#i often wonder if i should just lock my fics too

[rileyslibrary]

hii, i love your page, it’s so cute!! i was just wondering, can we have a fic where ghost/the 141 forgets the readers birthday?

tysm,

~ 💖.

A/N: Apologies for the delay, anon! Also, I hope that didn't happen to you, but if it did, happy belated birthday. Here’s your gift, I hope you like it.

———————————————————————

Type, type, type.

That’s all you’ve been doing since this morning.

Replying to emails, developing the recruits’ training programme for the next week, preparing reports, and going back and forth on that group chat with the engineering team about that stubborn drone that refuses to take off but is mandatory for the next mission.

They wished you a happy birthday. Yes, it was through a faceless and impersonal message, but at least they did.

Unlike him.

He’s been sitting across from you all day, doing the same—typing, typing, typing.

Not at the pace you’ve been going, though. He’s much slower compared to you.

His fingers hesitate as they hover across the keyboard, lacking the speed and confidence he usually has in the field. The keyboard feels foreign in his hands—it’s not an MP5, you see.

His eyes, trained for action, struggle to adjust to the screen in front of him. He types, pauses, looks up at the screen, and then resumes typing. Yet his posture remains rigid like he’s ready for action at any given moment.

“Do you need help?” you ask, noticing his struggle to find the right shortcut for copying and pasting.

“I need a cigarette,” he replies, standing up from his chair. He opens the window, turns his back to you, and lifts his mask halfway.

He opens the packet and bites down on the cigarette filter to extract it from the package. Tilting his head to the side, he lights it up and takes a deep inhale.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Shit.” He swears and shouts at the door to “wait a fucking minute.”

He extinguishes the cigarette, pulls down his mask, and returns to his desk. You wait for him to sit down before inviting the person outside to come in.

Two recruits currently assigned to your team enter the room.

“Happy birthday!” says one, and the other repeats the wishes more timidly.

You give them a warm smile and thank them.

Their eyes, however, often drift from you to him. They look like they regretted coming into the office. Like they’d rather be anywhere else but here.

You empathise with them—you, too, were scared of him when you first came to the base.

You decide to relieve them of their discomfort.

“There are cupcakes in the kitchen,” you say, “please help yourselves.”

You can’t tell if they are too excited about the cupcakes or relieved that they now have a reason to escape the trap they’ve gotten themselves into. With a nod, they quickly exit the room and shut the door behind them.

You turn to the computer screen and continue typing.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You slightly turn your head towards him while keeping your eyes on the screen.

“Why didn’t I tell you what?”

“That the sky is blue,” he replies sarcastically. “That today’s your birthday, of course!”

“That’s not the kind of thing you go around telling people, Ghost,” you explain, “besides, you already knew.”

He stands up from his chair, and you turn to look at him.

“Why didn’t you remind me?”

“What should I say, Lt.?” You ask, “Hey, by the way, it’s my birthday today, in case you’ve forgotten?”

“Yes!” He insists, lifting his hands, “Yes, you should have told me that! Then you should have added a ‘you fucking idiot’ to complete the sentence.”

You look at him with furrowed eyebrows and a smirk.

He sighs and drops his hands to his sides.

“Come here,” he says, waving his hand for you to come closer.

You look at him, amused, and your smile widens. Yet you remain seated, and lean back to your chair.

“Come here!” He repeats and starts walking towards you.

You stand up, and he immediately wraps his arms around you, locking your arms to your sides. You hug his waist.

“Happy birthday,” he whispers and leans down, planting a kiss at the crown of your head.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” you reply, your words muffled against his chest.

“I’m such an idiot, aren’t I?” He murmurs, his lips lingering against your head, “I’m sorry.”

You chuckle and push yourself away to look at him.

“No, you’re not,” you reply, “these things happen.”

He releases you from the hug but keeps his hands on your shoulders.

“Thanks for the cupcakes, by the way.”

“You had one?”

“Two,” he says, letting you go and returning to his desk, “but I didn’t know who they were from.”

You sit back in your chair and continue to type, type, type.

But this time, there’s a smile on your face.

———————————————————————

[seiwas]

₊˚⊹。if you're ready (let me) | gojo satoru

wc: 1.3k

summary: you find the other thing to surprise gojo with on his birthday. 

contains: f!reader, 18+ nsfw, reader is in lingerie, lead up to cunnilingulus (mentions pussy once)

a/n: a follow-up to the col lingerie fic, ‘take my time (i’ll spend it all on you)’, might be one of the more explicit ones i’ve written (which i don’t write often! so please be kind!); title inspired by ‘if you let me - alina baraz’; happy birthday to our boy ♡!!

collection masterlist: conversations on love +04a (extra). take my time (i’ll spend it all on you) <- you are here -> 04. these traces of love, they outline you

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

There are few things that come to mind when you think about what to get Gojo for his birthday: 

A couple of his favorite sweets (predictable and too frequent—he just bought a box of them last week); something customized and redesigned, maybe his blindfold? (which, you backtrack to realize, you had already gifted him for his 21st birthday years ago); answered prayers—requests that he continuously and ‘jokingly’ hints at (which, you also realize—he’s only really whined about two). 

Two requests, with one he’s already walked in on months ago, spoiling your what-would-have-been birthday gift. 

So, this leaves you with the other one—

The only other request. A repeat of something you did by accident more than a decade ago. 

Except, now, on purpose, you know that Gojo’s asking for something entirely different, far from innocent. 

You take a deep breath, closing your eyes as you bite the inside of your cheek. You hold it—

One.

The lace on the hem of your bra cups tickles your ribcage—it’s softer, but far more embellished than the pink one you’ve been (over)using. A gift from Gojo (“just a little something,” he said, handing it over to you one morning). 

Two.

You rub your thighs together, white suspender straps gliding against your skin; the metal attachments on the lace garters pull taut, holding them in place. 

Three. 

Goosebumps litter your arms, little dots surfacing; it’s hard not to feel nervous when you know what awaits you—your heartbeat racing.

When you open your eyes as you exhale, breath shaky and vision a little hazy, you focus on Gojo—sitting on the floor, back slouched against his couch with an impossibly handsome smirk on his mouth. His lips are upturned, pink and curled at the corner, but bitten, just the lower bit.  

You lock eyes, sleet white framing a darkening blue sky. 

Something stirs in your belly when he shifts in his seat, the sleeves of his shirt tightening as he rests his arms wide open on luxurious gray cotton—an invite towards him.

An invite to—

“Maybe you should sit on my face again.” 

The memory makes your face burn. 

You slipped the first time it happened, tripping backwards over Tsumiki’s books stacked up on the floor. At 20, you were far from rusty, reflexes quick as you caught hold of the edge of the couch—the couch that Gojo also happened to be napping on. 

There was an attempt: to balance yourself, only for your body to sink, gravity acting against your control. So, you landed right there, buttcheek covered by the fabric of your skirt, sitting straight on Gojo’s nose. 

That incident had buried itself so deep inside your mind you were confident Gojo would never bring it up again unless you did. 

But, of course he does, and when you least expect it too—by the counter of a gelato store, licking the dessert on hand while waiting for the cashier to punch the cost in.

And when he wets his lips now, a glimpse of pink swiping over his skin quickly, almost discreetly, you’re reminded of the same feeling you had back then—

—heated up, nervous; shy. 

You move closer, his eyes straying lower, going over the pretty white number you have on; the one he got you. 

And you wonder, if there’s vanity in the hunger he’s regarding you with, how what you’re wearing reminds you so much of him: white as the strands that fall into his eyes, playful but delicate at the same time.

The lace details on this set are more intricate, outlined with iridescent gray—an almost silver that shines blue when light hits; with sheer net as the base fabric, floral appliqués are carefully positioned on the bra and panty fronts, supported by ribbings that go down to the hem. 

It’s a full-set, garters with the suspender belt and everything. Sexy but still soft—just what he likes.

And you’d be a lot less embarrassed walking up to him now if it weren’t for the single, most nerve-wracking anticipation: that you’ll be sitting on his face, for real, later. and maybe from now on.

He pats his lap, motioning for you to settle on it. 

Your knees buckle under you when you reach him, holding onto his shoulders as you go down. And when you settle on his lap, straddling him, he reaches for your bra straps, pulling it off to the side.

The kisses he lands on each of your shoulders are soft, but his lips lay plump against your skin—a faint ‘smack’ sounding with each one. Your breath hitches when he goes lower, lightly sucking on the skin of your chest. It’s not enough to bruise, not yet, but a tightening in your stomach tells you you want it to.

He’s trying to get you to relax, you know—with how he’s gripping your hips, rubbing circles onto the skin underneath his fingertips.

When his mouth crawls up your neck, licking, you throw your head back—a sharp intake of breath as you release it heavily. Your fingers rake through his undercut, grasping onto fists of white. Then you shiver, gasping as trembles ripple through you when his lips glide past your ears.

“Toru,” 

He pulls away, blinking at you, half-lidded; you blink back twice. 

“You ready?” his eyes search for yours, your chin perched between his thumb and index finger—he tilts you to him.

The smile on his face is teasing, but gentle. And if you say no because you’re too nervous, you know he won’t force you. 

(Even if the hardness in his sweatpants is pressing intently against you).  

You try to shake off the nerves, nodding your head as you take in another breath, preparing to push yourself up by his shoulders.  

It’s odd to think about how he used to feel what you do right now; how he used to be led, guided—reassured; how he’s doing what you do when you try to get him to calm down. 

“We won’t do this if you don’t want to,” he bends his knees up, letting you lean on it as he cages you in. 

But that’s the thing, you do want to—you’re just failing to see how this can be more for him than it is for you. That, and what if you get the position wrong? Can’t balance yourself properly? Lean into him too much and knock him out completely? 

“I do, it’s just…” you sigh, running your palms over his chest. You fail to meet his eyes. 

“If you’re shy now, I’ve seen it all before. And I always tell you, you taste de—” 

You hit him before you catch how he’s watching you, chuckling—tender and knowing. He takes your hand, kissing each of your fingertips. 

The fact that he’s being this patient, this considerate on what you want is a testament to his restraint; he has to know that you want this too, if the wet spot on his sweatpants is any indication from you. 

So, you peer back at him, smile growing wide before landing a small peck to the tip of his nose. 

He guides you when you stand, lips grazing your thighs as you let him pass through them. Then he leans back, neck supported by the edge of the couch as he tilts his head up. The moment your knees press into the cushion, dipping as you climb over him, he holds your ankles. 

It tickles when he kisses his way down to the arches of your feet, but it’s a nice companion—a temporary relief—to the heat rising in your belly.

You hold on to the back of the couch, readjusting your knees as you find the right position to sit back down. And when you figure it out, angling yourself until you’re settled right over him—the heat of you is pulsing. 

He looks dazed between your legs, staring straight into you—the see-through net hiding absolutely nothing. Pussy-whipped, as they say. 

You giggle as you stare down at his face, anticipation rushing to your cheeks; it shakes him out of his reverie, prompting him to look at you instead. His breaths are warm against your thighs but cool against your core, and when he trails his lips higher and higher until he reaches it, landing a kiss on the fabric separating you, you think your knees might give out. 

The sight of Gojo smirking while being sat on stirs something within you—the creeping realization of how much it turns you on. 

And he can tell, grabbing hold of your butt and squeezing the flesh, kneading. The fabric separating you is pushed to the side, giving him a clearer view of everything; he sighs then moans, low. 

But before he pushes you down, bringing you closer to his mouth, he smiles cheekily. 

“Best birthday gift, baby.” 

thank you notes: to @stellamancer bc the idea of col reader sitting on gojo's face came up in convo some time ago!! + @augustinewrites for supporting and enabling me ♡

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[sparkbeast20]

Stay for cake (Beelzebub X MC)

My Birthday fic for our favorite wandering king

Note: Even though this sfw, please remember that WHB is a 18+ game so minors DNI

Midnight, which should be quiet and most people would be asleep by now. But not in hell, especially in Abyssos where Beelzebub is king.

You were told to stay in the palace for the night while the nobles were out and about on duty. While Bael stayed in his Beelzebub's office doing this month reports.

They fixed up a room for you in the palace whenever you visit them. You couldn't sleep and decide to sit by the window and looked at the twin moons of hell.

You wonder why they suddenly asked you or more so took you from Gehenna to stay in Abyssos for the next couple of days. When this happens, there is only one reason for it, Beelzebub might come to Abyssos. He never stayed for long, so some of the nobles would ask for you to stay in their region so there is a chance that Beelzebub would come and visit them. Though even he doesn't come, they are more happy to have you staying with them for these couple of days.

At first, you felt that you were being used by the Abyssos nobles so that they can see their king again, but it more so. They wanted Beelzebub to be happy and you being there makes him and the others happy.

Plus, you are always excited to see Beelzebub.

Deep down, you missed him. You missed his teasing, his childish behavior, and sly tricks. While you often find it annoying... In truth, that's how he shows that he cares. You recalled a fade memory where he called you out for almost giving up your soul for a good time. You hated that he was right. He wouldn't have said that if he doesn't care.

Not to mention, the way he held you in his arms, they way he is direct with his words about his feels and they way he makes you feel good.

God, he makes you feel full with love at the same time hungry for him-

"Still up?"

Speak of the devil, that sudden whisper behind the back of your neck made you yelp in place, and you whipped your head towards the voice and there you saw a giggling man with a unicorn resting on top of his head with his blond locks, and his majestic tan skin which is littered with written tattoos of all sort of acts and desire.

There standing behind you is the king of Abyssos, the wandering king of hell. Beelzebub.

"I couldn't sleep" You said it with a pout on your face, which cause him to start laughing now.

He eventually stopped, but not before wiping a nonexciting tear from his eye. You huff before looking away from him. He smiled and just lean forward and landed on your back. His chest pressed against your shoulders.

"I missed you" He said in a whisper before moving his face do he can give your shoulder a longing kiss. And that made you melt. You sighed before leaning back and letting him wrap his arms around you. You turn your head slight so you could let your forehead touch his lower chin, then you reach up and start caressing his face.

"I missed you too."

"Hehe, then lets not waste this day." He smiled as he snaked his arms to slide under your clothes-

"Wait." He stopped when you whispered. "I heard that it's your birthday"

"Yeah? Hehe What you got something for me?"

You glance at him and smiled before slipping your hand into his and entwine your fingers with his. "If you don't mind staying for cake"

And with that he smiled and nuzzled his cheek on top of your head and said "I'll like that a lot"

[avastrasposts]

A Baker's Dozen - Nine

Twelve Pedro boys, twelve stand alone short stories, all set in the same bakery.

Hello!

Pedro boy number nine is waiting in the wings but I need to add some warnings before anything else. This chapter contains mentions of blood, a small injury and fairly detailed description of cleaning said injury.

I want to dedicate this chapter to @leslie-lyman and her wonderful Stranger at my Gate fic which I absolutely love and gave me a new found love for this Pedro character. ❤❤❤

Series Master List

You’re not often scared in the bakery, even though you often work early mornings and late nights. But when you suddenly hear the rattle of the dumpster outside your back door, and a muffled gasp as if someone’s in pain, your heart flies into your throat. It’s been dark for a few hours, evening coming early as the heavy rain refused to let up. You’re clearing up after preparing for next weekend’s wedding cake, and it’s already late when you’re startled by the sound. Grabbing your rolling pin, you carefully nudge the back door open and peer out into the dim light, rain dripping down from the eaves of the building. The glow of the street lamps don’t reach too far and most of the back yard is cast in shadows, made even dimmer by the heavy rain. But you see the source of the disturbance straight away, a man is crouched down by the dumpster, his hand held tight to his chest as he curses in a low voice. 

You clear your throat lightly, “Umm, are you ok?” you ask. 

The man immediately snaps his eyes to you and straightens up, his hand still cradled against his chest, but his other hand drops to his hip and for a fearful second you think he’s reaching for a gun. But his hand pats his side and when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for he quickly scans the ground around him and curses again, giving an exasperated sigh and briefly glancing up at the sky. 

You’re not sure if you should slam the door shut and lock it, but the way he winces when the movement jostles his hand keeps you from retreating. 

“Is your hand hurt? Do you need some help?” you ask, still only opening the door a little bit. The man sighs again and nods, looking up at you. 

“I think I cut it when I fell,” he replies, looking down at his hand and carefully unfurling his fist. 

