get cold…. You're almost making me jealous, hehe.

That was closer to the truth than she'd like, but she left it in anyway. It's not like he’d suspect another meaning for it.

That reminds me of my childhood, actually. Me and my family climbed up to one of the mountains nearby, and we had snacks and tea while seeing the sights in every direction. My parents are enjoying their retirement now and travel as much as they can, and my siblings have their own jobs so I rarely see them either.

Well, that's what growing up does to a person, I'd assume. Not to sound like an old person though, I'm in my mid twenties, I swear, hehe.

~

Family hiking trips? That sounds nice. Now I'm jealous. Hmm, no, desert camp nights are still better, hehe.

My grandfather often took me camping, hunting and exploring. He taught me everything I know, even combat. I'm a force to be reckoned with, you know!

Do you ever need to fight? Chenyu Vale must have its own share of monsters and predators, after all. Sumeru has tigers and fungi, and the occasional treasure hoarder or hilichurl. I do occasionally use my trusty polearm, but I think I prefer my bow. Electro bolts are preeetty nifty in defending oneself, hehe.

He hoped the playful boasting distracted her from the lack of mentioning other family members.

~

As I do walk alone a lot, I have had to learn basic self defence skills. Dendro isn't that useful in combat by itself, but a few swipes of my claymore usually do the trick. I can be a destructive force too if I wish, I'm not just flowers and sparkles either!

(Here's a doodle of my beloved blade.)

Your grandpa sounds nice. My parents taught me a lot, but they were more interested in herbs than flowers, so I've had to do tons of studying growing up. I never knew my grandparents, I think they lived closer to Liyue Harbor.

Oh, I'm finally going to visit Fontaine tomorrow! Another plant run, but I'm gonna go see the magic show I've been hearing a lot about.

Master Tighnari's also been sending tougher assignments, but I guess that means that the exam is getting closer. Wish me luck!

~

Dendro, eh? You'll really be right at home in Sumeru, then. Both Tighnari and Collei also have dendro visions. Me and Cyno wield electro ones. Easy aggravate teams!

I bet your parents’ teachings were useful despite everything. Collei is studying medicinal herbs too, I think. She wants to help others. You'd get along well, I know it.

“She was honest about sad things too, so maybe it's okay for me too. Just a little.”

I can't remember my actual family, I was raised by my adoptive grandfather. I'm not complaining, though, he was wise and kind. And patient - apparently I was a wild kid, heh. I still get comments about being difficult to control to this day.

I've also heard about the magic show, I think. The twins, right? Fontainian tourists often recommend them to locals here. I hope that it was fun!

But yeah, Tighnari mentioned that the entrance exams are approaching, I think he'll talk more about the logistics in his next letter. Good luck!

~

The Fontaine visit was great as always, and the magic show was amazing. I even got a signed card from Lyney - Lynette isn't very big on fan meetups, hehe.

Wild kid, eh? So was I. Climbed trees and kept spooking the goats and people's pets. Oops. I've calmed down, though. Calm as the breeze~

That's me trying to calm myself down by the way. Entrance exams next week, it turns out. I've been cramming to the best of my ability, but running a shop at the same time is tough. But I'm tough too, so I'm managing!

So, apparently I'll be coming to Sumeru next week. There will probably be plenty of others coming for the exams too, but keep an eye out, maybe we'll meet face to face.

Here I come, nation of wisdom!!

~

Sethos was both excited and nervous for her. This exam could mean big changes for her, after all.

Well, he was also excited and slightly nervous to meet her. He has plenty of friends and great social skills, sure, but it's a new thing for him to only know someone via sending letters. They're friends, though, so he's mostly excited.

He did his best to stomp down the nervousness, because it was making him act weird. He couldn't help looking around all day, trying to figure out who matched the doodle she had sent ages ago.

He was just excited to meet his new friend, that's all.

He wasn't wondering at all whether she'd really be just as fun, nice and spunky as she seemed.

Turning around to look at another group walking past him, he forcefully turned his soft smile into his usual friendly grin, and exchanged polite greetings with them.

~

Eventually, when the test was finally over and she could relax, she started walking around town to look for her friends. It didn't take long for her to be stopped by a young guy with big canine ears and a tail.

“Hi there. You're one of those who came in for entrance exams today, right?”

“Y-yes, I am.”

“My friends and I are looking for a particular student, and you seem to match the description I got. Would you happen to be y/n?”

She was stunned, and grinned excitedly.

“Yes! That's me!”

“Good, I thought so. Come on, let's go find the others. I'm Tighnari, by the way.”

“Master Tighnari? It's so nice to meet you! Thanks for all your help, I've learned so much!”

“It's nothing big, really. But I'm glad you're enjoying learning more about botany.”

They continued their nerdy but friendly chatting as they walked around the city. They ran into Collei, who was speaking to - and apparently trying to escape from - a twin tailed lady. Tighnari exchanged a few polite words with her, and when she finally left, he introduced y/n to Collei.

“I-I've been wanting to meet you! We're practically classmates, after all”, Collei smiled softly.

“Heh, yeah. Me too. I've heard so much about you guys, it's great to finally have faces for the names!”

She couldn't help looking around for the other two people she knew. Well, maybe she was a little more excited to meet one than the other, but still. She was grinning.

“I have an idea where Cyno might be at this time of day”, Tighnari sighed, and led the way to what seemed to be a cozy café.

On their way down the ramps, however, they heard someone running down to catch up with them.

“Tighnari, wait! Have you seen-”

The steps slowed down and soon stopped. The group turned around.

“Seems you have”, Sethos grinned widely, eyes immediately finding y/n’s as he approached the trio. He turned to her. “Would you happen to be my nerdy florist pen pal?”

“You certainly look like the one drawing I was provided of my pen pal. Messy hair and all”, she replied, immediately smitten with his beautiful green eyes.

“And you look exactly like your cute little doodle.”

She laughed softly and held out her hand, still looking into his eyes. He really liked her smile already, and happily shook her hand. It was soft compared to his slightly calloused one.

“Nice to finally meet you, Sethos. I'm y/n.”

He did his best to hide how his smile threatened to widen.

“Welcome to Sumeru city. We've been waiting for you.”

The other two pairs of eyes watched them with amused smiles.

“One more to go, then. If we have any luck, he won't make us play Genius Invocation when we find him”, Tighnari sighed.

They weren't lucky, but at least they had cafè goods to ease the pain.

~

When the first reds and oranges of the sunset started to paint the sky, it was time for y/n to start heading back home for the night.

“It's been amazing to meet you guys, but I have to go”, she smiled sadly.

“We can definitely fit in one more game”, Cyno tried to protest. She had been the weakest denier, so she ended up playing several games with him. It was certainly a way to relax and make friends, at least.

“I really should go, I want to walk while it's still somewhat light out. Sorry, Cyno. I promise to play more next time.”

She then turned to Tighnari.

“When will I know the results of the exam?”

“Within two weeks, I'd say.”

“You know your stuff, you'll definitely get in!” Sethos nudged her, and Collei echoed his words as well.

“Yeah, you got it!”

“Hehe, I sure hope so. Sumeru is amazing, I can already imagine living here.”

She then gathered her things and got up.

“I'll see and hear from you guys again, no matter the results, okay?”

“Of course. We're friends now”, Tighnari replied, and the others nodded.

“Bye for now, then. I'll miss your faces!” she laughed, made eye contact with Sethos specifically, and finally headed out with friendly waves from both parties.

When she was gone, everyone turned to Sethos. He just crossed his arms behind his head and leaned back in his seat.

“Told you she was nice.”

“She was”, Tighnari nodded.

A moment of silence.

“You can walk with her to Vayuda Harbor, you know. We won't make a big deal about it”, Tighnari sighed and leaned forward to rest his chin on his hand. “I'm pretty sure she wanted you to, anyway.”

Sethos looked at his friends, and couldn't help the heat rising on his cheeks when he saw the hint of smugness on Cyno's usually expressionless face.

“It’s only polite to walk your new friend to the harbor”, Collei added, trying to make the situation less awkward.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm going”, Sethos finally agreed, exhaling heavily to cover his eagerness to run after her. He excused himself swiftly, and dashed after her once he was outside.

~

She sighed sadly as she hoisted her bag on better and headed towards the back gate of the city. She was going to miss her new friends. Well, she already did.

When she heard the quickly approaching steps behind her, she couldn't help but turn around with hopeful eyes. Sethos easily caught up with her, immediately more awkward than he thought he'd be.

“I.. thought I should walk you to the harbor. The path isn't very clear and all that”, he tried to explain himself.

“Aw, thanks. It's been a while since I've walked with someone, so it was difficult to ask, hehe.”

Sethos pocketed his hands, and led the way, his smile now undoubtedly wider than usual.

“So. How'd you like the gang?”

“You had described them perfectly. Can't wait to meet them again.”

“Just them?” Sethos found himself saying.

“Eh, I could tolerate seeing your face again too, I guess”, she grinned back.

“Yours is very tolerable too, I suppose.”

He was surprised by his own words. Was he flirting??

Slightly flushed, he cleared his throat and directed the conversation elsewhere.

“Did you run into any trouble on your way here from the harbor?”

“There were a lot of others walking, too, so not really. I did notice a group of cute little mushroom guys at a distance, but nothing happened.”

“That's good, then. But you could have defended yourself, of course.”

“Of course.”

She materialised her claymore in her hands and dramatically held it towards him.

“Very dangerous indeed”, he chuckled, and held the tip of the blade to look at it up close. “It's very nice. Where did you get it?”

“My parents brought it for me from the Windblume festival in Mondstadt a few years ago.”

“That’s sweet.”

He took out his beloved bow, and held it towards her.

“I got this from my grandfather. I'm not sure whether he made it, found it or bought it, but I still treasure it.”

She ran her fingers along the bow, studying the design.

“It's really cool. Can I try shooting?”

“Sure, now I wanna see that”, he shrugged playfully and handed her the bow and an arrow.

With little effort, she drew back the string, and aimed at a log nearby. She was strong, but not good at aiming, so the arrow flew into the ground nearby instead.

Still, Sethos was impressed.

“A little practice with aiming and you'll become an archer yet!” he grinned and walked out to pick up the arrow. He also took the chance to force himself to look away from her for a moment.

She was nice, fun, smart AND strong?

He'll be in trouble at this rate.

“Would you like to try my claymore?” she chuckled and held the blade out to him. He shrugged and took it, testing its weight in his grip.

“It's a quality blade for sure.”

He did a few swings, certain that it could cause serious damage.

“I prefer moving swiftly, which is difficult with a heavy weapon, but you'll definitely be able to protect yourself with this.”

“Hehe, yup. I'm not super fast anyway, so I'll make up with strength. I carry a lot of flower boxes for long distances, you know.”

She playfully brought her arms up to flex them for a moment, but relaxed once Sethos handed her claymore back to her.

“You're a very interesting person, you know”, Sethos grinned.

“Right back at you, buddy. You seem like a people person, but still somehow mysterious. I dunno.”

“Guess we gotta continue getting along to uncover each other’s secrets, huh?”

“Eh, doesn't sound too bad”, she chuckled.

They walked in silence for a moment, both looking around with content smiles. When she knelt down to look at some flowers, he couldn't help but admire her. Her eyes sparkled, her smile was warm as ever, and he wanted to run his fingers through her soft, shiny hair, maybe even style and braid it…

“This one is really pretty. A Padisarah… right?”

He jumped when she spoke up, immediately looking anywhere but at her.

“Y-yeah, I think so.”

He awkwardly scratched the back of his head as he forced himself to look at the flower and answer properly.

“It is. It can be used to make Padisarah Pudding, heh.”

Her expression brightened even more. Archons, he was in trouble.

“I gotta try that next time then!”

She looked at the flower for a while longer, and eventually stood back up.

“Had to nerd out for a moment. I'm back now.”

“I'm used to being around plant nerds at this point, you know. No need to apologize.”

She chuckled softly in response.

“Heh, thanks. I'll try my best not to drown you in botany jargon, anyway.”

“I am beyond grateful”, he joked, but wouldn't mind seeing and hearing more of her nerdiness. It was cute.

Some time later Sethos stopped walking, noticing something moving somewhere close by. She stopped too, confused and immediately on edge.

“What is it?” she whispered.

He carefully looked around them, eventually determining where the sounds came from. He immediately relaxed.

“Just a rishboland tiger. It's keeping watch, but doesn't seem ready to pounce.”

She followed his gaze and found the tiger. Sethos gestured for her to continue walking so they'd leave the beast be.

“They're cuter than I thought they'd be. Also somehow they look like you.”

“That sounds like a compliment, so thank you, but how, exactly?”

“I dunno. The eyes, maybe? Something in the vibes or colors? I have no idea, actually.”

“Well, I'll take that, anyway”, he chuckled softly, slightly flushed at her odd yet kind words.

“Are they dangerous?”

“They’re very territorial so they do sometimes jump down from their hiding spots to ambush people, but they aren't that bad if you're quick enough or know how to defend yourself.”

“Wow. Gotta keep my eyes open when walking, then.”

“That's always good.”

Eventually they started approaching the harbor. It had taken a good while, but it was still too soon.

She turned to look at him.

“Thanks for walking with me, Sethos. You didn't have to do that.”

“It's nothing, really. And, well, I wanted to, anyway.”

His face gained color for the hundredth time that day, but so did hers.

“You're so sweet. I'm glad we met, hehe.”

“..Yeah. Me too. You're great company.”

“Aw, thanks. You're making me blush”, she practically giggled.

He unconsciously brought his hand up to scratch his face.

“Right back at you…”

A moment of awkward, but happy silence.

“Ah, the boat looks like it's gonna leave soon.”

“True, you should hurry.”

She didn't move at all.

“I'm gonna miss you guys.”

“We'll miss you too, but you're definitely getting accepted into the Akademiya. We'll be seeing you again very soon, I know it!”

“Heh, you're the best.”

She tentatively held her hands out, asking for a hug. He happily complied to her request, not able to ignore the way the contact made his chest tighten, even if the hug was very brief.

“Now go, or you'll miss your boat. We'll be here, waiting for you.”

“Yeah. I’ll see you soon, Sethos.”

“...Yeah. See you soon.”

They waved goodbye, and went their separate ways for now.

~

Some time and a few letters later, the exam results came out.

She was accepted.

It didn't take her long to delegate her shop to a worthy successor, pack her things, and move over to the dorms in the city.

Her new friend group was already waiting in the harbor to help carry her things. The move went smoothly, thanks to them.

Sethos’ enjoyment of running errands was obvious now that she saw him in action. She was just doing her own things, but kept running into him everywhere, and always stopped to exchange a few words.

Everyone could see how much they enjoyed chatting. Tighnari, Cyno and Collei had front row seats, but kept their teasing to a minimum. Usually.

With time the group grew closer, and the two especially so. Now that they weren't limited by distance, they hung out a lot, and casual physical contact became a normal thing for them. A bit gross, sometimes even sickeningly so, yet still somehow cute. Hair ruffles, nudges, pokes…

Sethos’ wish to style her hair also came true, and it was just as soft as he had imagined. She was very happy with the result, too, so he could definitely do it again. As soon and as often as possible, really.

~

One day - to no one's surprise, really - he stopped her for a chat, and handed her a familiar looking envelope.

“We don't need letters anymore, do we?” she grinned, but accepted it nevertheless. “Want me to open it now or later?”

“...Now, preferably.”

She nodded, and excitedly opened the envelope. The only thing inside was a pressed rainbow rose bookmark.

“Aww, thank you, Sethos, I love it! Where'd you even get this? They only grow in Fontaine”, she gasped, marveling at the colorful flower.

“I had to pull a few strings, heh. But it had to be this one.”

She carefully studied the bookmark. It was truly beautiful, and she'd definitely treasure it. She was grinning happily, until she looked back at him.

He was looking at her, more nervous than she'd ever seen him. His eyes flicked back down to the bookmark, and then up at her.

Then it clicked.

“Have you, possibly, maybe, been looking into flower languages or something?” she asked shyly, almost whispering.

“Yes”, he replied simply.

“..Is this what I think it is?”

“..Yes.”

“..Are you sure?”

“..Rainbow roses represent passion and.. romantic encounters, so… Yes.”

She turned the bookmark in her hands, shy but impossibly happy. She then took a book from her bag, carefully placed the bookmark inside it, put it back, and reached for his hands.

“That was such a sweet yet cheesy move.”

“I've been working on this for a good while, you know. But it was worth it.”