“Ok…” you say, trying to figure out what to do, let an injured stranger into your kitchen late at night, or just call an ambulance? 

“How bad is it?” you ask, “Can I see it?” 

The man nods and cautiously holds out his hand, but doesn’t make a move to come closer, and you suddenly realize that he looks a lot more hesitant than you feel, his eyebrows are bunched together, and mistrust is written across his dark features. 

“Uhm…could you maybe come over here, the light’s better,” you say gently, opening the door a little more and, in a sudden decision, put the rolling pin on the shelf behind you. The action seems to earn you a bit of trust and the man takes a few tentative steps forward into the light. He holds out his hand and you step down on to the stairs and look at it. 

“There’s quite a bit of blood,” you say, carefully nudging his fingers tips back so that he opens his palm a bit more. 

“Hands always bleed a lot,” the man says curtly, “It’s not my first injury, and I can move my fingers, I just need to clean it.” 

He has an accent that makes you look up at his face as he speaks, his voice low and rough but not unpleasant. The scar that cuts across his left eye draws your attention, and when he catches you looking at his face he meets your eyes, his eyebrows still bunched together as he points with his good hand to the scar. 

“Does it scare you?” he asks, scowling, and you pull back from where your fingers were gently touching his injured hand. 

“Should I be scared?” you ask in return, challenging him a little with your tone. 

“No, not if you don’t intend to steal from me,” he says, and you can’t help the smile that pulls at your lips. He’s a sorry sight, wet to the bone by the looks of it, injured and bleeding, and he’s worried you’ll steal from him? 

“I promise I won’t steal from you,” you smile softly, taking a step back and opening your door wider, letting him in, “C’mon in, you look soaked.” 

He hesitates for a few moments, glancing around him and then back at you. 

“Thank you,” he nods, not smiling, the scowl a permanent fixture on his face, as you lead him through the back room and into the kitchen. 

He looks around the space with cautious eyes as you go to the sink, and as you turn, you notice his clothes for the first time. He’s dressed head to toe in faded black, an old fashioned shirt billows half way down his thighs. Underneath you can see dirty trousers and well worn leather boots with an intricate pattern in the leather. He looks very much out of place, especially as he widens his eyes and seems to stare at the water running from the tap into your sink. 

“Are you ok?” you ask for the second time of the night, tilting your head and giving him a worried look. Maybe he’s hit his head too, he looks dazed when you motion him over to the sink. 

He gives a curt nod, still looking at the streaming water as he takes a few tentative steps forward. 

“It might sting a bit but rinse it out and I’ll get my first aid kit,” you tell him, handing him a roll of paper towels, “And I think I have an old hoodie that might fit you, if you want to change out of that wet shirt?” 

Confusion flits across his face again as you speak, his guarded eyes moving between the water and you, but eventually he carefully puts his hand under the stream. As you fetch the first aid kit and the hoodie, you hear him wince and mutter low curses in a language you can’t make out. 

You put the hoodie on the bench next to the sink and open up the first aid kit, pulling out the disinfectant and motioning the man to sit on the stool you’ve rolled over. 

“Do you know what you cut yourself on?” you ask as the stranger watches blood drip from the gash on his palm into the sink. 

“Broken glass, I think,” he mutters, “it was too dark to see but the cut looks sharp and clean.” 

“It does, it should be fairly easy to patch up as long as we get it clean,” you reply, unscrewing the disinfectant, “Do you want to clean it yourself, or do you want me to do it?” 

He looks up at you then, the scowl on his face softening into what you think might be surprise. He hesitates, but then he holds out his hand to you. 

“Please.” 

“Ok then,” you reply, “this shouldn’t sting too much but let me know if it hurts.” 

“I’ve had worse injuries,” he replies and you glance up at the scar across his eye.

“Of course, I didn’t mean to-” 

“No, I know,” he interrupts, “but I don't want you to worry you’ll cause me pain.” His tone is low, almost hesitant, as if the sincerity in his voice is unfamiliar to him. Your eyes meet his for a few moments as you both try to find balance with the person looking back, you can feel a shift in the room. Nervously you swallow and look down at the strange man’s hand. You realize you don’t know anything about him yet, not even his name, so to distract him from what you need to do, you start talking again. 

“You have an accent I can’t place,” you say as you gently make him open his hand, water still streaming over the cut, “but it’s very beautiful,” you give him a small smile as you glance up and his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “It is,” you giggle at his dismay, “I like your accent.” 

“Thank you,” he mutters, looking almost ashamed and you change the subject. 

“What’s your name?” you ask instead, turning off the water and starting to drizzle disinfectant over his hand. 

“Pero Tovar,” he replies, and the way he rolls the r’s in his name sends a little shiver of pleasure down your back.

“Pero Tovar,” you repeat, trying to roll the r the way he does, but you can tell from his small chuckle that you’re not successful. 

“Almost,” he says and when you look up, you catch the smallest of smiles on his face. 

A sharp hiss from Pero pulls your attention back to his hand. He’s opened the hand flat to let the liquid rinse his injury, but the movement has revealed a small shard of glass still pressed in at the edge of the cut. 

You quickly reach into the first aid kit for the tweezers and take hold of his wrist, bending down to grasp at the edge of the shard. 

“This might sting, but I’ll try to be quick,” you say and Pero grunts in response as you pull the sliver of glass out of the cut, dropping it in the sink. 

“I think that’s all, how does it feel?” you ask him and Pero gingerly moves his fingers as you drizzle more disinfectant over his hand. 

“Better,” he nods as you turn to take out what you need to close the cut from the first aid kit. 

“You’re lucky you ended up at front of my door, Pero,” you say, “I’m an expert at cutting my fingers, and therefore, an expert at taking care of them too.” 

The man only grunts in response, tugging at his shirt and you suddenly hear it rip, as he pulls a strip from the hem. 

“Tie this around my hand, it will stop the bleeding and then I’ll leave,” he says, “Thank you for your help.” 

“Pero, that’s dirty, you can’t put that around your hand,” you exclaim as he holds out the rag to you. 

“It will do,” he scowls, “it’s what I usually do.” 

“You’ll get an infection, please, let me put a proper bandage on it,” you point to the sterile compress and Pero’s eyes narrow as if he’s considering a potential risk, before he glances back at the door where the heavy rain can still be heard. Then he nods, looking at you again, dropping the dirty strip from his shirt on the edge of the sink. 

It doesn’t take you long to bandage up his hand, wrapping surgical tape around the back to keep the compress in place. As you turn his hand over and press down the tape you can’t help but notice the many faded scars that marr his skin, and you run your finger lightly over a long one. 

“A knife,” Pero mutters, and you look up at him. “A thief tried to take my coins and he had a hidden blade. It was a nasty fight.” 

“It looks like you’ve been in a lot of fights, Pero,” you say, touching an uneven scar from something slashed across his wrist. 

He doesn’t reply to that, just grunts again and pulls his hand back, getting back up from the stool. But he doesn’t get far, on unsteady legs he stumbles across the floor and puts his uninjured hand out to balance himself, briefly closing his eyes. 

“Careful,” you say, reaching out to steady him, your hands on his wet shirt, as he suddenly sinks down to the floor, his back against one of the shelves, “you’re very pale, maybe you need a few minutes rest?” 

Pero shakes his head with another grunt, “No, I should..” he tries to stand up again but sinks back down, his eyes closing as he tips his head to his chest, breathing hard through his nose. 

“At least change your wet shirt, please,” you say, grabbing the dry hoodie from the bench and holding it out to him and Pero opens his eyes, “you’ll feel better if you’re dry.” 

He regards the hoodie for a few seconds before giving in, taking it from you. You turn your back to give him some privacy and you hear him tug the shirt over his head, dropping it on the floor with a wet sound. 

“Thank you,” comes his rough voice from behind a few seconds later and you glance over your shoulder. The navy hoodie fits him and he’s leaned back against the wall again with his eyes closed, his skin still paler than you suspect that it should be. 

You open one of your storage cupboards and pull out a container, bringing it over to Pero together with a bottle of water. Kneeling down in front of him you peel open the lid and hold it out to him. 

“Here, your blood sugar is probably low, maybe a bit of shock, have a couple of these,” you offer him and Pero opens his eyes enough to see the cookies that are starting to spread their chocolate scent. They widen further when he sees them clearly, darting up to look at you before he tentatively takes one and flips it over in his hand. He smells it and then takes a careful bite. 

His reaction flips a switch in your head, a light bulb moment, as his eyebrows furrow at the flavor. His tongue comes out, almost as if he’s about to spit the cookie out, before he grimaces and swallows, eyeing the rest of the cookie with suspicion. 

“Pero…” you ask hesitantly, “where are you from?” 

He looks up at you for a beat before he answers, running his tongue over his lips. 

“Asturias,” he says, “but I haven’t been back in many years.” 

“In Spain?” 

“España, sí,” he nods, eyeing the cookie in his hand, “This…this food is very…sweet?” He looks up at you again and almost looks apologetic as he brings it to his mouth again. 

“You don’t like it?” you ask, “You don’t have to eat it if you don’t like it, maybe it’s too sweet for your palate.” 

“I’ve never tasted something so sweet before, I’m not sure…” he trails off, taking a small bite again. 

The penny drops, impossible as it may seem, but his clothes, his wide eyed reactions to your kitchen, the fear and mistrust, the pieces seem to fit together, and you sink down on the floor in front of Pero, the container of cookies forgotten next to you. 

“Pero…” you begin again and he tilts his head as you seem to study the pattern on his well worn leather boots, “A-are you…do you…w-where…- “

“I’m not from your time,” he interrupts your stuttering question, holding your eyes as you meet his gaze, your eyes are the ones that widen this time. 

“How?” is all you manage and he shrugs. 

“I do not know, a curse, a blessing, just chance?” he shrugs again, “All I remember is darkness and then bright lights, as bright as the sun, but much closer, a terrible noise, and then I ran.” 

“Here?” 

He shakes his head, “Not first, I think that was yesterday, or maybe two days ago, I found somewhere to hide, a small tunnel, but the rain made the water rise too high so I was forced to leave.” 

“You must be hungry, Pero,” you suddenly realize, “how long has it been since you last ate properly?” 

“Two days, maybe three,” he says, rubbing his good hand over his belly that rumbles at the mention of proper food. 

“I haven’t got anything but hang on, I’ll order something,” you go to stand up when you realize he won’t understand what that means. Your head suddenly reels with the implication of having Pero in your kitchen. 

“I mean, I’ll make someone bring food, but don’t worry, I won’t say anything about you,” you hurry to add as you see him shake his head. 

“Thank you,” he sighs, looking relieved, “I don’t know what dark forces brought me here, but it doesn’t feel safe.” 

“Just wait here, I’ll be right back,” you say to him, leaving him sitting on the floor, “You’re safe here, I promise.” 

You hurry out to the shop and pull out your phone to place an order through the delivery app when you’re suddenly stumped, what the hell would Pero be most comfortable eating? A stew maybe? Meat, veggies and bread seems like something people have eaten through the centuries, so you quickly scroll through the options and find a local place that offers Boeuf Bourguignon. A rich, hearty stew must be something Pero will be familiar with even if it’s not exactly something he’s eaten before. You quickly place the order and hurry back to the kitchen to find Pero getting to his feet, holding on to the shelf for support. 

“Someone is coming over with a meat stew, how does that sound?” you ask and Pero nods. 

“Thank you,” he replies, letting go of the shelf and standing a big steadier this time. 

“I have some bread and butter for you while we wait, it’s stale bread, but it might make you feel a bit better.” 

“Thank you”, he says again and you go to your big walk-in fridge and pull it open. Pero follows you cautiously and peers into the large space. 

“It’s cold?” he says, taking a tentative step into the fridge. 

“It’s a special cold storage,” you explain, “it stays cold even though it’s warm outside, the food stays fresh longer in here.” 

Pero nods as if he understands exactly what you mean but you can tell by the way his eyes scan the shelves that he’s distracted by the produce that lines them. 

“Would you like to try something?” you ask, “Maybe some fruit?” 

He looks over at you and nods carefully, as if he’s uncertain if he should say yes and you’re suddenly hit by how much mistrust he holds on to. Even though he’s a little bit more relaxed now than when he first arrived, it’s clear that he’s not a man used to trusting people easily, and just the simple gesture of accepting the apple you hold out to him seems to test his instinctual reaction to say no. 

You take the butter from the shelf, fish one of yesterday’s loaves from the bread basket and slice it up on the counter while Pero slowly walks around your kitchen, the apple you notice, is already gone. 

“Here, eat this, slowly, it should help you feel better.” 

“Thank you,” he replies again, taking the thick piece of bread and carefully smelling it just like he had with the cookie. You cut yourself a slice and spread butter on it before biting in to it and jumping up on the work bench surface. 

“It’s not poison, I promise,” you wink at Pero and he scowls back at you, but it’s not intimidating this time, there’s a slight smirk to it as he realizes you’re teasing him. 

“I’ve never seen bread this white,” he says, coming over to the bench and heaving himself on to it too, “Bread where I come from is much rougher, this is like something a king would eat I think.” 

“It’s just the way the flour is milled and sifted,” you explain, “we make bread the same way now as we’ve always done. Water, flour and salt.” 

Pero takes a large bite as you speak and he hums as he chews, “It tastes almost the same,” he says, “I like it.” He takes another big bite and the whole slice disappears within a minute. 

“I’m glad you like it,” you smile at him, “I made it, I’m a baker.” 

“You’re a baker?” Pero asks, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. 

“We still have bakers in our time,” you laugh but Pero shakes his head. 

“I thought it would be your husband who baked, I have never met a woman baker.”

“Oh, yeah, I suppose that would’ve been pretty unusual back in your time,” you say, smiling at Pero’s surprise, “Many of the jobs only men did in your days are now done by women too, a lot has changed that way. And I have no husband.” 

Pero seems to consider this for a few moments while he eyes the loaf sitting on the counter across the kitchen. 

“Do you want another slice?” you ask him and he nods. 

“Yes, it was very good bread.” 

“Go on then, but remember there’s meat stew on the way so don’t eat too much or you might be sick,” you say and he slides off the workbench and grabs the  knife. 

“It’s good that you can be a baker too,” he says as he slices the bread, “I’ve seen women be warriors, generals even, why should women not be able to have the same professions as men?” 

“You’re pretty progressive, Pero,” you smile, “not even all men nowadays would agree with that.” 

“Fools,” he scowls, buttering the slice and coming back over to you, “I’ve seen many strange things in your time, but nothing that a woman couldn’t do as well as a man. The general I knew would scare the wits out of the men I’ve seen here so far.” 

“What year are you from, Pero?” you ask and he shrugs, it seems to be his standard response when he has no answer. 

“I do not know, I’m a sell-sword, a mercenary, what year the priest  says it is doesn’t matter to someone like me.” 

You think back to your high school history lessons, chewing your bread as you try to figure out how to pinpoint what age he might be from.

“Are there any big events you know of that happened in your time?” you ask and Pero furrows his brow for a few seconds before he shakes his head. 

“I’m not educated, I can write my name, read a little, but that’s it,” he shrugs again, swallowing the last piece of bread, “I follow whoever pays my wages and don’t ask questions.” 

His face softens slightly as he sees the disappointment in your face and he turns towards you, “I apologize, these things are not important to me, but I wish I’d paid more attention to them now, so that I could tell you more about where I’m from.” 

“It’s alright, Pero,” you say, giving him a smile, “I’m just curious, just tell me to stop asking so many questions.” 

He actually chuckles at that, only the second time you’ve heard him laugh and it makes you feel warm as his face transforms into a beautiful smile. 

“Ask as many as you want, you’re feeding me, you patched me up, you’ve shown much more kindness than a broken sell-sword could ever expect. The least I can do is to feed your curious mind.” 

Now it’s your turn to shrug, “It was nothing, you were hurt, I couldn’t leave you out in the rain, anyone would’ve done the same.” 

Pero tilts his head to the side and regards you with wonder, “Maybe your world is very different, querida…” he says as he tentatively reaches out and carefully wraps the fingers of his good hand around yours, “but in my world, I don’t know anyone who would’ve looked at my scarred face and let me in.” 

He gently lifts your hand and brings the back of it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss there, before holding it to his heart. 

“Thank you.” 

You feel heat rush to your face as he places your hand back on the bench, letting go of it as you fumble for something to say and coming up with nothing, just biting your lip and nodding as he continues to look at you, his face unreadable but gentle. 