A tender and blissful moment of silence.

“Heh. I never knew falling in love could be so easy”, she smiled, blindingly bright.

He brought their joined hands up and tentatively planted a gentle kiss on her knuckles. He couldn't stop the stupid grin and soft flush rising on his face.

“Me neither. Yet here we are.”

“Here we are, indeed.”

[numbuh424]

this meeting could have been a massacre

General Audiences | 7,977 words | read on AO3

Mikami is late. They’ve been waiting in the Yellow Box Warehouse for hours and their guest of honor is late. With nothing else to do and no guarantee of when he’ll arrive, the task force and SPK all decide to go out and eat together at a nearby café. Light is certain this is all some trick, but in his defense, how could he have known to plan against a team lunch?!

[waterfallofspace]

All That Remains

So! I wrote a 'snzfic' that is like... 80-90% angst and whump. Though, there is snz in here, but uh... yeah I won't lie and sell this as a 'snzfic', think of it much more as an angst/whump fic that has snz featured too~

basically i had too many feelings about t/im s/toker and this is what happened

[CW: Swearing, Spoilers for M/agnus A/rchives, talk of heavy fevers and bad coughs, and a lot of emotional angst/anger]

Word Count: 7.3k Characters: Tim, Jon, Martin, mentions of others ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Go home, Tim.” 

Tim merely rolls his eyes, giving a pointed look to Martin over Jon’s shoulder. He does not meet Jon’s eye. Martin, for his part, looks petrified. Tim’s half convinced if it was up to him, they’d all be sitting around drinking tea. Yeah, like that’s gonna happen. 

“I’m not asking anymore,” Jon continues, voice firm in a way that sets Tim’s teeth on edge. “You’re quite clearly not well.” 

“None of us are ‘quite well’ lately, now are we,” Tim snaps back, a chill settling in his tone. “No ‘well’ person would be here. In this place.” 

Jon pauses, face tightening. It’s not what he meant and they both know it. They both also know that Tim’s not wrong. It’s a stalemate, one that’s been going on for the full three days Tim had been coming to work with this bloody cold that’s begun to nestle in his chest. No doubt one Jon passed on to him, lord knows that man comes into work sick more times than healthy. 

Fine, that might be a tad of exaggeration, but not all that much. Any time a cold, flu, hell- any time anything at all is going around the office? Jon will catch it. If something’s going around outside the office, Jon will catch that too, and bring it into the office. There was a time Elias himself had to step in and ban Jon from the office because he kept catching the same cold he’d just gotten over. Is that even possible? Who knows. In this line of work, ‘possible’ becomes a term applied loosely. 

“Tim?” 

The voice snaps him from his thoughts, Tim silently cursing the fever beginning to settle in his bones. Alright, maybe this is more than just a cold. Still, he’s not going- wait. Out loud. 

“I’m not going home,” Tim manages, this time avoiding Martin’s dripping with concern gaze. Those puppydog eyes lost their charm as the world began to turn on its head. For what it’s worth, before all this, he would’ve been living for the attention. But now? Just the thought of it makes him sick to his stomach, every nerve in his body on edge. 

“I told you,” Jon continues, mouth still pulled tight. “I’m not asking anymore.”

“Oh, so what, you’re ordering me?” Tim retorts, rising to his full height. He doesn’t miss the slight step backwards Jon takes, and fights the urge to feel pleasure at eliciting that response. 

Jon stammers a little before speaking, but clears his throat roughly and calms his tone, “If that’s what you’d like to call it, then yes.” 

“And what would you call it then? Pity? Care? Where was this… this care when I lost Sasha? Where was this pity when I was almost eaten by fucking worms for you?! I don’t need it now, and I won’t have it. Fuck your pity, and especially fuck your version of ‘care’.”

There’s a pause, and Tim could almost swear he sees… sadness in Jon’s eyes. It brings a new bout of rage rushing through his veins, blood beginning to boil. 

It’s Martin that speaks first, barely audible above the pounding in Tim’s chest.

“When we lost Sasha.” 

Tim sincerely considers telling him to fuck off. Maybe even throwing a chair at him.

We. When we lost her. Martin barely knew her, and Jon… No. No ‘they’ didn’t lose Sasha, he did. He lost her, it was him that knew her the best, it was him that talked to her every day, it was him that truly saw her, and it was him that should have seen that- 

But did he? Did he even truly see her? Can he say that he did? All of his memories, they aren’t of Sasha, they’re of… 

“Did any of us truly lose her?” 

It’s barely a whisper, and Tim jolts a little as he realizes the sound came from him. Jon doesn’t seem to have noticed, and if it wasn’t for everything that’s gone to hell, Tim might thank some form of god for that. Martin wears an expression that says he did, but his lips tighten. He won’t answer it. Even if he wanted to, what could he say? That… thing, it took everything they had of her. None of them can recall, none of them can remember her, can mourn her, can miss her. Can miss her. The real her. Whoever that may have been. 

This round of thoughts is interrupted by a deep cough, one Tim aims into his sweater. He pulls away as much as he can from the group, tucking into himself as he leans against the wall for support. 

Martin makes a move to step forward, but pauses as Tim casts him a dark glance. A very firm, and almost cruel, message to back off. The coughing finally subsides enough for Tim to get a real breath in, and he takes a moment to steady himself before maneuvering himself back to his chair. 

“You need to go home, Tim.” 

Tim casts Jon the same dark look, clearing his throat before attempting to retort. The clearing turns into another, and then a third, and then devolves into another round of throat scraping coughs. Tim braces himself with an arm over his chest, wincing as the coughing leaves his lungs and ribs aching. Each new breath leaves them screaming in harmony, and if it wasn’t for the fact that dying right here and now would prove Jon right, Tim might damn well consider stopping. 

“J-Jon’s right, Tim,” Martin stutters, pulling himself to his feet and beginning to busy himself with the kettle as he keeps talking. He’s muttering something or other about sickness, and wearing yourself to the bone. He’s gotten better about the rambling since… but it’s still Martin. Tim isn’t quite sure if he finds that comforting, or infuriating. 

It’s not until he feels the warmth of a mug set next to him that Tim realizes he’s practically laying on his desk. His arms are curled beneath him, supporting his head, and… for the life of him he cannot remember moving. He looks up, and notices Jon’s left the room. So it’s been more than just the few seconds it’s felt like. Delightful. 

A hand presses to his forehead, and Tim has to bite his own cheek to keep from crying out. He practically leaps backwards, or, as close as he can get with his body in such a state of exhaustion. All he really succeeds at doing is falling backwards out of his chair, eyes wide with panic. 

Martin stares at him, hand still outstretched, looking deeply apologetic. 

“Don’t do that again,” Tim snaps, quick to respond before Martin can get a word out. Masking his terror with anger, something he’s found comes pretty naturally to him these days. “I don’t need your fucking pity, or your fucking help.” 

He hopes Martin doesn’t notice the way his hands are trembling. Or that despite how harsh the words were, his voice cracked through them, dangerously close to tears.  

Every scar on his body throbs, and Tim can’t tell if it’s from the fever or the panic. Suddenly he feels the urge to scratch. To claw and tear and rip each one open, make sure there’s nothing crawling around inside him. He can still feel them, each wound… where they dug in… how they felt, crawling in and out of his aching flesh–  

And just as quickly as it began, it passes. He’d blame it on the fever, but this has been happening since the attack. In the beginning it was constant, and he found it hard to focus on anything but the scars. Over time it had faded, slowly but surely, until it was hardly noticeable. Then… Sasha. And it was back all over again. 

“Tim?” 

The voice is soft. Timid. Martin. 

Tim manages to open his eyes, though they feel heavier than they should. He tries to take stock of his surroundings, but the room begins to spin. 

“Yeah?” Is all he can manage, before his eyes crash shut again. He doesn’t remember closing them in the first place. 

“You need help walking, you can’t do it on your own, but I don’t uh… I d-don’t wanna…” it stammers a bit more, before Tim hears a deep breath, and the voice starts again. “You need help, I’m just gonna touch your arm, okay? And you grab onto me if you can, I’ll support your weight, you just lean on me.” 

Sure enough he feels a grip on his arm, but true to his word, Martin doesn’t do anything further. Tim can’t bring himself to feel anything. Surely he should be grateful that Martin’s being so considerate. Or maybe angry that he’s being treated like he’s fragile. 

Instead, he just stands. It’s slow, unsteady, and despite himself he leans into Martin’s grasp. Martin for his part is saying something, his voice low and steady. It’s probably meant to be comforting, but Tim just tunes it out.

“Storage room,” He mutters, refusing to meet Martin’s eyes.

“N-no, we need to get you home, you’re in no state-” Martin begins, but Tim cuts him off, pulling away with a move that almost sends him to the floor again. 

He manages to find his balance, glaring up at Martin with what even he knows is misplaced anger. “No. I am not going home. I am going to lay down on the couch in the storage room until this…” 

Martin doesn’t speak, clearly waiting for the end of the sentence. Tim wants to say… something. Anything. But he can’t seem to find words that fit. Till this sickness passes? Till this feeling goes away? Till he can stand to look at this office and not feel all the grief and anger and misery that this place seems to leak from every wall? 

“I’m just gonna go lay down,” Tim finally finishes. An unsatisfying end. Par for the course around here. 

There’s no argument, and despite Martin offering his arm again, Tim pushes past him and stumbles his way into the room alone. Collapsing onto the couch, he pulls his jacket tight around his shoulders. There’s some form of blanket around here somewhere, but he’s too warm anyway. Despite the fact he can’t stop shivering. Fucking fever. 

~~~~~

Even before Tim opens his eyes he can feel the heaviness spread over him. It’s gotta be more than just his coat and… for a minute he considers ripping the blankets off. He didn’t ask for their pity, he didn’t ask for their help, but… 

His eyes only open for a second before fluttering shut again. It’s more comfortable than he’d like to admit, and he soon finds himself drifting back off into another fitful sleep. This time instead of the things crawling in and out of him, his unconscious is greeted by eyes. Too many eyes. His body lays still, but his mind races. They all watch him. He can’t find it in himself to do anything but let them. 

~~~~~

This time Tim manages to keep his eyes open long enough to take stock of his surroundings. There’s a couple more blankets folded neatly on the end of the couch, and- yeah. He was right, someone had draped a few extra over him as he’d slept. There was also a pile of… what’s gotta be a scraped together ‘cold and flu kit’. A couple tissue boxes, a handful of pill packages, some- chapstick? Tim does find himself damn near chuckling at that one. No sound comes out, but it’s still the closest thing to real laughter he’s had in awhile. 

It’s sweet. The pile, the offerings, it’s kind of them, but Tim feels that pit in his stomach begin to deepen. It doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t fix anything. And he didn’t ask for their help. Their pity. He’s not some… some broken thing for them to take apart and put back together. 

But he knows that’s not the real reason. That lump in his aching throat reminds him every time he swallows. Almost as if he can hear it in each heartbeat. It should be Sasha. It should be Sasha. It should be Sasha. 

Still, despite it all, Tim can’t deny he needs some of the shit they’ve left him. This is made clear as the itch he’d been fighting for days rears its head, sending chills down his spine. He barely manages to grab a handful of tissues before the first sneeze breaks through, stifled painfully into near silence, followed by another double he manages to stifle silently too. 

Another thing he learned from her. Unless he didn’t. Who fucking knows anymore. 

Tim doesn’t have long to linger on the thoughts before the next sneeze breaks through his control, roughly stifled again. It leaves his ears ringing, his sinuses throbbing, and his head pounding, but… it’s better than being heard. And you know what? Maybe he wants to have a little control over a situation that’s almost entirely out of his control. Sue him. 

“huh’kNXgt– dNGT’iuh-! Fuck.” 

He takes the pause to blow his nose, wincing as it does almost nothing but leave him even more congested. Even just the effort of that seems to sap all the energy he has. It takes all he has to toss the tissues in the general vicinity of the trash, grabbing a new handful. Knowing his nose, he’s not done. 

“knNCh-uh-! eh’KNXgt-! ah’RZSHHH–oo!” 

The last breaks through his control, scraping against his throat. Well isn’t that just the whole point. No control, no matter how hard he tries. He curses under his breath, spending the last of his handful of tissues to blow his nose a few more times. Thankfully that seemed to satisfy the itch enough for now. It retreats back into a softer, yet still deeply irritating, buzzing. 

Tim finds his eyes closing before he can really stop them. His body collapses against the back of the couch, and his breath begins to even out into congested snores. In his last seconds of consciousness, Tim almost has the presence of mind to pull the blankets back over himself. Instead he settles for some half-assed wiggle into a more comfortable position, hands tucked beneath his chin as he falls back into the void of sleep. 