“What do you bake, apart from bread?” he asks after what feels like an eternity and your brain still hasn’t kicked back into gear, the warm mark of his chapped lips still on the back of your hand. 

“Ahh…most things,” you stumble, “cakes for weddings, for feasts, cookies and pastries, anything sweet really, if people want it.” A thought suddenly hits you, “Do you have a favorite, Pero? Maybe something I could make for you here?” 

He looks taken back by the question, starting by shaking his head almost on impulse, “No, I never had cake, or sweet things, maybe just a simple fruit pie if I had coin, but it has been rare. Although….” he suddenly looks up, his words lost in thought as he looks at you as if you know the answer to what he's thinking of. 

“There was a baker in my hometown, he was not from Asturias. He made sweet bread from Albion, with dried fruit and honey,” Pero licks his lips at the memory and grins, “that was the best bread I ever had, he would give me the scraps if he burnt a loaf and even burnt, it tasted like heaven.” 

“Albion,” you hum, thinking out loud, “that’s the old name for Britain, so maybe he made something like barmbrack, or bara brith…” you slide off the workbench and go over to the bookshelf and run your finger along the spines of the books. “But what dried fruit would they have then? Raisins? Maybe…the Romans made wine in Britannia after all, the climate was warmer… maybe apricots? Cherries?” You pull out a well worn copy of The Love of Cooking, and take it back to the work bench as Pero regards you with a curious grin. As you flip the book open his eyes go wide as he sees the colored photographs of food, the fine print in neat rows. 

“This is a book?” he asks, carefully sliding his fingertips over the page and you nod. 

“They invented a machine that can make copies of what we write very fast, so they’re cheap to buy nowadays,” you explain as you flip back to the index, looking up barmbrack, “I think this recipe might be similar to what you’re familiar with,” you say, finding the right page and pointing to a dark loaf filled with dried fruit. 

“Can you make it?” Pero asks, his eyes locked on the image as if he wants to chew on the paper and you smile. 

“It’s a pretty fast thing to make, if I make it now it’ll be done by the time we’ve had our dinner.” Pero’s eyes are still glued to the page, a hungry expression on his face.

“I would very much like that,” he says, tearing his gaze away and grinning at you, “Put me to work, what can I do?” 

“You want to help?” 

“Of course, teach me how to bake, mistress baker,” he winks and again his usually scowling face is transformed, a warm smile lighting up his sharp features as his brown eyes soften. You smile back at him, marveling at how he transforms from a sourly looking soldier to a handsome man when he lets himself smile. 

“Ok then, Pero,” you grin, “time to learn a new profession.” 

Under your direction Pero pulls out the necessary ingredients and tools, making comments about the flimsy quality of the metal in your kitchen. 

“This would not hold up in a kitchen or on a battlefield,” he remarks, holding up one of your stainless steel bowls, “It would melt over a fire and even a child’s arrow would pierces this, I’m sure.” 

“It’s stronger than you think,” you laugh, setting a bag of dried cherries down on the workbench and giving one to Pero to try. He sucks on it, smiling at the familiar flavor, and nods in approval as he goes in search of a knife. He finds your custom chef knife, your name stamped along the blade, and this is the only item that gets his commendation. 

“This is a good weapon, querida, if any more strange men turn up at your door. You should keep it on you at all times,” he says, effortlessly spinning the knife in his hand, testing its weight and balance. 

“I hope no more strange men come tumbling into my backyard,” you laugh, “what would I do with you all?” 

“If fate lets me, I’ll stay here and keep you safe, just feed me,” he grins, coming to stand next to you and placing the knife on the workbench. 

“That sounds like a good deal for me, Pero,” you smile back at him and his eyes crinkle at the corners as he laughs, a beautiful sound in your kitchen, his rough voice smoothed out by the warm vibrations. 

“Querida, even if you only fed me your bread and butter, I would be the winner in that deal; a full belly and a beautiful mistress? What man could ask for more?” 

He sees the way your shy smile reaches your eyes before you look down at your hands on the recipe book. Heat creeps up your neck and you have to squeeze your lips together to stop a silly grin from splitting your face open. You can feel Pero’s smiling eyes on you as he waits for your reply, and when he wraps his fingers around your hand on the book, you almost jump, his grip a gentle touch. The fingers on his other hand find your chin, softly bringing your face up to look up at him. 

“Beautiful,” he mumbles, the rough pad of his thumb caressing your chin as your heart rate picks up and you part your lips.  

“Now put me to work,” he smiles, “So I can have this fruit bread again.” 

You draw a deep breath, your heart fluttering in your chest as you pull your eyes away from Pero and down to the recipe. 

“S-so…ok, we need tea, I’ll make that if you fill this with flour and put it in the bowl. Then crack an egg in there too.” 

“Your wish is my command, mistress,” Pero replies and your cheeks heat up again, but you can’t help the wide smile and it makes Pero grin as you fumble for a saucepan to fill with water. 

He completes the tasks you set him, and then comes to stand next to you as you spoon tea leaves into the kettle and pour the boiling water over it. 

“I visited China once,” he says, “They drank black tea, it’s strange to see it here too.” 

“This tea comes from China, we started importing it a long time ago. I’m going to soak the fruit in the tea, it really should sit overnight but it works like this too, just a bit less flavor.” 

What Pero said suddenly hits you, and you turn to look at him as he stirs the dried fruit through the tea, “You went to China? That must’ve been such a long journey?” 

Pero nods, his face falling back to his default scowl as he pulls his eyebrows together at the memory. 

“It was very long, dusty and dangerous. Both there and going home, I’ll tell you about it someday when you know me better, but you’ll still think I’m a liar, it’s a hard story to believe.” 

“Sounds like it was an adventure,” you reply and Pero shrugs, shaking his head a little. 

“A storyteller would call it an adventure, I would call it a terrifying nightmare,” he grumbles, taking the fruit back to the workbench and changing the subject, “I can’t read your book, what should I do now?” 

You pass him a loaf tin, “Smear this with butter and I’ll mix the rest of the ingredients together.” 

Pero nods and takes the butter in his good hand and gets to work while you mix the dough. You leave out some of the spices that would be too foreign to Pero you think, and reduce the sugar a bit. From the corner of your eye you see Pero watching you work, and as you mix the fruit into the dough you glance up at him and give him a small smile. He looks lost in thought for a moment, before he smiles back at you, a much softer looking man as he almost seems to be shy, handing you the prepared tin. 

“You look very capable,” he says, taking a few small steps closer to look at the dough, “more capable than any baker I’ve ever seen.” 

“Thank you, Pero,” you reply, smiling to yourself as you pick up the bowl to tip the dough into the tin. 

“Oh! I almost forgot!” you exclaim and put the bowl back on the counter, hurrying over to your small desk while Pero looks surprised. From a box you remove a gold ring and quickly wash it in the sink. Bringing it back to Pero you hold it up. 

“It’s tradition to mix items into the barmbrack, some things for bad luck, some for good luck. But I prefer adding only things for good luck so I usually add this ring. It was my grandmother’s wedding ring and she was a baker too,” you flip the ring over and show the date written on the inside of the ring, “June sixth, nineteen forty-one, her wedding day.”

“It will bring luck?” Pero asks and you nod. 

“Whoever finds it in the cake will have good luck,” you reply, “Well, as it’s a ring it’s meant to mean that you’re getting married within a year, but I prefer to think of it as good luck.” 

“I’ve heard of superstitions like this one before,” Pero says, “I don’t know if I believe in them, but it’s probably not wise to ignore them.” 

“My thoughts exactly,” you smile as you toss the ring into the dough and mix it again, “I’m just going to put the dough in the tin and then bake it.” 

You’re interrupted by the doorbell on the front door, and you look towards the shop. 

“That’s our food I think, take over here and I’ll go pick it up,” you say, handing the bowl to Pero. You hurry to the door and tip the delivery guy, bringing back a bag of food. Peros is carefully patting down the dough with serious concentration and it makes you smile to see him looking so focused on his job. 

“It looks great, Pero,” you say and he looks up, giving you a quick smile. You’re struck by the difference a little bit of time with him has made, his distrust has disappeared, replaced by curious looks and grins. You realize again how handsome he is as he stands up and holds out the tin to you, his deep brown eyes warm instead of cautious, and the near permanent downward turn of his mouth has been replaced by the soft smile he gives you as you take the tin from him.

“Thanks,” you say and hand him the bag, “There’s food in there, get us set up while I put this in the oven, then we can eat.”

Pero inhales deeply as the scent reaches his nose and his stomach growls as he hastily grabs the bags and looks for a spot to sit. 

The oven is ready to go so you just put the barmbrack in and turn back to Pero, grabbing cutlery as you go. He’s on the floor, leaning against the bookshelf again, and is unpacking the food. Sinking down next to him, you groan at the relief of getting off your feet and sitting down. You tip your head back against the bookshelf and let slip a deep sigh that turns into a yawn. Pero chuckles next to you as he peels the lid off one of the containers. 

“You’re yawning but I’m the one who spent a night inside a cramped tunnel,” he says and you clamp your hand over your mouth, giggling.

“Sorry, it’s been a long day, I get up very early to bake every morning,” you say, stifling another yawn as Pero picks up one of the containers with stew, looking at it with hungry eyes. 

“It smells incredible,” he says, taking the spoon you hand him.

“Eat, Pero, you look hungry,” you smile and he flashes you a quick grin before digging in. 

The stew is good, rich and hearty, with big chunks of meat. Pero demolishes his portion and you get the rest of the loaf of bread, watching him tear chunks out of it to mop up the sauce. You’re sitting close together, his shoulder against yours, the warmth of his body a comfortable presence against your arm as you eat in silence. Pero groans as he does so, a deep moan escaping him when he scrapes up the sauce.  

“Feeling better?” you ask as he swallows the last piece of bread and sets the container down on the floor. He nods and tips his head back towards the bookshelf with a contented sigh. 

“Yes, much better, it was the best stew I’ve ever had,” he says, tilting his head to look over at you, “A full belly and your company, you’ve cured me.” 

“Happy I could help  you,” you smile at him, “you seemed a bit lost.” 

“I still am,” he says, his eyes slipping down to your lips, almost as if he doesn’t notice he’s done it, until he catches himself and snaps them back up and meets your eyes, “But I feel…safe, I think, here. With you.”  

His voice is low, softer than before, a quiet rasp in the silent kitchen. The rain is still rushing down outside and the white noise wraps you in a bubble as he carefully moves closer. You feel his hand, rough and calloused, come up and gently stroke your face, his eyes watching his fingers trail along the edge of your jaw, cupping your cheek and letting his thumb run over your bottom lip. 

“So soft,” he whispers, his breath tickling your lips as you close your eyes. 

The kiss is gentle, featherlight, but he stays close, pressing his lips against yours again and again, and you relish in the hushed words he whispers in another language, praise you can’t understand. But the way his lips never leave yours for more than a second, his reverent tone in every phrase, makes you feel cherished as his words wrap around you. 

When he lingers against your lips, you bring your hand up and touch his cheek, slipping your hand around his neck, holding him close so that he knows he can stay. You hear a rumble in his chest as he pulls you in closer, pulling you over his lap, his arm coming around your waist to keep steady, the other still cupping your cheek. You test his mouth, the slight parting of his lips where his soft bottom lip has a divot, and he groans, pulling you impossibly closer. His hair is still damp when you curl your fingers into it, still dirty from two days of wherever he managed to seek shelter when he first fell into this time. But under it, he’s warm and solid, his mouth hungry as he opens up and lets his tongue taste yours. 

Pero grows bolder as you guide him, pulling your leg over his lap so that you straddle him. As your hands caress his hair and explore the firm muscles of his shoulders, he seeks out the edge between your shirt and your trousers. The skin there is soft and smooth and he runs his hands over your waist, mumbling into your mouth between kisses. He pulls back a fraction and lets his hands slide high up on your back, under your shirt, pressing you into his chest.  

“Hermosa…” he whispers, “you’re so soft, your skin is like silk under my rough hands, so soft, warm, I’ve never…” he trails off, reaching up to claim your mouth again and you bend down to meet him. You can feel him grow hard under you, he’s holding back from rutting up, panting harder as his fingers dig into your waist. Gently you pull back from him and lean your forehead against his. 

“Pero…Pero…Pero…” you whisper, catching your breath as his grip on your loosens, his hands resuming their soft caresses up and down your back. 

“Querida,” he smiles, pulling back a little so that he can look at you, his dark eyes warm now, softer than ever, as he brings up a hand to cup your cheek again. 

“Come home with me tonight, I can’t send you away to sleep in a tunnel again,” you whisper, closing your eyes as his fingers trace across your lips. 

“You would let me?” he asks quietly, “You trust me, a stranger?” His hand goes still on your cheek and you look at him again. 

“You’re not a stranger anymore, Pero, I trust you. If you trust me to not steal from you that is,” the last thing you say with a small grin, and Pero laughs, a deep rumble as he wraps his arms around you again. 

“You’ve already stolen from me, querida,” he smiles, “you think all these kisses were free?” 

“I’m paying in food and more kisses,” you tease him, pressing your lips to the tip of his nose and he wrinkles it, his shoulders jumping as he laughs again. 

“Steal all my kisses, hermosa, you can have every single one.” 

Somewhere behind you the oven timer goes off and Pero stiffens for a second before he relaxes under you again. 

“Only the oven telling us the barmbrack is done,” you smile, pushing yourself off Pero’s lap and standing up. He holds out his hand for you to grab, and you pull him to his feet too. 

“Feed me,” he smiles, snaking an arm around your waist as you turn the oven off and open the door. 

“It needs to cool a bit first, I’ll put it in the fridge,” you wriggle out of his arms with a giggle as he tries to hold on to your shirt. When you close the fridge door behind you, the barmbrack safely on the shelf, he’s behind you again, bending his head to your shoulder. 

“Are you really letting me stay with you tonight?” he asks, his voice betraying that he still can’t quite believe that you’re trusting him. 

“Pero,” you reply, turning around and taking his hand, “I was scared when I first saw you outside, you looked frightening. But you also looked scared, like you needed help, and something told me I could trust you. And you’ve done nothing to make me regret that. I trust you.”

He looks at you for a few moments, uncertainty flitting across his face, “Not since I became a man has anyone seen my face and trusted me like that. No one but you.” 

“I’m sorry, Pero,” you reply but he shakes his head, suddenly crowding you, making you walk back towards the work bench. 

“If you’re the only one to trust me, I think that will be enough,” he smiles, his eyes soft again, the uncertainty gone as he puts his hands on your waist and lifts you up to sit on the counter, stepping in between your thighs. You feel him push his calloused hands under your shirt again, moving over your back, softly kneading at your curves as you pull him closer, making him bend his head to yours. 

“I trust you, Pero,” you mumble, tracing your fingers over his face, his short, uneven beard, the sharp curve of his nose, carefully moving up to gently caress the scar across his eye. He closes his eyes as you touch it, mapping the way something sharp has cut across his eyebrow, down onto his cheek. 

Pero’s hands have gone still on your waist, warm palms gripping your flesh as you reach up and press your lips to the spot over his eyebrow where the scar begins, moving your mouth further down, a brief whisper against his eyelid and then a firm kiss at the top of his cheek, the jagged point of the old injury. 

“I think whatever brought me here was a blessing,” he mumbles and you nod as he opens his eyes again to look at you. 

“I’m glad you found your way here, Pero,” you reply, moving your hands up to cradle his face, finding his lips against yours again. 

The rain continues outside, flashes of bright light shining in through the window split seconds before rolls of thunder move in. But neither of you notice, lost in the sensation of warm hands and soft lips exploring something new. Pero buries his face against your neck, inhaling deeply as you wrap your fingers around his curls. You can feel his lips leave small, wet kisses all along your neck, rubbing the cool tip of his nose against the soft spot under your ear where your pulse flutters. 

“Pero,” you mumble, pressing a kiss against the tip of his ear, and he lifts his head, meeting your eyes with a warm smile, making you kiss his lips again, losing several more minutes as you both savor the moment. 

With a giggle you finally pull away a little as he chases your lips with a protest, “Let me cut the barmbrack and then we go home,” you say and he pulls you off the counter. 

“I will take it as payment for all the kisses you have stolen,” he mumbles, pressing another one to your mouth as you laugh into it. 