The people that he doesn’t know at all begin to surround him, each of them wearing a face that he can’t help but recognize. This time he cries out. No one comes. 

~~~~~

“Hey, hey, easy, don’t move too fast,” The voice says, Tim slowly peeling his eyes open. The world is blurry, the light making all the lines in the room start to swirl together. He blinks the sleep from his eyes, coughing roughly into a curled fist as the change in pressure just from sitting up leaves him breathless. 

“Wow you really don’t follow instructions, do you?” The voice is playful, teasing, but softens as his spasms continue. “Easy does it, you’ve been out for awhile, I was starting to get a bit worried you’d never wake up again.” 

Tim still can’t make out the figure, tears collecting in his lashes as the coughing spills out from his lungs. His whole body feels heavy, and he searches in vain for something to lean against. 

The voice speaks again, soft and caring. “Just lean back, the couch is behind you, it’ll catch- yeah, there you go. Just breathe, alright? It’ll be over soon. There’s a water bottle to your left, yeah right there, drink some of that, would ya? Easy though, don’t choke on it.” 

He does as he’s told, taking slow sips until the spasms ease enough for him to draw a full breath without coughing. There’s a light wheeze to his inhales, but as he continues his slow but steady breaths, it fades back into the mild congestion settling in his lungs. 

“Tha-ks,” Tim says, his voice coming out crackly and congested. He considers clearing his throat, but the itch in the back of his lungs warns him against it. Guess he’ll have to settle for sounding a bit like death until his chest calms itself. 

“You sound awful. What have I told you about coming into work sick?” The voice is calm, there’s no anger in it. It just sounds… playful. And… familiar in that way where Tim can’t place it. He can’t say he’s ever heard it before. But he instinctively leans into it, keeps his eyes shut as he waits for– something. He’s waiting for something, but he doesn’t know what. 

A cool touch breaks him from the trance, and he lets out a near moan at the sensation. “Tim… you’re burning up.” It’s not the same voice. This one is still soft, and caring, but it doesn’t feel as– it’s just not right. He can place it though, and he opens his eyes to find Martin’s general shape kneeling in front of him. As Tim’s eyes begin to focus a bit more through the haze, he can identify the knitted brows and tight mouth; concern written clearly across Martin’s face. 

He wants to tell Martin to leave him alone. He wants to ask where the other voice went. To ask who they were. To tell them to come back. He does none of this however, that damned itch deciding it’s been dormant for long enough. 

Tim barely has time to pull away from Martin, raising the collar of his sweater to cover his nose and mouth as the hitching begins. He sits there for a moment, frantic “hh– hUhh–!” coming out in fragments as his whole body begins to buzz. Finally it builds to a breathy, “hh’yshhiew! h’ZShhh–uh! tzsHhh-! ah’tSHH–iew!” 

They’re lighter than the others, his more natural airy sneeze, not the heady, throat scraping mess that comes after one too many stifles. Unfortunately they do still shift the congestion in his head, and he finds himself awkwardly reaching for the tissues, one hand pressed up under his nose. 

Thankfully Martin takes pity on him, and pushes the box within his reach. Tim grabs a handful and blows, then again, and then a third and final time. Martin, to his credit, doesn’t say anything about the whole spectacle. He settles instead for casting Tim that same worried glance, with a hint of a sympathetic smile. 

“So-rry,” Tim manages to croak out, coughing a little as the words pass through his throat. He takes a moment to drink some more of the water, relieved when it helps the next words come out audible, albeit quite congested. “That tends to happen when I wake up.” 

“It’s alright,” Martin replies instantly, rising from the floor to seat himself on the couch, a respectable distance away from Tim. “You have nothing to apologize for, you’re sick, you’re allowed to have symptoms. It kinda comes with the territory!” 

Martin chuckles a bit after that last part, clearly trying to lighten the mood a bit. Tim manages to give a weary smile. After all, it’s not Martin’s fault he feels like shit. And despite the anger he was aiming at him earlier… Martin’s just trying to help. He knows that. But more than that… this isn’t Martin’s fault. None of this. He’s just as caught up as Tim. Without Jon here, it’s easier to remember that. 

But still… Tim has to bite down the rising anger at the memories of what Martin had said. Jon’s going through it. Jon’s taking it hard. Jon needs their support. All the comments race around his head, spinning at dizzying rates until Tim feels a hand on his shoulder. 

“Hey, hey, you’ve gone really pale, do you need… c-can I do anything? Do you need anything?” 

Tim shrugs the hand off, pulling himself as upright as he can manage with the world shifting perspective each time he blinks. “No, I’m… I’m okay.” 

“Well we both know that isn’t true.” 

The comment seems to catch them both equally off guard, Martin’s eyes going wide as his mouth falls slack. “I- I don’t know why I said… I’m- I’m sorry, it just kinda-” 

“Hey,” Tim interrupts, putting on his best shit-eating grin. It’s halfhearted at best, but trying times and all that. “You were actually a bit of an ass for once, don’t ruin the moment with the whole apology thing.” 

“R-ruin the moment of me being an ass…?” 

That gets what would almost be called a genuine smile from Tim. “I prefer it to the crippling optimism and ‘let’s all be friends’ attitude.” 

There’s a pause as Martin seems to take this in, considering it with an unreadable expression. Tim continues, though whether it’s for his benefit or Martins, he isn’t sure. Blame it on the fever. “I mean, it’s never gonna be the same again, is it. Not that it was all that great to begin with, but… better to be a realistic ass, then pretend it could be that way again. Making fun of Jon with Sash, talking about how it should’ve been her, joking about taking him out so she could take over… and yet still helping him out, and laughing with him on the rare moments you catch him outside of his ‘I’m The Serious Bossman Now’ attitude-”

Martin laughs a bit at this, and even through the fevered haze, Tim can see the memories flashing behind Martin’s eyes too. Though for Martin, those memories might not be quite as treasured as they are for Tim. Jon was definitely more of an ass to Martin than he truly deserved back then. Not that he’s overflowing with nice now, but… he does seem to go easier on him. 

“Then again,” Tim finds himself saying, “can’t really be sure that was really her anyways, now can I. I mean, I have all these memories, these things we did, the fun we had, how she was… but all of it’s corrupted. Useless. None of it’s real, I don’t… I don’t even remember what she looked like. Or what her voice sounded like… I mean it’s so clear in my head, when I think of Sasha I remember her voice and her glasses and how she wore them kinda lopsided but- none of that was really her, was it?” 

There’s no response to this, not that he was expecting one. Honestly, Tim didn’t even mean to say that much. He looks up, noticing the same tears in Martin’s eyes that he can feel starting to well up in his own. Fuck all of this, honestly. Fuck Martin crying, as if he has any right to. As if Tim himself has any right to cry for… whoever it was that he might have known. He can’t even be sure they were close, but… the hole that he can’t quite place inside himself says there’s something he’s missing that he used to have. 

“Fever talking,” Tim finally utters, after a few minutes of unbearable emotionally-charged silence. “Don’t even really know what I’m saying. I’m gonna lay down again.” 

Martin stands, quickly maneuvering himself out of the way so Tim can stretch out. Not that he does. In fact Tim does quite the opposite, curling himself up into as small of a position as he can get. 

“You could stay, you know,” he finds himself whispering, the words coming out strangled and soft. There’s a moment of stillness as Martin pauses, one hand still on the door handle. He heard. They both know he heard. Now he has to decide if he’s gonna acknowledge that, or pretend he didn’t. 

“You know,” Martin finally speaks, Tim startling a little as his eyes snap back open from where they’d almost sunk shut. “Jon’s on a bit of a tangent about doors and spiders and whatnot at the moment. I could use a little peace and quiet.” 

“Well,” Tim says, the words rippling through his throat and leaving him struggling not to cough again. “Can’t really promise the quiet part.” He barely makes it to the end of the sentence before the cough breaks loose, a deep and rattling noise that leaves Martin wincing. 

Tim manages to grab the water bottle from where it had sunk between the couch cushions, and takes a few sips. After a couple more minutes of this back and forth, the coughing finally subsides, leaving him fully winded. 

“Case in point,” he manages to stammer out, swallowing with a grimace as the words burn against his aching throat. 

Martin says nothing at first, still standing awkwardly somewhere between the hall and the room. Finally, without a word, he closes the door behind him and walks over to the couch. There’s a brief pause, and Martin looks over to Tim. As if waiting for confirmation that this is really okay. Tim gives a small nod, curling back into himself, and Martin takes his seat on the edge of the couch. 

“That’s alright then,” Martin finally says, Tim not even bothering to open his eyes at the sound. “I never was a fan of quiet.” 

Sleep overtakes Tim as quick as before, that darkness enveloping him as fast as turning out the lights. The fog begins to roll over him, waves crashing against his feet, ready to consume him whole and drag him to the depths of nowhere. But it doesn’t. Instead, Tim looks up and sees- no one. There’s no one there, there never was, there never will be. 

Still… he can’t shake the comforting feeling that he’s not alone here. Not this time. A voice begins to hum to him. A voice he cannot possibly remember. A song he cannot possibly hear. But all the same, it soothes him into a deep and peaceful rest. 

~~~~~

This time Tim awakens to the sound of shushing, and hushed tones saying words just past his reach of consciousness. As the world begins to come into focus, he notes Martin standing at the door, speaking in hurried but quiet tones to an agitated looking Jon. 

Martin keeps casting glances back at Tim, and on what must be the fifth one, their eyes meet. Immediately Martin turns back to Jon, saying a few more words but this time in a much firmer tone than Tim’s used to hearing from him. Jon seems surprised as well, as he stops talking until Tim hears a faint murmur of… an apology? Followed by footsteps retreating down the hall away from the door. 

Turning around, Martin closes it behind him, giving Tim a soft smile. “Morning, sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.” 

“You di-dn’t,” Tim lies, leaning into his shoulder to cough a bit until the rough nature of his throat dwindles enough to sound legible. “I woke up on my own.” 

“That’s good then,” Martin replies, giving a soft smile.

“How long was I out?” Tim asks, swallowing roughly and beginning to search for the water. 

“Most of the day, it’s about mid-afternoon right now”, Martin says, turning towards a shelf, grabbing a cup and gesturing it towards Tim. “I made tea not too long ago, you want some?” 

Tim gives a nod, accepting the cup Martin passes him and letting the warm liquid soothe his throat. The taste is familiar, and he gives Martin a look. “Is this honey and lemon?” 

Martin blushes a little, hands fidgeting with his own mug. “W-well yeah, I figured if you did wake up th- that it might help,” he then pauses, giving Tim a once over. “How are you feeling?” 

“Right as rain,” comes the immediate response, Tim flashing Martin a forced grin. “Never felt better. Locked into a contract at the job from hell, where everyone either dies, goes mental, or gets eaten by worms! What could possibly be wrong, working at a place like the Magnus Institute!” 

It’s dripping with sarcasm, and that all consuming anger that Tim just can’t seem to be rid of. Not that he’s tried. Anger keeps him going. Anger gives him purpose. If it wasn’t for the anger… the depression would take over again. And he’s had damn well enough of that. 

Martin doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing really to say. They both know what he meant, and they both know pressing Tim for an actual answer won’t do anything but lead to a confrontation. Tim’s sure Martin’s well sick of those by now. Seems to be the only language Jon and him still have in common, and Martin never seemed one to take part. 

“hH’TSShh–iew!” The first sneeze catches him by surprise, but Tim has enough presence of mind to set down his cup and bring up his shirt to catch the next- “hihh– tsshhh-! tzSSHhhiew-! teh’ZShh’ew-! ah’tshh-! aH’TSHh–uh!” that follow. 

“Bless you,” Martin offers, setting down his tea and offering the tissue box instead. Tim accepts, taking a handful and pressing them to his nose, wincing as the light touch leaves his breath catching. 

“hh– hiEH!-hhh… hhhH!– hiEH’TSChhew-! aHTCHhh–oo! ah’tSChhho-! at’cHhoo-! nghh…” Tim can’t help the heady sigh that escaped at the end of that fit, the tissues all but useless now. Without a word, Martin offers the box again. Tim merely groans, taking another handful and blowing his nose a few times, until he can breathe again. 