The barmbrack still holds some warmth when you cut it, and the rich smell that it emits as the slices fall makes you salivate and Pero groans next to you, his hand shooting out to grab the thickest piece. 

“Wait, we need butter on it too,” you laugh, slapping his eager hand away and he repays you by sinking his teeth into your neck instead, playfully biting the soft skin. 

“It smells too good, querida,” he grumbles as you spread butter on the slice and hand it to him. 

“Impatient,” you smile at him as he takes a first giant bite of the barmbrack, grinning at you around the slice. You butter your own slice and Pero hums, muttering his praise between bites until his teeth clink against the ring. 

“Oh, you got the ring in the first slice!” you exclaim, “That’s really lucky!” 

Pero carefully spits the gold ring into his palm, “I feel like my night has already been lucky,” he smiles at you, holding out the ring for you to take it. 

“No, wash it off and then keep it, until we make a new barmbrack. It’s your lucky charm for now.” 

“Are you certain?” he asks, rinsing the crumbs and butter off the heavy gold ring at the sink, and holding out to you again. 

“Absolutely, you found it, it’s yours for now,” you say, finishing your own slice as Pero slips the ring into a pouch on his belt and eyes the rest of the loaf, “Do you want another slice, Pero?” you ask with a smile and he grins back at you. 

“It reminds me of the one I had as a child, but it tastes much better. This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” he says, coming to stand behind you as you prepare a second thick slice for him and wrap the rest of the barmbrack to take home. 

“Thank you, I’m glad you like it,” you smile at him and he takes the slice. 

“Querida, I love it,” he says, smiling back at you, “it’s almost as good as your kisses…” he quirks his eyebrows and leans in to capture your lips with his again, making you open your mouth to his eager tongue. 

“Still the best thing,” he mumbles as he pulls back a little, both you catching your breath. 

“Let’s go home,” you whisper back at him, “I’m just going to make sure everything is locked up, we’ll go out the back way."

He nods and you reluctantly disentangle yourself from him and walk out to the main shop, checking the door and the alarm. When you come back, Pero is sucking on his fingers, the second slice disappeared as fast as the first and he grins back at you as he notices your look. 

You flick off the main lights, Pero’s eyes widening in surprise as the kitchen is cast into darkness, and lead him to the backdoor and let him out. The rain is only a drizzle now but the thunder is still rumbling through the sky and Pero looks up as he goes down the stairs, waiting for you to set the alarm and lock the door. 

A bright flash of lightning cuts across the back yard, followed by a loud clap of thunder that makes you jump and let out a yelp. 

“Oh shit, that scared me,” you laugh, locking the door and turning around, pocketing the key, “the thunder must be right above us.” 

But the yard in front of you is as empty as every other night. No trace of Pero, only the dim light of the street lamps and the light patter of rain drops. 

Your heart clenches in your chest, you can still feel his lips on yours. 

It’s not until a week later that you see the article. A patron has left a newspaper behind and as you clear the table, a headline catches your eye. 

Modern ring found in 11th century grave

Archeologists at a dig in Sevilla, Spain, were surprised when excavating an 11th century grave. The site is being prepared for a new residential area and the grave is being moved to a nearby churchyard. The remains of an 11th century man was found in the grave, and around his neck was a thin gold chain, also 11th century in design. What surprised the archeologist was the modern gold wedding band hanging on the chain, with the date “June sixth, nineteen forty-one” engraved on the inside.

“The grave was undisturbed, and the chain was intact, clearly placed on the man in the grave either while he was still alive or before he was buried,” said chief archaeologist Maria Ruiz. “It’s impossible, of course, for a man from the 11th century to be in possession of a 20th century ring, but at the moment we have no explanation as to how the ring ended up in the grave with him.” 

Part Ten

Some author notes here at the end too; I don't think it's canon that Pero is from Asturias, but Tovar is an Asturian name and I have a personal connection to the region so it felt right.

I have no idea if barmbrack was a thing in 11th century Europe, the earliest sources are from the 18th century. But it's bread with fruit, seems doable in any age really. If you've never had it, give it a try, it's a very easy recipe and it goes amazing with butter and a cup of tea.

Taglist: @harriedandharassed @inept-the-magnificent @sheepdogchick3  @readingiskeepingmegoing @noisynightmarepoetry @survivingandenduring @vabeachazn @amyispxnk @oberynslady @vabeachazn @amyispxnk @thewiigers  

[vaguesxrrow]

Hello! Love your Edwin works!! Anyways, can I request a Edwin x alive!reader or ghost but they appear to be aloof 24/7 but has a soft spot for him, like it’s a complete opposite personality of them. For example they get flustered when they’re near him or being teased by him etc. It could be HCs or in fic form. Thanks in advance! -🖤

HELLOO loved this req ty sm, here u go xx

edwin / reader - soft spot

a/n: tried my best to not make reader seem mean, just detached but still kind

tags: gender neutral reader, alive reader, aloof reader

- you meet everyone when you move in to jenny's butcher shop

- really, you chose the place because jenny herself seemed about as non-invasive and private as you were - you just wished she'd warned you about her two (four, counting the dead ones) other tenants

- first, you met niko and crystal as they were exiting niko's room, both sipping tea from pink cups

- they were nice and all, but your responses were terse as they tried to break the ice

- niko asked you where you were from, you gave the vague response of "not far from here", and she then started talking about japan before remembering a detail she thought crystal would like

- you took that opportunity to slip into your room and lock the door behind you

- later, crystal and niko would tell edwin and charles about their new neighbour:

- crystal: they seemed... aloof. didn't seem very interested in small talk.

- edwin, of course, found this a bit suspicious and had to investigate

- what he didn't anticipate was you being able to see him as he walked through your wall while you were unpacking

- you startled when he stuck his head in through your wallpaper

- "i'm sorry, are you lost?" you exclaimed. "in what world is it acceptable to just- oh."

- your voice kind of gave way at the end as edwin fully stepped inside, an excuse already on his lips

- your first impression was god, he was cute

- of course, you already knew about ghosts from your near death experience; besides, it was hard not to notice them, as they seemed to walk through things very often without thinking. so you weren't fazed.

- in fact, you were the opposite - you smiled at him and asked his name after introducing yourself, still a bit breathless

- edwin was such a pretty name, you thought

- "so, uh... is this apartment building one of your usual haunts?" you cringed at the pun

- the corners of his mouth quirked upwards, but only briefly. you wondered how he would look laughing

- edwin, on his part, was also rather taken by you

- edwin: i must say, i find myself rather charmed by your unexpected friendliness

- you were nothing like the description crystal and niko had given him, and he would tell you so

- for the first time in your life, you would feel warmth rise to your cheeks

- "same.. i mean, it's nice to have a neighbour as cute as you-" you cut yourself off, even more embarrassed

- imagine edwin cocking his head to the side, eyebrow raised but otherwise silent, which just makes you ramble more to make it less awkward

- "it's just nice to have neighbours in general, and uh, i should really start organising so it isn't such a mess the next time you're over..."

- your rambling benefits you in the end, because edwin excuses himself with the promise he'll definitely be over again - this time arranged in advance

- did you just score yourself a date? who knows.

- as he leaves, he would definitely call you "interesting" and tell you he looks forward to talking in the future

- when he returns to his friends, he would tell them that you seemed completely pleasant and maybe even a bit alluring

- charles would definitely check him over for any signs of a hex, but it becomes apparent to all of them that he really just has a crush on you

- after you meet charles, too, he would definitely tell edwin, "everyone likes me eventually, but when is eventually going to happen with [name]?"

- edwin: they seem perfectly amiable to me. very thoughtful, too

- charles is stunned, because your first meeting consisted of you just staring at him as he explained he was best friends with edwin, leaving him with a "that's nice," and a pointed look as you left

- ofc there are many more moments where crystal, charles, and niko look at you around edwin and think, "what the fuck?"

- eg: after a few months of you living there, and after you've become accustomed to the town, edwin asks for your help on a case as it happens to be related to a library you frequent

- he approaches you together with crystal, niko, and charles

- you agree to helping with a small smile, touched that he trusts you enough

- when you traipse to the library, edwin teasingly asks, "so, is this one of your usual haunts?"

- you choke at the reminder of your tactless first attempt at flirting

- charles, niko, and crystal are a bit speechless at your reaction, to which you half glare at them and say "it's nothing."

- overall, though, everyone thinks it's cute that you're so flustered by edwin. at first, they're really just cheering for edwin to find a healthy relationship, but eventually everyone sees how good you two are for each other

- and you are - edwin sees how, despite your disinterested demeanor, you are a kind person and care about him a lot, your affection going beyond him being the only one to actually make you laugh

- he loves you just as much, by the way, and would be the first to vouch for your character as well as the first to greet you, with a hug and a cheek kiss

[ladykailitha]

Icarus Part 9

Hello and welcome back to this wonderful fic! Like I've said before having a set schedule for each story got hard and I've resorted to posting on vibes alone.

This week's vibes are all over the place because of the pain in my elbow. It's getting better but it's taking every ounce of self-control and self-preservation I have not write as many words a day as I can to make up for lost time and slowly work my way back up to my old schedule so I don't re-injure it.

But as I've said, if you want to see a specific work more often, drop me an ask and I'll see what I can do.

Here we have Eddie being a sweetheart and Steve and his friends being dorks.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

****

NDAs were such a large part of Steve’s life he couldn’t remember a time he didn’t have them. For everything.

Even producers had to sign them before they could even breathe in the direction of The Fallen in the recording studio.

It was an exhausting but necessary part of his life. Just like the locked room in his apartment.

Shane and Spence had done an amazing job with Steve’s little notebook of song material. And shocker, only two of them were love songs. Most of the rest of the songs were about trying to survive in a world you had to hide.

He knew that a lot of critics would tell them to lose the masks if it bothered them so much, but at this point Steve didn’t care. They were working on their third album in three years and he was fucking tired.

“Again, from the top,” the producer said into the com. “Abbadon you got a little pitchy on the second line. Watch it. Astraeus, you’re coming in too early. It’s duh-ba-ba-dun and then you come in. You’re coming in on the first ba.”

Steve and Shane nodded and they began again.

Steve’s brain thought it was going to melt out of his ears. He had a test for his certification after today’s session in the studio and he was sure all the information would have leaked out by then.

But apparently Steve’s brain went on autopilot taking the test, and not only did he pass, he passed with full marks.

Spence clapped Steve shoulder. “Hey, man if this whole rockstar gig ever falls apart, you should come be an EMT with me.”

Steve grinned back. That wasn’t a bad idea actually. With his lifeguard training and his affinity for thinking well under pressure, it really was the ideal job.

“I might just take you up on that.”

They broke up for the day and as Steve was putting away his guitar his phone rang.

“Hey, Eds,” he greeted.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Eddie replied. “How did your test go?”

“I aced it!” Steve said, bouncing on the tips of his toes in excitement.

“What?” Eddie cried. “Baby, that’s so amazing! We’ll definitely go out tonight and celebrate. But that’s not the reason I’m calling.”

“Oh?” Steve asked.

“How far are you guys into the album?” Eddie asked, hesitantly.

Steve frowned for a moment. He looked over at Spence and Hopper. They had all had a really rough session today and it had become almost grueling in a way that the other two albums never felt.

“Not as far as we’d like,” Steve admitted. If anyone knew what they were going through it was Eddie.

“I’m sorry, babe,” Eddie commiserated. “Would it be better to continue at it or take break touring?”

Steve scratched his cheek thoughtfully. It would be nice to actually take time with the album and not push it out as quickly as possible.

“A break for sure,” Steve murmured. “We’re on our third album in three years, and even though we just got back from a tour, it was less exhausting than being in the studio right now.”

Eddie was silent for a moment. “Have you thought about changing the studio you’re working in? Sometimes a change of scenery can help.”

“I guess we could try,” Steve muttered. “I just didn’t think we had that kind of pull with the record label yet. I’ll call Robin later and see what she can do.”

Eddie hummed in agreement. “So the reason I was asking, babe, is that they have given us a choice of two sets of dates. One that would start at the beginning of the new year and one that would start next summer. And since we’re taking you with us, our management is going to coordinate with yours.”

“Oh.”

Steve wasn’t sure which he would prefer, if he was being honest. “Can I talk to my boys and get back to you on that?”

“Sure thing, Stevie,” Eddie said fondly. “You can tell all about what you guys decided when we meet up for drinks tonight, how does that sound?”

Steve let out a little sigh of relief. “Yeah, that sounds great, Eds. Text me the details.”

“You’ve got it!” Eddie said and then they both said their goodbyes and hang up.

More work, Steve thought mournfully. He didn’t want more work. He was tired and miserable and he should have been happy. The record was liking the album so far, they were about to go on tour with the biggest metal band in the world, he was dating Eddie. Why wasn’t he happy?

He put his head in his hands and forced himself to breathe. He knew that a lot of what he was feeling was being forced to wait when he didn’t want to.

That even if he was out as Abbadon, he couldn’t be out with Eddie. Both of their labels would have literal bitch fits. They could be out to their friends, but as far as the media went, that was off limits. Being bisexual or gay was better now, but it could still tank their careers if they came out with actual same sex partners. Steve’s career especially, new as it was.

Steve let out a low shuddering breath. This whole masked identities shit was tough. He didn’t know how those other bands could handle it. Maybe the difference was that their families knew. He honestly didn’t know.

But he had chosen to walk down this road. When they first started playing and getting turned away by how they looked, they chose to not change themselves, but to become someone else. And it worked and he really couldn’t argue with the results.

Steve loved his job. He loved that he got be in a band with his best friends and that his platonic soulmate was their manager. He loved getting out there on stage and singing his heart out. But it was hard sometimes.

He pulled out his phone and called Robin. “Hey, what are the label’s requirement on getting this album done? Like does it have to be at this studio with this producer?”

“One sec,” Robin said, pulling it up on her computer. She scanned the document complete with searching for key words. “Doesn’t look like it. Why? What’s up?”

“You know how we’ve hit a wall in the studio?” Steve asked around chewing on his thumb.

She scoffed. Of course she knew. “And you’re thinking a change of venue might help or at the very least a new producer?”

“Yeah...” Steve said. “Eddie suggested it, but I wasn’t sure if we had that kind of clout with the record label.”

Robin was quiet on the line, but Steve could feel the cogs in her head turn. “I’ll get on it.”

“Thanks,” he said, breathing out a sigh of relief. “Did Eddie’s label send over the tour dates?”

“Let’s see...” she hummed. “Yup! I’m reading through them... and I’m guessing you to talk with everyone before making a final decision?”

“Right in one,” Steve said. “Preferably with whether or not we get someone else in to produce.”

“You’ve got it, babe,” she said. “Does this have a deadline?”

“Eddie said he would like to know by tonight,” he said, “but I can tell him we’re still working things out and that’s we’ll get back to him.”

“That would be ideal, yes.”

Steve huffed out a laugh. “I’ll still talk to the boys and at least get a feel for what they’re thinking even if we can’t shift producers or studio.”

“Sounds good,” Robin said. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I learn anything.”

He hung up and pulled up the group chat and messaged his friends to meet at his place. He had stuff he wanted to talk with them regarding upcoming tour dates.

Simon and Shane texted back immediately. Spence had left them on read for about fifteen minutes before responding with a question about how long they would be.

And then the ribbing began.

-Oohh...you with that girl?- Shane

-He totally is!!- Simon

-Pics or it didn’t happen- Steve

-Pics!- Simon

-Yeah, man, is she cute?- Shane

-Why do you care, Shane? You’re gay- Spence

-Because like a flower I can appreciate the feminine form, even if I don’t want to fuck it- Shane

Pic comes in of Spence on his couch with a gorgeous dark-skinned woman with soulful eyes and long black hair.

-Meet Nadia

-Lucky guy!- Simon

-That’s quite the flower :P- Shane

-Yeahhh...I’m sorry, man, as much as I would like to let you stay with your lady love, we really need to talk. Business. :(

-I love my job. I love my job. I love my job. I love my job. -Spence

-lol! You keep telling yourself that and maybe one day I’ll believe you- Shane

-GASP! Spence doesn’t love us! :’(- Simon

-Damn it. Fine I love you all- Spence

-Simon uses sad emoji against Spence, it’s super effective! (pokeball emoji)- Steve

-Meet at my place as soon as you can- Steve

There was the usual chorus of affirmative responses and Steve set down his phone.

He looked up at the ceiling as he huffed out a sigh. His friends were on the way, Robin was trying to fix the problem with them hitting a brick wall making their album, and Eddie was supportive.

It helped that Spence was dating now, too. They could commiserate about their love lives.

Simon hated that while he could get girls as Asmodeus but not as himself he swore off dating until he found someone who liked him for him and not just because he was a rock god.

Shane just liked having fun. Wherever that took him. Usually gay bars with lots of booze and dancing.

They weren’t “rich and famous” enough for the wild parties and shit. At least not yet. They were getting a lot traction with their second major album though so that was probably going to change fast.

Steve just glad that he would have Eddie and Robin holding his hand though this.

He looked over at the contract on his table and sighed. Like Spence, he really did love his job. And he knew that there were hundreds of bands wishing to be in his shoes.

He could do this.

He was, after all Abbadon, lead singer of The Fallen and he knew how to do this shit.

****

Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21

Tag List:

@mira-jadeamethyst @rozzieroos @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @emly03

@spectrum-spectre @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie

@chaosgremlinmunson @messrs-weasley @danili666 @chaoticlovingdreamer @maya-custodios-dionach

@val-from-lawrence @goodolefashionedloverboi @i-must-potato @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

@justforthedead89 @vecnuthy @irregular-child @yikes-a-bee @bookbinderbitch

@bookworm0690 @anne-bennett-cosplayer @awkwardgravity1 @littlewildflowerkitten @genderless-spoon

@cinnamon-mushroomabomination @y4r3luv @dragonmama76 @scheodingers-muppet @ellietheasexylibrarian

@thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman @eyehartart @dawners

@thespaceantwhowrites @tinyplanet95 @iamthehybrid @croatoan-like-its-hot @papergrenade

@cryptid-system @counting-dollars-counting-stars

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Unmanageable 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Pete Brenner

Summary: your manager sets his eye on your (plus!reader)

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You’re often the first one in office and unfortunately, the last one gone. That day is no different as you let yourself in through the back door of the bank and lock it behind you. You arrive at least an hour before opening to run diagnostics. Marska or her equivalent, Taylor, often cut it close to the starting time. You don’t mind so much as long as they’re not late.

The silence is soothing where to many it may be eerie. You leave your office door open as a scan runs on your screen. You blow over the open slot of your thermos and groan. You were up a bit too late playing Eldenring. The Godskin Duo gave you quite the headache.

The connection, despite being wired in, seems slower than usual. The last week or so, cell service has also been limited. In Hammer Ford, it isn’t entirely surprising. Sometimes it feels like the world forgets the backwoods village.

You yawn and take a cautious sip of hot coffee. You nearly choke as your eyes are drawn above the monitor by a blurred shape. You pull your mouth off the lid of the cup as Pete leans against the doorway, slightly bedraggled as his floppy hair droops down one side of his forehead and his eyes are ringed with sleep.

“Hey,” his voice is gritty and low, “you’re here early.”

“Same time every day.”

You note that he’s wearing the same jacket as the day before. You can’t see the rest of him past your computer but his tie is gone and his shirt is wrinkled and unbuttoned. You should be concerned but you’re just not. Whatever problems he has, you can’t imagine they’re not self-made.

“I smelled coffee,” he grumbles and scratches the side of his nose.

You put your thermos down softly, hiding it out of his view. You’re not sharing.

“Guess…” He leans back and looks into the bank, “I could make a pot… Marska usually puts one on… her coffee tastes better than mine.” He checks his watch, “how long till she gets in?”

You blink at him. Shouldn’t he know? He’s the manager. Your job is the computers, not scheduling. You look at him and shrug.

“Mm,” he turns back to you, “guess I’ll give it a try.”

His reluctance is clear as he sluggishly pushes away from the frame and drags his feet away from your office door. You have the urge to get up and shut your door but even you know that’s a bit much. His soles scuff as he barely lifts his feet and you listen to him grumble and sigh.

He clanks around loudly with the old machine. You’re always sure to bring your own. They only ever have the cheap brand in the office and when you brought your own, others drained the pot before you got any. This place is miserable. You wonder if they need a technician down at the library.

The shatter of glass breaks the morning lull completely. So much for a slow start. You hear Pete groaning from the next room. You don’t have to go out there, you don’t have to…

Damn it.

You get up and find him standing over the broken urn, only the plastic handle still intact. He hangs his head and grips his hips, pouting over the disaster. You cross your arms as you approach.

“I’m a mess,” he pushes his hair back as he shifts to look at you. “Sleeping in my office, wearing yesterday’s clothes,” he drops his hand emphatically and puffs out through his lips, “now this.”

“Did you cut yourself?” You ask, scanning his hands for blood.

He shakes his head, “no, I didn’t, just… I’m not doing well.”

“Right,” you stare at him flatly, “well, just broken glass. Nothing that can be cleaned up.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” he says, “thank you.”

Then he walks away. Walks. Away. Leaving you in front of the scatter of glass shards. You watch him go incredulously. Does he really expect you to clean up his mess? As he enters his office, you’re assured that he very much does.

You close your eyes and take a breath. Technically, he is your boss. Well, truly, he is a man child.

You go to get the broom and pan and sweep up the glass. Not for him, for practicality. No one else should have to cut themselves for his clumsiness. You dump the glass in a box and put that in the bin. You’ll leave it to him to add the replacement to the supplies sheet.

Marska arrives as you put away the broom. Before she even slips her purse off her arm, she struts to the machine, not acknowledging you until she finds the burner empty. She tuts and faces you, blocking your path back to your office. Your safe haven.

“What happened?”

“Pot broke,” you answer bluntly.

“You broke it?”

“No,” you say.

She scoffs, “no? Well, what happened?”

You point to Pete’s office and shrug, shouldering past her without further argument. She sighs and clicks her heels towards the front desk. Her agitated mutters drone on as you enter your office and rub your forehead.

“Hey Mar,” Pete greets the teller buoyantly, “that’s a nice skirt.”

Absolutely no shame.

“Pete,” she purrs back, “what happened to the coffee maker, baby?”

They’re not as subtle or quiet as they think.

“Mm, yeah, accident,” he says, “you know what time that bakery opens? They do good coffee. You could run over, it’s never busy at open.”

“Pete, it’s always busy at open. That’s when all the old ones do their banking,” she rebuffs.

“Oh…” he sniffs, “I’m sorry, baby. Late night, I…” he pauses, “she knows.”

“What?” Marska’s voice cracks.

“I don’t know how she found out…” his voice trails off, “we should talk in my office.”

“Whatever, the other won’t care. I don’t even know if she understands me half the time,” Marska sneers, “you sure she knows what she’s doing? These fucking computers are slow as hell.”

“Mar,” Pete warns, “let’s go…”

“Well, I don’t have much time or any coffee, so make it quick,” she snaps and her heels tap across the floor.

You roll your eyes and close your own door. You don’t envy the mess they’ve made of their lives and you assume it won’t be long before Marska’s husband knows about it. What do you care? You don’t waste your time on all that. You’d rather get to the Erdtree.

[viridianevergarden]

The Comforts of the Night

A/N: So I haven’t written anything serious in like 2 years but my elriel hunger is unfathomably ravenous so I decided to take a crack at it. This little fic focuses more on Azriel and is told from his POV. It’s a what if scenario that I hadn’t really bothered to specify precisely when in the story this would ever take place so 💀 Enjoy, I hope.

Word count: 3.5K

Ship: Elriel

Key: light fluff, angst

Possible triggers: Elements of poor self loathing/esteem, light mentions of blood and suggestive things.

• • •

It had been a long day for Azriel, so unbearably long. Such was commonplace for him, however, as being the Night Court's Spymaster unyieldingly commanded the workload.

His muscles had ached from stress nearly all day, though he effortlessly paid no heed, not until now. A part of him had wondered how, after centuries of the same work, his body hadn't become adapted to it. He couldn't deny that he worked more nowadays than he had ever done, especially with the threat of the incoming war growing ever closer.

Work had been unforgiving for a long while. The requirement of always leaving Velaris to go to war camps, courts, or even the continent had always been something Azriel loathed and wished he never had to do. Yet now, for a time, he had returned home to Velaris. As for how long he would stay, he had no idea. Orders alone had determined that factor and even those were ever changing.

The wind's chill nipped at Azriel's wings as he flew across the clear starry sky, peering down at the warm lights that littered Velaris' buildings and streets. Fewer people were out and about at this hour, and yet the city looked as lively as it did in the day. Perhaps some were going home after a fun night at a local bar, or others were merely enjoying the ever-beautiful scenery on a late-night walk. If only he had the free time to do so as well, he'd thought.

After circling the proximity of Velaris once over, he banked into the direction of the Townhouse. He would sleep there only for the night and leave again come dawn. As of late, Azriel had avoided staying at the Townhouse, at least for longer periods. But to his dismay, sleep softly called out to him, just as his shadows so often would.

From overhead, Azriel could see the Townhouse's gardens as he approached, making note of the newly planted flowers and sprouts that rimmed the tall hedges within.

It had been over a week since he was last in Velaris. Being here now, seeing the progress that had been made, he couldn't help but let his mind wonder about the one who tended to the gardens itself. He wondered about how she was doing, what else she was up to, and if she was doing alright.

His eyes continued to scan the gardens until they locked onto a pale mass of lilac, golden brown, and cream sitting upon one of the stone benches. The Shadowsinger knew exactly who it was. It was as if his thoughts of her had miraculously willed her into existence. The very girl that had constantly plagued his mind, plagued his mind just then.

But why was Elain in the gardens alone in the dead of night? On a chilly one no less? He had known Elain to be one to stay up late on occasion but being alone in the gardens at this hour was new.

Thoughts of what to do flit through his mind, contemplating whether to bank now and go inside before she noticed him or to see her— To talk to her and revel in the moment, to see if she is okay.

Desire wrestled with the fiends in his head, the ones that told him he shouldn’t. That told him he should go inside and sleep. To forget what he saw and stay away. That there was no need for someone like him to speak to someone like her.

Although it seemed that his mental war was all for naught. Quiet as his large wings were on the wind, it seemed as if Elain could still hear him coming from miles away. Like she had already known he was coming.

Her beautiful face turned upward in his direction, brown eyes wide in recognition. It was too late to turn away now. The female remained in her place, daring not to move as Azriel had landed a short distance away on soft feet. He flared his wings once before folding them in and tucking them closed.

They stared at one another before Elain bit her lip and spoke, “You’re back.”

Her voice was quiet and soft, and Azriel took a moment to just… Listen. His shadows had pooled to his feet at the sweet sound. Like they were in need of retreat.

He swiftly ducked his head to nod, “I am.” It wasn’t enough of an answer, not for her. “For now. I’ll be leaving again at dawn.”

“Oh… I see.” Elain’s eyes darted away from him as her hopeful expression faltered. “You must be tired, so I’ll–” Azriel shook his head.

She looked him up and down in worry, searching his eyes for some form of an answer.

“I’m fine.” He angled his head toward the flower sprouts across from them. “They’re coming along nicely.” A smile twitched onto Elain’s lips, and Azriel had known then that she was well aware of the subject change.

“I planted them a few days ago.” Right after he left if he had to guess. “They’re moonflower sprouts. They bloom after dusk until dawn.”

Azriel offered her a gentle smile, recalling that they were indeed one of the flowers that she had spoken about a time before. He could remember as much with little effort.

“Sit with me?” The sudden request made Azriel’s brows twitch in confusion. Elain stammered, “If it’s no trouble, I don’t mind the company.”

Azriel shouldn’t— Shouldn’t— but he couldn’t say no, not to her offer. Not to her. He stepped closer as she scooted down the bench a little, allowing him space to sit and move his wings to get comfortable, or at least as comfortable as anyone could get on a stone bench.

Being so close, the scent— Her scent of honey and jasmine was near enough to leave him intoxicated. His heart thrummed and he only hoped that she couldn’t hear it.

“Why are you outside this late?” The words slipped from Azriel’s lips faster than he could contemplate them.

Elain fumbled with the fabric of her lilac sleeping gown like she was thinking of what to say. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I would come out here for a bit to get some fresh air.” A partial lie. He knew that much, and judging by her expression, she knew that he was aware.

Was Elain like him too? Did she have endless voices in her head? Were they the ones responsible for keeping her awake at night like they did him?

Azriel blinked, his hazel eyes sliding down Elain’s form. Just in her gown, no shoes or socks, no coat. Long, wavy, golden-brown locks draped over an exposed shoulder, over her creamy skin— “It’s cool out, you should have grabbed a jacket.”

Elain’s cheeks flushed at the realization as she quickly averted her gaze from him once again, taking interest in the moon-bathed pavement. “I didn’t think it would get this cold…”

The male took a moment to think, to think over his immediate thoughts, and determine what to do. Anything to avoid messing this up. But if she was cold—

“I’ll be alright, please don’t worry.” She had known, caught on too quickly. Elain had read him all too well. She always did, he realized.

Moonlit doe eyes stared back at him once more. Doe eyes… How beautiful they were. And her bright reassuring smile— it was more than enough to make him weak in the knees, bright enough to put even his shadows at bay.

Azriel’s lips parted in an urge before they quickly shut again, quickly willing himself to speak. “At least let me keep you from freezing.” He could provide that much at the very least, if she let him.

Before Elain could speak, the Shadowsinger slowly extended his wing behind her back, though careful not to touch her and not to disturb the blue hydrangeas behind them.

An offer.

She sucked in a breath that sent shivers down his spine and glanced back at the sight. She then slid closer to him, just a few inches. Close enough that their thighs nearly touched. That large wing gently— carefully— ever so slowly curled around her far shoulder, as if he thought that any careless movement could harm her.

His wings alone were not incredibly warm but they did help to retain some semblance of body heat in times of need. At the very least, they could protect from the wind.

“Thank you.” Sweet. Her voice was too sweet. Like a song. Azriel dipped his chin in response, not knowing how to respond properly.

“Your wings,” Elain paused for a moment, focused entirely on the one resting against her back and curled around her side. “Do they get cold too?”

A laugh nearly instantly slipped from Azriel’s lips. A low and quiet chuckle. “Sometimes. The cold’s bite can be relentless.”

Perhaps it was due to his laugh or some other thing, but Elain’s shoulders loosened in ease. A smile bloomed back onto her face as she peered up at him. “It was a silly question, I apologize. I’m just curious.”

“Curiosity is harmless. Never apologize for it.” The male smiled back at Elain. “If you have questions, you may ask freely.”

“Even if my questions are frivolous?” Elain joked with a small giggle, raising a curled finger to her lips.

Azriel’s warm gaze softened at the lovely sound— her laugh. “Even if your questions are frivolous.” A silly reassurance, but a reassurance nonetheless.

Elain hummed as she stared up at Azriel, that smile never faltering. The shadowsinger was the first to break eye contact, fearing that if he looked at her too long, he might do something foolish. That he might fall victim to his desires more than he already had this night. He looked up at the stars instead, for any manner of distraction. It was nearing an hour past midnight, judging by the moon’s positioning.

“If I may be so selfish to ask,” Elain’s voice called his eyes back down to her. “Could we stay here for a while longer?” Her tone was laced with meek hope. Azriel tilted his head in inclination, wondering why.

Elain clenched her fists and her lips trembled. She was searching for an excuse, anything not to seem impolite or desperate, it seemed. Before she could speak, Azriel had beat her to it.

“Yes,” He took a breath, “Of course we can.” Elain’s hands unclenched after hearing his confirmation, seemingly relieved by it.

They sat together in a comfortable silence for a while, merely enjoying each other’s company and the scenery that surrounded them. The silence was nothing new between them and it had never been awkward before but tonight, oh this night felt… Different. Here they sat, where only the stars might witness them, while all of Velaris slept.

Sleep. The shadows whispered into his ears. The girl wants to sleep.

Azriel turned his head to peer down at Elain, right in time to witness her dozing figure lean against his arm. He assumed it was hardly comfortable, given that he was wearing his Illyrian leathers, but…

He stared, stared at her. At the way the loose strands of her hair framed her face. At her long lashes and perfect nose. Her soft lips. Her lips—

Sleep. His shadows continued to beckon. Sleep.

Azriel knocked himself out of his trance, a small frown forming on his face.

He didn’t want to disturb her rest but it was getting cooler by the minute and this was no place to sleep safely.

“Elain…” His voice was barely louder than the soft breeze. But her name— Her name rolling off his lips—

Elain merely gave him a barely audible broken hum. She was falling into a deeper sleep by the second.