“Bless you again,” Martin says, concern evident in his tone. 

“Thagks,” Comes Tim’s reply, dripping with congestion and sarcasm. 

“You sound awful,” Martin says, seemingly letting it slip before really considering the wording. He starts gearing up to an apology, but Tim holds up a hand, waving it off. 

“I dnow I do. Dod’t apologize, we both kdow it’s true.” With that said, Tim grabs another handful of tissues and attempts again to clear his sinuses. At least enough to make his words understandable. It seems to work, though it takes several blows to get there. “You really gotta work on that apologizing.” 

Martin stammers his way through something like seven near apologies before finally settling on, “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

Tim just nods in reply, eyes beginning to flutter shut as he raises another wad of tissues to his nose. He can feel it twitching, nostrils flaring with each rise and fall of the tickle spreading deeper and deeper. 

There’s a beat of silence, Tim hitching mercilessly into the tissues as they both wait in anticipation for anything to happen. 

Finally after almost a full minute of the torture, Tim lets out an itchy moan. 

“Are you-” Martin starts, jumping a little when Tim whips to the side and lets out a desperately itchy sneeze. 

“hH’ATSChhiew-!” 

“Oh- bless you, I guess that was-” “aH’TSChhoo-! ah’TShh–oo! ATSCHh-shhoo!” 

Tim catches Martin wincing out of the corner of his eye as he comes up for air, before ducking back into his pile with “hH’tIEww-!” a few more “ahh!- hng… oh, hhhh– hH’TSChh–iew!” breathy and high pitched “hh’TZSHhiew-!” sneezes. 

Usually Tim would be feeling one of two things. One, enjoyment of the attention he’d get from such a desperate fit. Or two, mortified that people heard that version of his sneezing, how high pitched and dramatic it gets when his nose is really irritated. Admittedly it’s usually the first option, but amidst certain company it can be more humiliating than enjoyable to be reduced to such a display. 

Today, however, he feels neither. Instead he just feels drained. Completely and utterly drained. He uses his last bits of energy to blow his nose, barely able to produce enough willpower to get anything out, and then falls back against the couch. Martin looks on in concern, reaching down to the tray of supplies Tim had– frankly forgotten was there. 

“Look, I know you don’t want our… well I know you don’t want– um, I know-” Martin stammers, rustling through a few packages of pills and grabbing a few things Tim doesn’t even bother to attempt to read. 

“Just spit it out, Martin,” Tim snaps. The weariness in his voice softens the sting of his tone a little, but he doesn’t miss Martin flinch. He’d feel bad, if this was any other situation. He’d feel good if it was Jon. Instead he just ends up where he’s found himself more often than not lately. He doesn’t feel anything. 

“Sorry, uh… w-well,” Martin continues, and to the guy’s credit, he keeps his voice even and his tone soft. Despite the fact Tim knows he doesn’t deserve either. “I know you don’t want our help, or- or my help I suppose, as I’m the only one here right now, but uh– I really think you should take some of these meds. You just– you don’t sound well, and they could help, especially if you’re not gonna take Jon’s advice and…”

Tim feels his blood start to simmer again, despite how exhausted his whole body feels. No pick-me-up quite as good as a bit of rage to get you through the day. Martin knows he messed up. Tim can see it plain as day on his face, Martin’s words grinding to a halt and his eyes beginning to flicker back between the pills and Tim. 

He wants to feel bad for the man, truly he does, and he knows all this rage isn’t fair. All Martin did was state a fact. But… Jon’s advice. Jon’s advice. If he’s not gonna listen to their ‘boss’ who’s been too busy with his mental breakdown to give a fuck about how his employees– how his friends have been doing. If he’s not gonna follow the advice of the man who didn’t check up on him once after he got eaten by fucking worms. The man who stalked him, sat outside his house, took photos of where he went and what he did, but didn’t bother to ask if he was okay. 

“No, Martin,” Tim says, ice and sarcasm soaking through his words. “I am not going to follow Jon’s advice. And your contributions to the ‘Tim Can’t Take Care Of Himself’ club have been deeply appreciated, but now I think you should leave.” 

“Tim, I didn’t mean-”

Tim casts Martin a dark glare, pulling himself to his feet with considerable effort. “Get out.” 

Martin does as he’s told, rising to his feet and hurrying out of the room, though he does pause at the door and give Tim one last look. It’s clear what he’s saying, you aren’t alone. I can help you if you let me. 

It’s a look he remembers from Sasha. She used to say all the time, “I can’t help you unless you let me, and Timothy Stoker you are stubborn as anything, but god help me I will make you let me.” 

But even that is tainted. He wants to believe she really said that, he wants to believe they really had those moments, those looks, that bond, but… even if they did, the face he remembers, the look he remembers, it’s not her. It will never be her. She’s dead and he can’t even do her the small favour of remembering what she was like. 

A few tears begin to run down Tim’s face, and the feeling surprises him enough to snap him out of the anger. And as the anger fades, so does the strength he’d found from it, his legs giving out beneath him. Tim hits the floor hard, feeling his knees grind against the carpet as he sinks to the ground. 

Martin reacts quickly, jumping to action to help break Tim’s fall, strong arms, stronger than he’d expect from the man, gripping his shoulders and helping lean him against the wall. Martin’s speaking too, saying something Tim… just can’t make out above the crying. Why is– why is Martin crying? 

It takes him longer than he’d admit to realize the crying is coming from him. Once he catches on, so do his lungs, and it’s mere seconds before the heaving sobs turn into rattling coughs. Tim gasps for air, hands white-knuckled as he grips Martin’s arm. Martin’s still talking, and through the coughs he manages to understand “sit forward” and “deep breaths”. 

He does as he’s told, desperate to cling onto consciousness as everything begins fading into white. The world begins to spin, flashes of darkness and light taking turns blocking his vision. The worms are back, crawling in and out of his body, leaving his entire skin itching and burning. 

Amidst the chaos, he feels a hand on his back, and a bottle being pressed into his hand. A firm voice calls out to him above all the noise, “Drink this, Tim.” 

Tim manages to do so, identifying the liquid as water as he chokes it down. It’s cold too, the ice cubes giving him something to focus on besides the feeling of crawling and pain in each scar. He takes the time to chew each ice cube that makes it through the bottle, his lungs beginning to calm as his throat soothes at the cool touch. 

“There you go, just like that, now take these and blow,” The voice demands, and Tim feels tissues being pressed into his free hand. The hand on his back is rubbing slow circles, and too out of it to feel any embarrassment, Tim leans forward and blows his nose into the tissues. He blows again, and again, until he can feel some of the pressure in his head start to clear, and his breathing gets a touch less laboured. 

When his vision is cleared enough to look around, Tim glances up and sees Martin sitting beside him, rubbing soft circles on his back. He notes that he’s leaning against Martin’s chest, and makes the conscious choice not to move just yet. Tim then draws his eyes up further to the right to see Jon kneeling in front of him, still holding a handful of tissues. 

“You brought the ice water?” Tim asks, voice coming out surprisingly clear, though quite hoarse. Jon simply nods, suddenly very busy studying the floor beneath them. 

“I,” Jon starts, clearing his throat awkwardly before continuing, “I thought you might need it. I could hear you from my office, you didn’t– you didn’t sound well.” 

“And you just happened to have ice water and tissues sitting around casually on your desk,” Tim asks, doing his best in his foggy state to raise an eyebrow. 

Jon blushes a touch at this, casting an anxious glance over to Martin, before returning his gaze to the floor and answering noticeably quieter, “I may keep a certain set of… supplies in my office, as I’m not exactly unfamiliar with– this sort of condition.” 

“Is that your way of saying you’re sick more times than healthy?” Tim quips back, not unaware of the irony of their current situation. 

Jon doesn’t seem unaware of it either, and for the first time in… in a long time, Tim sees a smile creep over his face. A genuine one, not that professional civility bullshit he’d been putting up as a front lately. 

Jon clears his throat a little before speaking, casting Martin another embarrassed glance. “That statement is definitely not accurate, but… I do suppose you could say I’m–  more susceptible than most.” 

“Well it’s not like I’m immune,” Tim starts, pausing to duck into his shoulder with a rough, “ah’TZShh–oo!” 

“Bless,” Jon says, Martin echoing with a blessing of his own, never pausing his slow circles on Tim’s back. 