“We should get you inside.” He received no response and hadn’t expected one.

Azriel sat there for a moment to consider what he should do. He then loosed a quiet sigh and moved to pick Elain up. Carefully, ever so carefully did he crane one arm underneath her legs and the other to support her back. The sudden absence of his wing had caused her to cling to him, to any semblance of warmth she could find against the frigid air.

Her head rested against the black scales of his leathers as the male started for the doors that led back inside from the gardens. Silently, the doors opened for Azriel, by the work of his shadows no less. He passed the threshold and the doors closed, then he began his ascent upon the foyer steps.

The trip to Elain’s room was short and uneventful, thank the Cauldron. If anyone had seen— There would be no excuses to be made, no believable farce to cover how they had looked in the moment. And more importantly, to disturb Elain’s peaceful rest, Azriel wouldn’t be able to forgive himself for it.

His shadows had willed her bedroom door open, and Azriel nudged it further with his foot before heading inside. Hazel eyes scanned the view before them, taking in all the details of the room.

Perhaps it was due to his habit as a Spymaster to do so, to analyze every little thing in sight. Not that Azriel hadn’t long since memorized the entire layout of the townhouse, including the placements of any weapons within, but this room— this room was uncharted territory. He’d kept true about Elain’s right to privacy after all.

Elain’s room was clean and tidy, and had smelled so strongly of her— The old vanity desk in the far left corner was littered with stacks of books, he’d guessed, that covered the arts of gardening and botany. Several seed pouches lay scattered about, each labeled with names of different flora.

On the opposite side of the room was the massive canopy bed, centered against the wall. The bed itself was big enough to accommodate Illyrian wings. Such a thing had been the standard for every bedroom in the townhouse, but Azriel could only imagine how much better the extra space was for those without wings.

The rich wood end tables that flanked the bedsides had been adorned with smaller potted plants. Each were with little budding flowers in hues of pinks and blues, although they were closed for the night.

The ivory covers of the bed itself were a mess, and Azriel had guessed that she indeed must have tried to sleep before getting up— just as she had said before.

Azriel moved through the room and gently laid Elain down in her bed, pulling off the strands of hair that had snagged onto his leathers. Elain had hardly stirred during any of it, to his favor.

Scarred hands pulled the soft covers up to Elain’s shoulders and all the male could do was halt. He couldn’t help but stare. She had looked so… So peaceful. Beautiful. Even bathed in the silver moonlight that the bay windows had offered, she still glowed like the light of the sun at dawn.

He wondered, how could anyone not fall to their knees before her? How could they even think to hurt someone such as her? Someone so warm and sweet— Endlessly giving and full of light— So gentle and yet so strong—

The Shadowsinger thoughtlessly leaned down to take in her features, bracing his hand on the bedside to keep himself balanced. Elain remained ever so still, breathing slow and soft.

Oh, how he yearned to be able to hold her in his gentle embrace. Yearned to make her smile and laugh. Yearned to lay with her in warmth and comfort. Yearned to place his hand on her cheek and lift her chin the way he wanted, to lean down and press his lips against hers—

Azriel’s other hand had lifted, he’d realized, frozen merely centimeters from touching Elain’s soft cheek. His hand— Hideous splotched scars had consumed his vision, and plagued his mind like the terrible fiends did. Calloused and burned hideousness covered in the blood of many. A hand that did nothing but kill, maim, and hurt. One undeserving of anything such as this.

His hand quickly jerked away from Elain’s cheek and formed a fist back at his side, as if his own ugliness would singe her perfect face, her beauty. As if his ugliness would cast a shadow over her light and snuff it out for good.

Azriel stumbled back three steps, releasing a series of shaky breaths. His heart rushed and ached more than anything he had ever felt. Sickness fell to the pit of his stomach.

Leave. He needed to leave.

His wings tucked closer to his body as he turned, quickly and quietly making way for the door.

Stay. His heart pleaded. Please stay.

No.

No— He couldn’t— He shouldn’t—

Shouldn’t— shouldn’t— shouldn’t—

He didn’t deserve her. Didn’t deserve this.

No one could ever hope to deserve someone as perfect as Elain. Not even himself. No matter how much he felt for her. No matter how much his heart had stirred as heavily as the crash of raging tides. No matter how much his heart yearned for her love, her light, for anything at all.

Elain was not his to love. She was a mated female after all. One who was forcibly shackled to that wretched mating bond like a beast locked in a cage. But even then, oh then, she was not his. Never his.

Azriel silently closed the bedroom door and hastened down the hall, desperately needing some form of space. Of air. Anything to calm his raging and hurting heart.

He quickly reached his room on the opposite side of the house and retreated inside without a thought. Azriel couldn’t even bear to look at his hands, the horrid sight they were. How could he? How could he when he had been so close to tainting her flesh?

Fool.

A fucking fool.

He shouldn’t have been so stupid as to linger. To let himself go astray and even attempt to touch Elain. Especially when she was sleeping, when she was at her most vulnerable— Wrong, it was all so wrong. He should have just left her to sleep in peace the moment he tucked her in.

The Shadowsinger sauntered over to his wardrobe and slowly stripped the leathers from his body, unbuckling the countless amounts of leather belts and undoing all of the strings and buttons. One by one, each article was removed and tossed onto an empty table nearby.

This room seemed empty compared to Elain’s. Lifeless. Most of his things had been moved to the House of Wind, they had been for a while now. So this room was no more than a ghost of what it once was, but even so, it served its purpose well enough.

Leaving none but two siphoned gloves on his hands to rest, Azriel grabbed a set of night pants and slipped them on. He then walked over to his bed and laid atop the fixed covers, facing toward his window to view the sky. Near instantly did the pains of the day’s stressors set back in. He’d forgotten all about them when he was with Elain, he realized. That, and his exhaustion too.

Time always flew when he was by her side. All of his pains and worries seemed to go away in her presence. Everything felt so right when he was with her. But it was wrong. Still, it was wrong. So then why? Why was Elain forced with another? Why, when she felt so right with him instead?

Why were his beloved brothers, Cassian and Rhysand, blessed by the Mother? The Cauldron? With something so lovely, so sacred as love itself? As a bond— Something so few could ever hope to have, that many dreamt about, but Azriel was left alone?

Was he truly so horrible, so unlovable and undeserving that not even the gods could give him that blessing? Did Fate itself really hate him as much?

Azriel couldn’t understand, even when he tried so hard to steel his mind to the pain and misunderstanding. When he tried so hard to make himself think that maybe it’s just not meant to be, and that it was okay.

Happy as he was for his brothers, he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t prevent the pain and envy that so viciously ripped and tore and clawed at his heart like some ravaged beast. Like an unforgiving fiend.

Perhaps he had no right to love and be loved in return.

Perhaps he had no right to experience something as sacred as a mating bond. Not with anyone.

Perhaps Elain had never even begun to see him in the light that he saw her.

Azriel’s eyelids grew heavy and he could no longer fight the ever growing fatigue. His view of the moon outside had begun to fade to black.

Elain…

Her smile alone was the last thought that his clouded mind could muster before the darkness took him, just as it always had, body and soul. Just as he knew it always would.

[sugarpsalms]

Made-up fic title:

To hold a god is to make him pray.

Hung onto this one for a bit because I wanted to think on it, and I've decided this has mildly uncomfy trust exercise vibes. It's another one of my favorite team building devices, pretty much tied with 'reluctant buddy mission'. Since I did Law & Doffy for that, let's do Rosi & Doffy for this.

I've been thinking about how fun it'd be to revisit the idea of Rosi being wired ever since the first installment of No Loyalty. Not in a 'for real' way, but in a 'testing Doffy's faith' way. This is kind of the perfect vibe for it, so! Let's go under a cut!

—

The timeline is vague, but it'd have to be far enough along in Rosi's mission that Doffy no longer really suspects anything. He's got to be comfortable enough that the idea of Rosi spying is out of mind, because that makes it feasible that Rosi could get away with it if he wanted.

So, Rosi shows up. Doffy knows he's coming and plans to meet him at the dock bar, which Rosi agrees to—provided Doffy waits for Rosi to approach him. This sounds like an odd request, but whatever. Doflamingo isn't all that worried about who does what.

He heads out around when Rosi should be debarking, taking his time on the walk. When he gets there, Rosi is already inside. Only, he's not alone. He's having a drink with someone else in Marine uniform, and suddenly it makes sense, why Doffy needs to wait.

He goes to the bar, gets his own drink, and nurses it by himself, listening in as best he can. He can't make out what they're saying, but the chat sounds friendly. They seem to get along, and Doffy can't help but wonder what the nature of their relationship is.

Eventually, the meeting ends. Rosi and the other Marine get up, say goodbye, and the stranger leaves. Rosi comes to Doffy, who spins his stool around and goes to say something, but Rosi stops him, clapping a hand over his mouth.

Confused, Doflamingo tries mumbling through his fingers, but Rosi shakes his head and shushes him. Before Doflamingo can get annoyed, Rosi uses his free hand to gesture to his chest. He draws a line from his collar to his hip and mouths that he's wired.

Doflamingo goes stiff. He hadn't had so much as a passing thought about Rosi being wired in over a year. What was he wearing one now for? Was he recording the person who just left? Why? Who authorized it? Did Rosi do this often?

Before he can spiral too deeply, Rosi mouths 'follow me', leaving the bar and making for the hall. Doflamingo goes after him, feeling uneasy when Rosi slips into the bathroom. Still, he follows and locks the door behind them.

Then, as if this is routine, Rosi takes his coat and shirt off. And Doflamingo sees it: the thin wire coiled all around him, the mic nestled in the hollow of his collar bone, and the tiny transponder it's attached to snug against his hip.

Rosi lets him take it in, then waves for his attention. When he has it, he mouths 'I'm disconnecting it.' Which he does, methodically; rather more, Doflamingo thinks, than he probably would've if he was alone.

Rosi makes a show of popping the mic off and crushing it; stripping out of the wire; snapping the wire off of the transponder at the base. He even slips the snail out of his wasitband and passes it to Doffy.

"I'll need it back," Rosi says as Doflamingo rolls the thing in his hand, checking to see if it's really dozing. "It's evidence."

Doflamingo hesitates. "Of what?"

"Nothing you need to worry about. Give it back, please."

Doflamingo holds onto the snail a bit longer, unsure if he should. The accessories are broken, yes, but it could still record. Even if the quality would be poor...

He looks from the sleepy snail to Rosi's bare chest, to the broken mic and wire.

He's being ridiculous.

Rosi didn't have to do this, he reassures himself. Doflamingo wouldn't have suspected—no, best not to think of it like that.

Doffy didn't have to suspect him. That was better; that felt nicer. Rosi is open. Rosi can be trusted.

He gives the snail back.

[hogans-heroes]

can i ask about the learning curve wip? maybe get a snippet? 😊

Of course! My most beloved wip rn, my chaptered Alex pov. I made a descriptive post about it here and posted a snippet here! (with mini visuals). But I'll give you another longer snippit because I love you and your writing! (Also, as much as I love this fic I've been getting stuck with it lately so am writing other stuff atm. Will get back to it very soon).

Alex’s dad was a psychologist, and boy would he have a field day at Stalag Luft III.

He could practically hear his father’s voice in his head as he watched the guys mill around the camp compound, narrating their actions and picking them apart to gently expose what was inside, for their own good, to study them like wild creatures who in extreme circumstances often reverted back to cavemen, to more raw forms of behavior.

He can’t use his words, his dad would say. Because at some point he tried and tried and tried, and they never worked. “To hell with this,” the brain says, “we’re gonna go back to the basics,” and that’s usually physical expression.

There’s really only two core emotions at the heart of a human. If you keep peeling at the bottom of every action and reaction, every visible emotion, you’ll find either love, or fear. And they’re usually connected. That’s all humans are really made of.

So his dad might have gotten a little philosophical too. At least it gave Alex more thoughts to keep himself busy and not go crazy locked up. It was fun in a way, collecting bits of information and arranging them like a child would blocks. That Bachelor of Science degree in Chemistry and Biology he had earned before the war wouldn’t do him much good if it didn’t at least help keep him alive for the duration. The camp was only a new study he could apply the scientific method to.

So far it had been going well, and every piece fit together in its place. The one thing Alex could not grasp however, that was driving him crazy, was the two majors from the 100th.

Egan and Cleven? Buck and Bucky? John and Gale? Alex wasn't sure what combination of names he should be using or even who was who most of the time, but the names always went together. Not a single person Alex had encountered had ever used the names separately. The way prisoners talked about them, anyone would have thought they were some dual-soul deity the stalag had built a religion around, yet since Alex had been assigned to their barrack room all his careful study of them had only resulted with a handful of pieces that didn’t fit together. Major Gale Cleven “Call me Buck,” with eyes that could pierce your soul like an x-ray and “just” John Egan. Buck, whose impossible gentleness was at odds with his rock-wall presence at the front of his men, and Egan, who treated Alex like a disease though it didn’t seem to be for the usual reasons, he treated everyone that way, walked around with volcanic ash trailing from cracks that Alex wondered if only he could see. What pieces Alex had gathered of the two of them wasn’t the same as what he was hearing from the 100th. The supposed yin-and-yang duo vacillated like a metronome between hostile and devoted and it drove Alex insane.

Pain shot up his leg and he caught himself on Daniels’ outstretched arm, jerking him back to his body moving one foot in front of the other and two comrades beside him, having lost count how many times they had circumnavigated the camp. They were passing their own hut again and this time Buck was sitting on the steps with his nose in a book, his messy hair fallen over his forehead and long fingers clenching the worn cover with more force necessary for a book on native plants of Ireland (Alex had read it the week before). He remained laser focused on the page with a furrow in his brow, scars on his cheeks contrasting sharply with the soft angles of his face, and Alex jumped when Macon knocked him on the arm. 

“Pay attention man,” Macon quipped. “We’re still on for our escape, the last thing we need is for you to adopt some sad-eyed White boy.”

Alex wasn’t sure if he should be insulted, but frowned anyway. “Buck’s my friend,” he retorted. 

“Oh it’s Buck now? That’s a fuckin’ major, man. A squadron commander with more flight hours than actual goddamn birds and you’re calling that Buck?”

“Just don't get too attached,” Daniels interjected. “The less people we trust here the better.”

The image of Buck sitting in the library with his chin on his knees, gentle blue eyes giving undivided attention as Alex explained some fighter plane or science subject made his stomach twist at the suggestion of not trusting him, or even worse, leaving him behind. Alex had spent most of his life being teased for being too soft, too kind, too trusting. He’d gotten himself in a bad spot several times because of that too, so he probably should be more careful, but sue him, he was tired and aching inside and Buck had actually listened. 

[iguana-eyanna]

Hey love your fanfics. I was wondering if you could write a potato x reader fanfic he asks the reader to be his girl and gives her his jacket and it’s all cute please ?

T🪽Birds request: My Sister and My Best Friend?!

a/n: I recently been watching Friends and I knew the PERFECT episode that would fit this fic!

Being Gil's younger sister was a blessing and a curse. The blessing was no one dared to mess with a Rizzo. The bad news was, every boy was scared to ask you out.

Born a year apart, you two were very close. Gil was very overprotective of all of his sisters, but now that you were in the same high school as him surrounded by possible boyfriends, all that Gil could see was red.

He even strictly told his friends that none of them should even bat an eyelash at you. They've respected Gil's wishes of course, but one friend just couldn't control what he felt for you.

And that would be Potato.

There was no denying that there was chemistry between you two. He tried to think that you two were nothing but good friends... chumps... associates.

But he can't say that now as you two were in your room, sitting by your bed as you two were making out.

"We - need - to - stop - this." Potato said between kisses.

"A - greed." you replied between your kisses, but you couldn't help it. Your kisses became more passionate and filled with fire.

You were able to softly push him away as both of you needed air.

"This is much better than making out in the janitor's closet." You remarked.

Potato chuckled as he combs his messy gelled hair back.

"Yeah that room had no light whatsoever, and now I could see more of your beautiful face." He whispered as he pulled you closer. You smiled as you two began to kiss more until -

"Sis! I'm home!" Gil said out loud.

You and Potato freeze as you look at your closed door that was locked.

"I thought you said no one would be home tonight!" Potato whispered.

"And you told me that Gil would be fixing his car!" You said, as Gil often stayed at the auto shop after hours.

"So we're both wrong!" Potato whispered screamed.

"Sis?" Gil asked again as you could hear his footsteps come closer to your room.

"Hide!" You said, pushing Potato down as he rolled under your bed.

You got up and slightly opened your door so Gil won't be too suspicious that you had your door locked.

"Hey Gil, what's up bro?" You said a bit too quickly.

Gil quirks an eyebrow as he looks at you.

"The gang is downstairs eating a pizza. You're welcome to join us but you're just going to snitch on me, are you?"

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms.

"I'm not going to snitch on you, I have secrets of my own too, you know." You lightly tease.

"Pshhh, yeah right Mother Mary. You're quite the risk taker."

Gill looks at you and sees how your hair was kinda a mess and your wearing lipstick that was slightly smudged.

"Why you look like that?" Gil asks.

"It's a... new look! All the rage in France!" You tried convincing him. He knits his eyebrows more and pushes your door opened as he looks in your room.

"You can't barge in like this!" You screamed at Gil.

"Who's in here?" He asks, searching your closet.

"No one, Gil! Get out!" You screamed out.

"I am no leaving this room until I know what's going on!"

"Achoo!" Potato sneezed under the bed.

"Bless you!" Gil screamed back, still scrimmaging in your closet.

Gil immediately stopped as he realized that wasn't you that sneezed.

Looking almost murderous, he turns around and kneels down by your bed, grabbing an arm and sees that he pulled out his friend.

"WHAT. ARE. YOU. DOING. HERE?!" Gil yelled out.

"Uhhhhhh, looking for dust bunnies?" Potato replied nervously.

Gil was about to punch him until you tried pulling back his arm.

"Let go of him, Gil!" You said.

Suddenly, you hear a bunch of feet coming at the door and the gang sees you trying to separate the two.

"A little help?!" you yelled at Gil's friends.

Richie and Shy Guy hold back Gil, but they could tell his sheer goal to strangle Potato.

"I can't believe it! My sister and my best friend?!" Gil screamed out loud.

"Look, Gil, I know this kinda looks bad -"

"Kinda?"

"But it's not like that!" Potato defended.

You stand with Potato as you held his hand.

"We're not fooling around, Gil. I really like him. He treats me like a princess, don't you want my boyfriend to be a gentleman?" You ask.

"I'm your boyfriend?" Potato asks.

"Of course you are." You reassured him as you gave him a loving look, wrapping your arms around his waist.

"Hey, I'm still here!" Gil caught your guys' attention.

You look at your brother who had his hands on his waist, looking down at the ground and then back at you.

"You promise to treat her right?" Gil asks Potato.

"I will." Potato replied.

Gil smiled and gave Potato a hug.

"If you break her heart, I'll throw you in the meat grinder." Gil whispered for only Potato to hear.

"Duly noted." Potato replied before the two friends let go.

Gil goes up to you, realizing you're not a little kid anymore. You were a young woman, and he was proud that you stood up to him.

"You're still my sis, and I'll always be over protective of you."

"I know, thanks for having my back." You said, knowing Gil always had your best interest at heart.

"Finally, now everyone knows." Cynthia said with relief.

Gil looks up, confused.

"Wait, how many of you guys knew about them?"

Everyone tensed up and started making excuses to go downstairs. Olivia goes up to Gil.

"C'mon, let's leave these two alone for a bit." She pulled him away before he could protest.

"Man, that went better than expected." Potato said, feeling like he can finally breathe now.

"I'm surprised there's not a lot of bloodshed." You teased. You two broke out in a fit of laughter as he held you.

"Shall we go downstairs to eat with them?" You ask.

"Yeah, but I feel like something is missing." He says, making you confused. He looks around your room and grabs his jacket, holding it nervously.

"You know, in case you feel chilly." He says, but secretly gushing if you could wear it.

You smile and you turned around so he could drape it around your shoulders.

"It's perfect." You said, turning back to him.

You two smiled at each other and shared a sweet kiss before leaving downstairs to join your friends. As you all sat around, laughing together, Potato just thought he was the luckiest guy in the world to have you.

And you both are so excited to see what's in store for you.

[thekiltongrammarwriter]

Could you please write a Cara Ward x reader where reader comforts Cara after Elliot is found out and arrested?? :) -☀️

Shattered Reflections

Pairing: Cara Ward x fem reader

Summary: you knew Cara wanted to be alone, most likely needed to be alone. But she had been alone for nearly a week now, and you were starting to worry. You hadn’t seen her at school, hadn’t gotten any messages back on your mobile and when Pip had mentioned with shaky trembling hands that Cara had yet to answer her back you knew it was up to you to go after her. Cara needed time, but she also needed looking after and while you knew Naomi was the best elder sister a young girl could ask for, you also knew she was fighting her own battles. There was only so much she could do. And as much as you were thankful for Cara’s grandparents all they could do was hold her close and provided a safety net. What could you provide?

Authors note: Absolutely adore Cara and wanted to get this anon this fic as fast as possible! I hope you enjoy it! It’s not nearly as long as my other ficts but I promise I am working on some long ones. I didn’t quite get to write cara as her humorous self in this so I look forward to that.

Warnings: Mentions of Sal singh’s death, Eliot ward mentions, emotional trauma, angry Cara ward, lovesick cara ward, just cara ward 😭🫶

The rain came down in a relentless torrent, each drop a whispered accusation against the world. Cara Ward stood at the edge of Mill End Road her knuckles white as she clutched her fingers together. The wind howled, tugging at her coat, urging her to step back from the end of the drive. Her drive . Number 42, Mill End Road Wendover. But she couldn’t—not when her entire existence teetered on the edge of revelation.

The headlines had screamed it—the truth that had been hidden for years. Elliot Ward, loved by the town, the man who had cradled her in his arms after her mother’s death, was no hero. He was a villain, a puppet master pulling strings in the shadows. Andie Bell’s disappearance, Sal Singh’s death—it all led back to him.

Cara’s heart pounded, the rhythm of betrayal echoing through her veins. She had loved her father, trusted him implicitly. He had been her anchor, the one who wiped away her tears and whispered bedtime stories. But now, the same hands that had held her were stained with blood, and the lullabies he sang were a haunting melody.

The rain soaked through her clothes, chilling her to the bone. She closed her eyes, picturing her mother’s face—the woman who had died years ago , leaving behind a void that even time couldn’t fill. Her mother had believed in Elliot, had loved him fiercely. And now, Cara wondered if that love had been misplaced, if she had known what he had been capable of.

The rain began to stifle her, freeze her fingertips to bits. But she didn’t care, didn’t move an inch. “Does pip know your out here? She’s been calling, left a dozen messages. In all honesty I think she’s going mad not hearing from you”. Cara didn’t need to turn to know whose voice it was. The soft cadence that flew through the air was filled with childhood memories. Games of what’s the time Mr wolf. Of sleepovers that lasted far into the night and often consisted of pip telling some random facts as you giggled alongside Cara and her impressions of her year 4 teacher Mrs Linton.

She should have known you would be the first person to find her. She had snuck out late into the night, her grandparents too old and deaf to notice and Naomi dealing with her own grief locked away to bother checking wether Cara was asleep. It would only a matter of time now before Naomi would peek her head into the room and notice her gone. Cara wondered if you had texted Naomi, been sent as some sort of lookout. But Cara didn’t need a look out what she needed was her mum. And she was long gone now, departed from this earth, the only sign that she had ever lived being the bones that laid beneath the church cemetery. Cara almost chuckled sardonically, what a morbid thought, but she was use to them by now.

“I read her message and I’m not responding” Cara spoke, her voice frigid and lacking her usual gusto. You could feel your heart shatter as you eyed the girl. Her back to you, but you could still feel her. Could still feel the storm that raged in her chest like a hurricane. You had been left shocked after finding out about Mr Ward. He had always been kind to you. Ever since you had gone home with Cara one afternoon after primary school, and Mr Ward and greeted you with a small smile and a hoard of fatherly jokes that made Cara hide her face in the backseat and Naomi have a laugh.

“I didn’t expect you would” your voice was soft over the rain, you knew Cara wanted to be alone, most likely needed to be alone. But she had been alone for nearly a week now, and you were starting to worry. You hadn’t seen her at school, hadn’t gotten any messages back on your mobile and when Pip had mentioned with shaky trembling hands that Cara had yet to answer her back you knew it was up to you to go after her. Cara needed time, but she also needed looking after and while you knew Naomi was the best elder sister a young girl could ask for, you also knew she was fighting her own battles. There was only so much she could do. And as much as you were thankful for Cara’s grandparents all they could do was hold her close and provided a safety net.

What could you provide?

You sighed, your lips feeling chapped even though you had applied some clear cherry lip lacquer. A nervous habit you had contracted after years of being by Cara’s side. You can remember a young seven year old Cara who use to swear that lip lacquer was safe to eat and often would lick of the residue from her lips with a giggling smile.

“I’m not here to make you talk Car” you began, wringing your hands, “if I’m honest….I’m here because I couldn’t stand the thought of you being alone. Ever since I can remember we’ve been as thick as thief’s and-I care about you. A great deal. And I know I could never take away your pain or make it go away, but what I can do is be your side. Even if you howl at me and throw me away. I know your angry. I’m angry. Your father…” your voice trembled. You could see Cara’s shoulders shaking as you mentioned Elliot. Her shoulders moving in a rapid movement, her soft sobs leaving her.

“Your father deserves what he got. I know you feel that way too, but I also know you are his daughter. His flesh and blood and while you can’t look at him and call him that you can’t quite forget”.

“My father murdered a young boy y/n” cara spoke, her voice angry and brittle, “he murdered him and then made Sal take the blame. After he knew what he had done with Andie! He knew what he was doing was wrong but because of his stupid negligence and horny disgrace of a man he did it anyway!!” She barked out.

“Mum would have been-“ cara could feel her tongue halt, what would she have been? Appalled? Hurt? Betrayed?

Cara sucked in a breathe, the rain easing just enough that she could eye you as she finally turned. She hadn’t smiled for days, hadn’t felt the urge. Almost as if joy or happiness had been washed away from her. Like a toy being stripped of all of its parts until only the core remained. But here, watching you, with your sweet kind eyes and hair that flew down to your shoulders dripping with rain that puddles onto your cheeks and onto your lips. Cara could almost feel the way her eyes tilted to watch the raindrops fall down those lips, and she allowed herself too. As a distraction, as a treat, and perhaps some part of her had yearned to reach out and press those soft lips against hers, to feel the supple smile against her own, she reckoned they were smooth, flexible. Warm. Hot. Searing.

She was sure you could take it away. The pain. You took her quiet as a sign, moving closer until your watered down trainers were inches from her own and your eyes bore into her oak eyes. “Why’d you come here Car?”. To anybody else it would seem like a stupid question, a question that if anybody else asked would have made her livid. But you, you had phrased it like you were interested, like you wanted to be inside her head, to know why she had chose this house. Cara knew you knew, but she also knew you were always one for listening. The observant one since childhood.

Cara eyed her fingers which were frozen from the rain, “it was the first place I thought of, of where my family was happy. Yes mum was sick here, those memories hurt too, but it’s a bittersweet type of hurt” Cara spoke, “I came here because I wanted to see my home. The home my father hid that poor girl in. My mother would have knifed him most likely” Cara spoke, a laugh falling of her lips. “She was a Firey woman. Always making jests when the time didn’t permit it”.

Like someone you knew.

You listened, intently. Sitting beside Cara as she spoke. Her memories, her fears, her anger. You sat and listened. You knew it would take time, but you were more than happy to give her your time.

“Can I ask you something?” Cara had spoken. You nodded, a soft smirk taking over your lips. “You can always ask me something car”.

“Even if I ask you to help me murder my father and burry the evidence?”.

You blanched, and once you watched Cara’s face thick was amusement did you laugh, your cheeks red.

“Anything but that ward”.

A soft smile filled Cara’s features, a small one at most. But you were glad for it. Cara’s smile had inched down and you watched as her brows remained forward, her deep dark honey eyes now focused on your mouth.

“If I kiss you will you move away?”.

The words had made your heart beat. Made your stomach jolt and your head shake. Vigorously. You couldn’t lie and say that ever since Cara had told you and Pip you had been aware of your own sexuality. But you were far to shy to ask.

Cara was soft as her nose brushed yours, her hot breathe feeling warm from the way your cold limbs felt. Her lips were cold, freezing. But that didn’t matter because you could feel the way your chest ached. Your fingers wound in her hair, pulling her without meaning too. A soft gasp fell into your lips as Cara without thought backed you up against the wall, her eyes dark.

“I love you”.

The words were rushed, but you could have cried.

“I love you Cara Ward” you spoke, and Cara only brought you close, finally hugging you. “Please don’t leave. I don’t think I could get through this without you” she confessed. You held tight, “but you could. You could Cara.”

Cara pulled away, hands holding tightly onto yours.

“I wish I could” was her broken response. You only held her as she cried, cradling her head and kissing her skin. Cara clung tightly, like in an instant you would fade. Like all the people in her life. But as long as she had you, her tether she would be strong. She had too be. Even if it broke her.

You must have both stood out in the rain for hours, and once the rain grew too cold to Handel you pulled Cara to her feet, swiping the rain of her cheeks with a soft hand. Cara leaned in, breathing you in as she peered into your eyes.

You knew she was thankful. Could feel it in the eager way she kissed you, like you were oxygen and she hadn’t breathed in years. Cara’s kisses were soft as they plunged against yours. And you felt lightheaded as her fingers trailed down to your cheek, caressing like you were the most precious jewl.

“You’ve got me bloody falling for you y/n” she uttered, pulling away. But right when Cara was about to pull you into her to utterly ravish you a vibrating pocket halted you.

You could see the flash of annoyance on her features, but Cara relented when she eyed the screen. Pippa. You smiled, encouraged her. “She’s been waiting by the phone like mad Cara. She would have ringed more but she was at hospital”.

Cara’s eyebrows rose, “why was pip at the hospital?”.

You only pointed to the phone, “I’m sure pip will tell you all about it sweet girl”. The pet name made blush appear on the girls cheeks but you only bumped her waist, “go on”.

[hotchs-bitch]

Fluffy Feb Day 27- Snow

Warnings: getting together, only one bed trope except I as the author provided 2 beds and they do it to themselves, Canada (which was supposed to be realistic but comes across as satire. No judging me unless you are also Canadian), some 18+ implications but nothing happens

Pairing: Hotch x blank slate Fem!Reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count: 4.1k (i went crazy :/)

A/N: Honestly I've either made up or researched everything I've put in a fic about America so it was a nice change to just Know Things (although I am not from the province where this takes place). Also in my mind this is a continuation to Day 9- Pine

Once again, bonus points if you can figure out which Taylor Swift song I was listening to when writing this

Cases have taken you all over the country, face to face with some of the worst serial killers that America has ever seen. Much less often, they take you to Canada.

Specifically, in the case of a psychopath who skipped borders after killing in two states almost a decade ago and resumed his killing spree further north now, they occasionally take you to the middle of Nowheresville, Saskatchewan, Canada. In the dead of winter.

“Hey, folks.” The chief of police greets you all- well, most of you, since Rossi and Prentiss are already out on the field- with a friendly wave, shaking Hotch’s hand. “Chief McCartney. Sorry to make y’all take a trip up here, but we sure can use the help.”

“The FBI has been searching for the unsub for some time,” Hotch answers as their hands part. “The case has been assumed cold for several years by the Bureau, so we’re grateful you reached out. Two of my agents are at the latest crime scene already.”

“Where should we set up?” JJ asks, and the chief leads you to a conference room. “And, er, speaking of cold…”

You’re all very cold, just from the drive from the airstrip to the station. You’d seen people snowmobiling past the road, and JJ had marvelled aloud wondering how they could bear to be out in this weather. It’s not surprising that she’s the first one to bring up the chilly air in the precinct with her parka still zipped up to her chin.

McCartney snaps his fingers like he’s remembered something important. “Y’all must be freezing, eh? Let me rustle up a space heater, get you nice and toasty.”

The fact that he’s wearing a button-down shirt and a light jacket isn’t lost on any of the experienced profilers in the room. “You’re not cold?” Derek asks, half in disbelief. “Man, I grew up in Chicago and I can’t feel my toes right now.”

“We hit minus 30’s a few weeks back,” McCartney says, wincing. “Sorry, I didn’t even think of it. Guess we’re all used to it around here by now.”