“Case in point,” Tim says, letting his eyes fall shut as he leans to the side, suddenly feeling the full weight of his fever begin to pull him back towards unconsciousness. 

He’s snapped out of it by something cold and wet being pressed to his face, managing to pry his eyes open to be met with the sight of Jon holding a washcloth soaked in icewater to his forehead. Despite everything, this sudden touch doesn’t leave him with the same crawling sensation most do. Maybe due to the fact he’s still half leaning against Martin, or maybe because… it’s Jon. And despite everything, he’s the one person that understands… 

“You really should go home, Tim,” Jon says, interrupting Tim’s thoughts as he sets down the washcloth. “I can feel the heat radiating off you from here, and while I don’t have a thermometer to check, I’m willing to bet you’re well past an acceptable fever to be working through.” 

Martin chimes in with his agreement. Tim takes note of the fact he’s stopped rubbing, and instead has one hand behind Tim’s head to keep him from hitting the wall, the other against the ground to keep his balance. 

“Weren’t you the one who came to work with a fever of 41° and fainted at your desk? I seem to remember Elias threatening to call an ambulance,” Tim retorts, tongue sharp as ever, even while fully leaning against Martin to keep himself upright. 

“Are you saying you need me to threaten to call an ambulance to get you to go home?” Jon responds, not without wit of his own. Tim gives him a look, weighing his intentions. He knows Jon won’t get Elias. After everything… he just wouldn’t. But an ambulance..? It’s not outside the realm of possibility he calls one. 

Tim mutters his response, barely audible over the sound of his own wheezing breath. 

“What was that?” Martin asks gently, using his free hand to brush back a bit of Tim’s hair from where it was clinging to his sweat-soaked forehead. Tim nearly melts at the touch, another thing he’s blaming on the fever. 

“I said I don’t think I can make it home like this.” 

Jon pauses, taking a step back and clearly evaluating Tim’s condition. Tim gives a winning smile, one laced to its core with sarcasm. Even in this state, he’s not forgotten what Jon did. How Jon acted. He can put on the concern all he wants, hell he can actually feel it, but it’s too late. He doesn’t need it now, not… not like he needed it then. 

“Fine,” Jon says, Tim nearly jumping at the sudden noise. Martin flinches too, and Tim could swear he sees a flash of guilt across Jon’s features. Still, Jon continues, voice even as ever. “You can stay here and sleep off the fever, it’s not like we’re using this room much anyways. Me and Martin will handle your caseload, between us, and with Melanie’s help, I’m sure we can work something out.” 

“Sounds like a plan boss, now maybe you can leave me to die in peace?” Tim quips in response, wincing a little as the room lurches violently when he rises to his feet. Martin’s still perched at the ready, clearly thinking Tim’s going to fall over again. To his credit, an entirely possible outcome. 

There’s a look in Jon’s eyes that Tim pretends he didn’t see. He knows what it means, after all, Jon used to be his friend. He knows the sadness all too well, he’s felt similar kinds of it himself while Jon was losing his mind right in front of their eyes. Or when Sasha… but no. Knowing the feeling doesn’t mean he has to empathize with Jon. 

Jon, for his part, just nods, gesturing for Martin to follow him as he leaves the room. The door closes behind them with a resounding thud. Tim winces as the sound echoes through his brain, pounding in time with his heartbeat. After they’ve both left, he stumbles over and turns the light off, before collapsing back onto the couch. 

He’ll sleep off the fever, then go home when he can travel on his own. And fuck, maybe he’ll just never come back. Maybe he’ll go on vacation, go somewhere far away, visit Rome, or Peru, or maybe Malaysia. 

Sure, maybe it was nice to have Martin stay with him but... it changes nothing. None of this changes anything. Sasha's still dead, Jon still left them all on their own, and Martin... he's still fighting for a future that's long dead. One that died with Sasha, even before any of them knew it. All that remains now is anger, lies, and whatever the fuck the Magnus Institute has in store for them.

So for now, all he can do is sleep until this fever goes away. Tim's eyes drift shut, and he falls back into the uneven sleep he’s grown so accustomed to. This time he’s back in those never-ending halls, turning corners that cannot possibly be there, walking past hundreds of lamps, paintings, photographs, and mirrors. This time, like many before, he does not scream. 

He’s far too aware, there’s no one to hear him.

[gay-for-the-snz]

Secret Santa #2

Prompt: "sneezy cuddles but there’s absolutely zero guilt involved, everyone is into it"

Platonic sneezy cuddles, set in canon setting, with a friend's OC as well ^-^ 2.6k

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She hears the sound of the front door open and shut downstairs, the clatter of something hitting the floorboards noisily. She can imagine it in her mind's eye, the way the dim light of the lamps plays across him, the way he's limned in gold like a saint as he sheds his overcoat and gloves.

His footsteps are heavy as he ascends the staircase, heels clicking slowly up the steps and down the hallway towards her room, muffled by the intermittent carpeting in his path. There's a gentle knocking, but he opens the door even as he does so. He's back-lit by the sconces, little more than a bedraggled silhouette as he leans in. "Cerine?"

A smile plays on her lips as she pretends to sleep for a second longer, before putting the poor creature out of his misery with a response. "I'm terribly sorry, but she seems to be asleep."

The weight of Elliott's frame, lithe as it is, makes the mattress sink as he sits on the edge of it and begins the process of shucking his boots, deft fingers stiffened with cold as he undoes the laces. "She'll be in for a terrible surprise when she wakes, then."

Cerine rolls over, sitting up and putting a hand on his arm. "God, you're frigid."

He responds with a mirthless little chuff, placing an icy hand over hers and earning a squawk of protest. "We've passed the lacre, but I doubt we'll be free of the chill for some time yet."

"If you're joining me, you'd better have socks on."

"I'd do nothing less for my wife."

"I'd demand nothing less of my husband."

He presses a kiss to her temple, before disappearing down the hall to his own rooms to change. The sounds of him getting ready are a comfort to her, the footsteps wandering around his room, the opening and closing of drawers and armoires--

"ddzzhue! edzzhhyue!"

--the muffled sounds of illness from behind closed doors. Perhaps his voice had had a rasp to it when he'd spoke, soft and low in the wee hours, well before the gas lamps will be lit for daylight.

He returns clad in his nightgown, and a thick robe over the top of that, his hair freed from the braid and hanging in a thick curtain well past even his hips. Rarely does he sleep like this; he must be hoping that she will offer to brush it out, to lull him into sleep with the act. "Darling?"

"Muse?"

"I'm afraid I may be coming down with something."

"Caught, more like. Come lay down, the bed is lonely without you." It's rare, truly, that Elliott isn't in some state of convalescence. She doesn't mind, nor does she think there's anything to be done for it. It's part and parcel of their friendship, and never precludes him from the two of them wrapping into one another's embrace beneath the blankets.

That never precludes him from ensuring that he's permitted, of course.

He's frigid when he crawls beneath the blankets with her, shedding his robe--reluctantly--and letting it hang from the bedpost for the morning. "Your day was good?"

"As good as it can be, cloistered in my studio. Warren came to paint with me, so it wasn't entirely lonely. Arthur came to inspect my progress, and offered his criticism in the form of sleeping in my lap so I couldn't get up, so he ensured I remained productive rather than wandering off." There's a warmth in her chest at the thought of the pair of them keeping her company. "Yours as well, I hope?"

The noise he makes is non-committal, paired with a tired shrug. She starts carding her fingers through his hair in lieu of a brush. "I'd be remiss to complain. We've been delayed in setting out--some error with cargo that has to be sorted. The Captain doesn't seem to think that it will be a swift correction--we have no idea when we'll be able to actually put to zee. Soon, hopefully--I do rather enjoy receiving my wages."

"I'm certain things will work themselves out soon enough. There's always some minor catastrophe before a long voyage, is there not?" She doesn't want him to go. She doesn't say this--she never does, and never will--but every time he goes, all of London seems a shade dimmer. Blues and greys become more prominent in her works, the City quiet and lonely without his presence in it. The house itself seems to reflect this loneliness, everyone more lethargic or irritable without him there to ward it off.

"I suppose you're correct. It will be longer than usual--we'll be making a stop by Hunter's Keep, and out to the Salt Lions, and then to Venderbight before we can return home."

He settles in closer against her, the feeling of his back pressing against her chest bringing her back to the moment. She could paint them like this. She can picture the expression on his face, weary but contented, envision the brush strokes that would bring this moment onto a canvas. Her hand rubs one of his arms briskly to warm him. "What would ever bring you to the Salt Lions?"

From this close, she can hear the slight rumble in his chest when he breathes, clears his throat softly. "I haven't the faintest. The Captain merely said that we had a contract, so thither we shall go."

She pulls him closer to her, nestles her chin atop his head. "I'll miss you."

The warmth of the moment is done under by the chill of his body against hers, the feel of his bare skin where it meets hers. "I know. I'll miss you dearly as well. I'd write to you if I were able, but I'll return safely to you, as soon as we can. We won't be gone more than a few weeks--three or four, no more than five."

"Will you--"

"hH-! 'DZzhhue! eEZZHhue!"

She can feel the jump of his body, the breadth of his shoulders as they rise in the scissoring of his breath, and then shudder as he ducks into his handkerchief. He isn't finished yet, she knows. She can't hear his breathing for it, but she can feel the tension in his frame as he waits for the paroxysm to resolve itself. Even if she weren't able to feel it, she would know he's yet to have finished--he's rarely satisfied with a paltry two.

"h-huh--uUZzhhieww! 'ZHyuue! Hh...h-huH--!? ...uUDZZHhieww! ...oh, please excuse me."

The rigidness drops from his frame as he settles back in against her with a sniffle, betraying the congestion that's settling into him.

"Bless you, love."

He cranes his neck to catch her eye, a wry smile on his lips. "You'll miss even this?"

"There's no sound sweeter." Beneath her fingers, brushing a stray lock of hair from his face, she can feel the first stirrings of a fever. "Will you still sit with me in my studio tomorrow?"

"Of course. I gave you my word, did I not?"

"You did, and I would never question your honor as a gentleman. But perhaps you would instead want to spend tomorrow resting?"

"Ah, no. I can't. I shouldn't. There's too much to be done."

He takes her hands in his when they snake around his waist to hold him, settling them on his stomach and pulling him closer in against her. Her lips find his temple to press another kiss to him. "Must you?"

"...er, yes, I must."

"Are you certain?" The silence that meets her is enough of an admission that she doesn't push the matter any further. "Sleep well, won't you?"

"I will, if you're here beside me. Goodnight, Cerine."

"Goodnight, Elliott."

He must be feeling poorly, because in short order, the fidgeting gives way to steady sleep. Rarely does she experience him so still; even in sleeping, he finds a way to always be in perpetual motion. He is a man for whom stillness, quiet, are enemies to be fought from the depths of his being.

And yet, here he lays as still as a statue in her arms, the rhythm of his breathing and the steady rise and fall of his chest the only signs that he's not the victim of some mysterious malady that's claimed his vitality.

More curiously, there he remains throughout the night, still tucked beneath the blankets and at her side every time she wakes. To know that a man for whom midnight promenades are expected and routine, for whom 'still' has never been a descriptor, is here like this...it frays her nerves.

The warmth of his body isn't the horridly febrile thing she expects, no matter how many times she lays on hands to feel at his cheek, at the back of his neck, at his forehead. The only thing she finds is that his hands move to hers. That he nuzzles into her touch. Even in sleep, he responds to her, to her presence.

Even in sleep, he loves her.

It nearly brings tears to her eyes, so she gets up instead, busies herself with some inane task to occupy her until she can retrieve the sketchbook and pencils. She drags the chair that stands faithfully beside the vanity over to the side of the bed, and seats herself in it to study him as he sleeps.

The light from the candles at the bedside suffuses him with a soft golden glow, bathes him in the warm, flickering light like he himself is luminescent. The glow of the lost sun is within him, just beneath the surface of his skin, a nascent dawn wrapped beneath the pile of carefully crafted quilts that he's presented to her over the years. Her heart aches.

The only sound in the house is that of their breathing, and the scratch of lead on paper as the scene before her begins to find itself among the rough lines smoothed over with her thumb. One of the times she looks back at him, she startles to realize that those eyes, deceptively astute, are trained on her.

"May I see?"

Like a child who's been caught with her hand in the cookie jar, she offers him the paper to inspect. He takes it in his hands gently, looking over the drawing with appraising eyes.

"You've forgotten something." He looks up at her, brow furrowed sympathetically. "Right here." He taps the paper as he holds it back out to her, fingertip rested on the blank space behind his shoulder. "I do believe that this is where you were meant to be."

Relief washes through her, and she accepts the hand that takes one of hers, gives it a soft squeeze. His skin is still warm with sleep as it meets hers. "I couldn't sleep."

"Was I stopping you? If it was my snoring, forgive me. I can go back to my own bed if you'd rather--"

"No, no. Don't trouble yourself over it. If your snoring kept me awake at night, I would never sleep with you in my bed." Her eyes soften as she looks at him, feels his hands on her wrists in the gentle request to come back to lie with him and rest. She allows herself to be pulled towards the bed by him, to be wrapped into the layers of heavy quilt and into his arms in turn.

He nuzzles in against the back of her neck, pressing a delicate kiss to the nape before settling in comfortably. A memory bubbles up, more a notion than anything crystal, of how nervous they'd been around one another at one time. The idea that they may offend the other with their forwardness, that they may make some social misstep, the likes of which could never be recovered from. And now here they are, sharing a home, sharing a life, sharing a family.

"hh..."

And, soon, sharing a cold.

His breath tickles her neck as it stutters behind her, a hand brought up hastily to pinch it into something nearly inaudible, save for the congested, purely vocal "choo" he tacks onto the end of each one in the series.

"Elliott..."

"Ye-heH-es?"

She rolls onto her back to look at him, just in time to catch the expression on his face as he teeters on the brink of it. The soft pink that was just beginning to creep in along the nares when he'd gotten home and had attributed to the weather is still present, and blushing deeper in protest at the rough treatment. He curls in on himself with it, pinching it off into a wholly unsatisfying nothingness that makes her wince at the sound of the attempted snuffle afterward.

"I've told you you don't need to do that. Look at you, you're miserable."

"But--"

"Elliott..."

He looks askance at her insistence, but she knows well that he would never truly question her desires. It is something that haunts her mind late at night; the knowledge that Elliott is not one who would ever say no to any of her desires or whims, if only she asked. That she mustn't take advantage of his generosity and goodwill towards her to put him in a position where he ought to say no but finds himself unable to.

"Come here, you foolish man." With all the tenderness in the world, she gently cradles his face in her hands...and then reaches to brush the edge of her nail along one rosy nostril.

He pulls away with a mixture of bafflement, betrayal, and distress, before he immediately crumples with a pair of sneezes he can do little else but to angle away from her and between their bodies. "eDDZzhh! hEHZZHhyue!"

"Bless you. Isn't that better?"

He doesn't answer except with a shaking gasp, and this time she does let him free from her grasp. He ducks into cupped hands, his handkerchief having been lost somewhere amidst the layers of bedding like so many others. "hyiIZZHhieww!" His breath catches for a fourth, but this one seems to evade him, leaving him with an unsatisfied sniffle. "Augh, God bless me." He sniffs, gently curls a hand to touch a knuckle to his septum. "Forgive me."

She slides open the drawer of the nightstand, and offers him a clean handkerchief from within. He accepts it as if she's offered bars of gold or jewels of inestimable value. "You are always forgiven."

"You're far kinder to me than I deserve. I'm a boor, truly."

Her hands weave through his hair, pulling it away from his face and combing it out. "If I spoke about myself that way, you'd truly have a fit. Why speak of yourself like that?"

He doesn't respond, but she can see the bittersweet smile on his face. To admit that he feels unworthy would be an invitation for further reassurance, something he doesn't want. To admit that she's correct and he oughtn't speak of himself that way would be an admission that he must change his ways, something he also doesn't want. He is trapped between his own self effacement and his desire not to burden her.

Instead, he offers a soft, "would you braid my hair?"

She's more than happy to comply, fetching the comb from the vanity and sitting him in front of her. The comb runs through his hair, catching on the knots briefly before it begins to move smoothly. "I love you, dearly."

"I wish I understood it, but I'm eternally grateful that you do. I hope to never make you regret it."

She pauses her brushing to wrap her arms around him, resting her cheek against the hollow between his shoulders. "You never do."