“Minus…” You glance at Spencer, who’s locked and loaded with an answer.

“Negative 30 degrees Celsius is about negative 22, Fahrenheit,” he reports. “I’d estimate we’re closer to negative 31 degrees Farenheit, though.”

“He’s smart. Windchill’s pushing us a little under,” McCartney confirms. “I’ll go get that space heater. Y’all settle in, and I’ll have one of my officers bring over the files ASAP.”

You ‘settle in’ as best you can, poring over the case with your team while wrapped in thick sweaters and cradling to-go cups of coffee. They’re branded with the Tim Hortons logo from the traveller case that one of the officers brings for you along with the files and a box of donut holes labelled ‘Timbits’. The space heater sits in the corner of the room, slowly bringing the space to a temperature that you’re all used to.

Hotch takes the first sip of his coffee without adding anything into it, his face screwing up at the taste. “It’s not too good when it’s black,” the officer tells him. “Sorry, should’ve warned you. Try a double double, it’s way better.”

“Here, I’ve got it.” You take Hotch’s coffee from him, adding in two little packets of sugar and two creamer cups while he watches you. “Better?” He stirs it and takes a sip, deliberating.

The second sip must be miles better than the first. “It’s not as bitter. I think that’s all I can ask for,” he murmurs while he takes a seat next to you, and you smirk.

He’s wearing the same quarter-zip that made an appearance when you went to Alaska, and he seems relatively warm. Lucky him. The less-built members of your team, particularly JJ and Spencer, have rosy cheeks and keep sticking their hands in their pockets to warm them. Poor Spencer goes through several cups of coffee in mere hours, a weak attempt to warm himself from the inside out.

Nearing the end of the day, you all pack up your things. There haven’t been any more murders today, but the information gleaned from the crime scenes helps you add to the profile. The unsub has a pattern of striking each week, probably to gauge how close the investigation is to catching him during the cooldown period, and he hasn’t strayed from the pattern since resurfacing.

You trudge to the hotel across the street from the police station- this town is so tiny that you don’t think it’s made up of anything other than a main street and rows of suburbia housing- in the pitch-black, wind whistling by your ears and freezing them. The sun went down several hours ago even though it’s only nearing seven PM, and the dark doesn’t lift anyone’s spirits.

“Get some rest,” Hotch says while he hands out room keys in the hotel lobby, speaking over the sound of chattering teeth. It’s more of an order than a request. “We’re at the station bright and early tomorrow, and I want you all rested and ready to work.”

The room key in your hands leads you down a hallway to a door that you unlock right as Hotch turns the corner. “119, right?” He clarifies, and you nod. “Alright. You’re with me.”

“Sounds good.” Your voice sounds cool and even, and you’re sort of proud of yourself for keeping it together after finding out that you’re sharing a hotel room with your very kind, very attractive boss. You’ve shared a room with him before, but it’s a battle of willpower to appear normal every time.

The hotel room is decently nice, and it’s warmer than you expected. Two queen-sized beds share a nightstand, and there’s a desk with a coffeemaker on it pressed up to the wall next to the TV. It’s a standard hotel room, a setup you’re familiar with. The heater under the window is whirring, filling the room with blissfully warm air- almost too warm- that has you shedding your jacket as Hotch sets his go bag on one bed and his briefcase on the desk.

“No working,” you remind him, your tone as scolding as it is light-hearted. “Bright and early, remember?”

Hotch snorts at that, then takes off his quarter-zip sweater. “We’ll be six bitter coffees deep before the sun comes up,” he says, but you struggle to hear a single word out of his mouth when you see his biceps through the thin white material of his shirt. He’s been covered up all day, and you haven’t hit your daily quota of staring at his arms.

It’s been a hard day, particularly for that reason.

“I’m going to shower,” Hotch says after a moment, discarding his fleece on the desk chair. He picks up his go bag, and the bathroom door closes behind him a moment later.

By the time he re-enters, wearing flannel pajamas pants and a white shirt, you’re fiddling with the heater. It seems to be broken, and when you turn the dial to blow cold air in the room it only seems to come out a few degrees cooler.

“The blanket’s really heavy,” you warn as he gets into his own bed. You can’t believe you’re overheating at negative-a-million degrees, but the combined weight of the duvet and warm air blowing steadily into the room is reminiscent of falling asleep in Arizona rather than the snowy north. “Something’s wrong with the heater.”

“I’ll try to manage,” he responds with a dry smile before pulling the blanket over himself. It lands on him with a solid sound, thick duvet against chest, and a soft ‘oof’, and you count to three in your head before he says, “Okay, you were right.’

“Aren’t I always?” You pull your own duvet down when you get into bed, leaving yourself covered with the top sheet of the bedspread. He stays underneath his blankets, not shifting them while you reach out and turn the lamp off.

Falling asleep has never been so difficult. Without the thick duvet, you’re curled into a ball within five minutes when the slightly colder air fills the room. With it, you’re sweating so much that it’s a wonder you aren’t sliding right off the bed. One leg pokes out from under the heavy covers, but it feels like the only part of your body that’s at a closer-to-normal temperature while the rest of you overheats. You toss and turn, falling asleep briefly every once in a while for maybe ten minutes at a time.

It’s a little embarrassing, actually. Your blanket and sheet are lifted and shifted so many times that you have to hope you aren’t waking Hotch up, even when you move as quietly as possible. The only sound in the air is the wind whistling and fabric shifting, louder than you thought possible.

Around 1 AM, hours after trying to fall asleep, you’ve all but given up. You’re considering getting to work on the file by lamplight, or just stripping down naked under the thick blankets. What other option do you have?

That’s when you hear a grunt from the other bed, and Hotch’s outline shifts in bed. You can see him move around, lifting up like he’s flipping over his pillow. In the barely-there lighting from a streetlamp, you notice that his duvet is ruffled and partially folded over itself. It looks like he’s been tossing and turning, just like you.

“Aaron,” you whisper once he’s still. It’s quiet; he can pretend not to hear you if he’s close to falling asleep, and you won’t be offended. 

When he responds, his voice is gruff and just as loud as it was in the precinct today. “Yeah?”

“Can’t sleep?” It’s a stupid question, you realize as soon as it leaves your mouth. He isn’t sleeptalking, after all.

He doesn’t call you out on it, but just sighs instead. “No. It’s not working too well for me. I’m really hot.”

Yeah, you are, you want to say, but the logical side of your brain beats the sentence back with a stick before you can say it out loud. “Me too. How do you think everyone else is doing?

“Better than us, I hope.” He sits up in bed slightly; you can tell from the rustling and the dim outline. “I’m sure Dave has some kind of temperature-controllable blanket with him.”

“Spencer probably researched the best kind of pajamas to bring,” you joke back, and Aaron chuckles at that.

“Morgan probably worked out before bed and didn’t need any blankets,” he murmurs, and you snicker.

“JJ and Emily are probably cuddling for warmth.”

Why did you say that? The high altitude- the provincial average is roughly 1700 feet above sea-level, Spencer would tell you- combined with the restlessness is probably getting to you.

Aaron clears his throat, and you cough. Neither of you seems to know what to say, so he speaks first. “As long as they don’t tell me anything. It’s a lot of paperwork, for that sort of… fraternization.”

“Well, I mean. If they’re just doing it to keep warm, that’s got to be an exception,” you point out.

“I.. suppose so, yes. As long as nothing further were to happen, two agents just trying to keep each other warm isn’t inappropriate. They… we all need to be professional.”

He sounds hesitant now, speaking carefully like he doesn’t want to say the wrong thing. You wonder if he’s dancing around the same thought as you. If he is, is he trying to avoid it? Or does he not want to say it first?

“So, by that logic…” you trail off, waiting for Aaron to say something. He can say anything now. He can cut you off, bid you goodnight again, or even ask you to go bunk with Rossi, but he doesn’t.

The fact that he also isn’t exactly not encouraging you doesn’t disembolden you at all. “Yes?”

“Well. You know,” you murmur. “I’m just saying that if it’s completely professional… and if it’s helping them sleep, and therefore be more well-rested to catch a serial killer tomorrow…”

“What are you saying?” He isn’t really asking. You can hear his smirk as clearly as wind whistling through the trees outside your window. “I think you need to clarify for me.”

Your huff of annoyance is more forced than it sounds. “I’m saying that if we sleep in the same bed we might be able to actually sleep. Body heat, and all that.”

Aaron’s voice is softer now, less sure than when he teased you just a minute ago. “Are you comfortable with that?”

“If it’s okay with you, then it’s okay with me,” you promise. The only sound in the room for a moment is both of you breathing, and you wonder if he can hear your heart thumping against your ribcage. What are you doing?

“Alright,” Aaron agrees after a long moment, pushing the duvet down to the foot of his bed. “Does it matter what side you sleep on?”

You get out of your own bed, and murmur, “No,” as he rolls over to make room for you. He lifts the top sheet up and you slide in under it, curling up. There’s still some distance between you, and you try to maintain it; he’s the one who’s concerned about things being ‘inappropriate’, after all. There’s no need for him to know that your heart is beating so fast that it feels like it’s about to jackhammer out of your chest.

“Goodnight,” you mumble as soon as your head hits the pillow. His body heat is like a furnace, warming you up perfectly from a foot away, and the thin sheet is warm like it’s been waiting for you to climb in. He says something under his breath- ‘goodnight’, maybe- but it’s been such a long day that you fall asleep in what feels like seconds without responding.

When you wake up to the sound of Aaron’s phone alarm, you’re much less than a foot away from each other in the warmest bed you’ve ever known. He’s curled up against your back, one of his arms slung around your waist to hold you to his chest. Previous experience with room-sharing tells you that he doesn’t wake up at the first alarm- he usually sets two or three, a few minutes apart- and you’ve got a couple of minutes to just be.

The sound of the alarm grates on you, but it must be on a timer because it stops ringing after a minute or so, and you relax back into Aaron. His cheek is resting against the back of your head, and you can hear his steady breaths in time with the rise and fall of his chest against you. It feels good, it feels right to wake up like this. You don’t want it to end, but you know that it has to.

When the second alarm goes off, he rouses with a little startle, like he doesn’t remember where he is. The arm around your waist tightens, just for a moment, as his body relaxes into yours. Soft as a whisper, you could swear that you feel warm lips brush the shell of your ear before he pulls his arm away and sits up.

The room is just as dark now as it was a few hours ago, and Aaron manages to fumble for his phone and quiet the alarm before he speaks. His voice is raspier than it was in the middle of the night when he checks the time and then says, “It’s almost a quarter to seven. Er, did you sleep well?”

“Very.” You yawn as you sit up, stretching both arms above your head. “I wouldn’t complain about a couple more hours, though. That whole same-bed thing works wonders.”

Aaron yawns too, turning away to grab his go-bag as he stands up. “I’m glad to hear it. You can go shower. I’ll change out here.”

“Deal.” You gather your own things when you get to your feet, disappearing into the bathroom to get ready for the day. Your mind is already on the case, pushing aside all thoughts of sleep arrangements and large arms holding you close in favour of your job. When you exit the bathroom, Aaron is already gone.

When you meet with the team in the lobby, you find out that he headed to the station right away to get ahead on the case. Everyone bundles up before walking back to the precinct; the walk is no warmer than it was last night, and fresh snow begins to fall just as you get to the doors of the precinct.

Once you find your way to the same room as yesterday, you find Hotch already there, dressed in yesterday’s fleece. He’s got a Tim Horton’s cup in one hand, and he sips it while staring, perplexed, at the geographic profile. “Good morning,” he greets everyone at once. “Reid, I was thinking. If we intersect his old hideout parameters from Minnesota and Georgia with his murders here, then…” their chatter fades into white noise as you turn your attention to the files lining the tables.

The first hour passes in a blur, the conference room lit only by harsh overhead fluorescents as you trade theories and examine new evidence provided by the local officers. The clock is just announcing the arrival of 9 AM, the sky beginning to brighten slightly, when you realize that you need coffee.

You’ve got the same setup as yesterday in that regard, too. One of the officers must have picked up a fresh traveller for you, evidenced by the steam rolling off of the coffee that Hotch is pouring for himself. “How’s it going?” He asks, stirring two creams and two sugars into his coffee.

“No big break yet, but I’m sure we’re close. We’re going to get this guy soon,” you promise, and Hotch nods at that. “I wanted to thank you again. For, you know. Helping me sleep last night.”

“It was no trouble,” he assures you, fiddling with the stir stick in his hand. “It was helpful for me, too.”

“And, hey.” You lower your voice a bit, and Hotch leans in to hear you better. “Maybe we can do it again tonight. You know, if that’s okay with you.”

He gives you a smile, that tight-lipped one you’re used to seeing around the office. “It’s alright with me. I just don’t want to… well, I’m your boss. I don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with. It has no impact on my views of your professionalism.”

There’s that word again. You wish he could be a little less professional, for once. But he’s right, he’s your boss, and there are certain things he can’t say first. Your profiling skills tell you that he still wants to say them though. “Well, what happens in Canada can stay in Canada,” you half-jest.

“It can, if you want it to,” he murmurs. He still hasn’t taken a sip of his coffee, and he hands the cup to you while he pours a second one. “The sun will be coming up, soon.”

He’s right. Pale orange is streaking the sky through the large conference room window, tracing pink lines around the edge of the sun that’s just starting to peek up into the prairie sky. The snow is still falling, painting a picturesque image in the sky “It’s gorgeous,” you comment, taking a sip of your coffee. Without taking your eyes off the sky, you step a little closer to Hotch.

“Yes,” he agrees, holding his coffee in his right hand. His left rests on the table that your back is against, and it might be wishful thinking, but you think that he would wrap that arm around you again if there were no one else around. “It certainly is.”

----

“Longest week of my life,” Emily complains as soon as you’re airborne, a mere three days later. The unsub has been apprehended and is in federal custody of the country you’re returning home to. “But those beds were insanely comfortable. I haven’t slept that well in months.”

You and Aaron exchange a glance, a double-layered inside joke about why Emily slept so well and why exactly you both slept so well for several nights in a row. 

The last four nights have brought with them some of the best rest of your life. You’ve grown familiar with the feeling of Aaron’s arms around you in the morning, and by day three he stopped jerking them away as soon as he woke up.

That was the same day he asked you out, his gaze averted while he fiddled with a gold-coloured coin that he had received as change when he went out to buy a coffee. You had agreed, of course, and had assured him more than once that it didn’t matter that he’s your boss. You want him, and you have for ages.

On the fourth day, just this morning, he had held you a little tighter when he woke up and rumbled, “Morning, baby,” against your ear. If he hadn’t felt your heart beating around in your chest before, he had certainly felt it then.

Despite the fact that you’ve got a date planned with the man you’ve been cuddling for the better part of a week, you’re ready to tease Emily for cuddling JJ, before Spencer chimes in.

“I thought that the beds were quite comfortable, also. According to Sheriff McCartney, they’re primarily a transit town, which runs on a completely different economic structure than a transit village. The economy depends on truckers and people on road trips or similar travel to sleep in their hotels and eat at their restaurants,” he explains. “It’s fascinating, actually; transit towns pour the majority of their resources into making sure travellers making one-night stays enjoy themselves enough that they take the same route on the way home, thus giving the town more business.”

“The only business I want from that town is the name of whoever supplies those blankets,” Derek says, grinning. “That thing was so heavy, it was like getting crushed to sleep. Exactly what I needed with all that cool air blowing in.”

“Your room wasn’t too hot?” You ask, your nose scrunching up. “I think the heat was broken in mine. It was just hot air the whole time, every night. Way too hot to sleep.”

“Ours was like that on the first night,” JJ recalls, and Emily nods in agreement. “It was awful.��

“Right?” You complain, sinking further down into your seat. Hotch is sitting to your right, his face an impassive mask while he watches the exchange. “Let me guess, you guys shared a… uh…” 

Your teasing falters when the look on both JJ's and Emily’s faces tells you that, no, they did not share a bed, and you’ve just implied your solution to the heater problem. “We used the other blankets,” Emily says slowly, her eyes narrowing. “Didn’t you?”

“Oh! Oh, the other blankets. Yeah, the ones in the nightstand.” You nod along, your mortification growing in time with JJ’s smirk.

“They were in the closet,” she corrects you, obviously trying not to laugh. “I guess we know how you and Hotch stayed warm.”

You don’t need to look at your boss’- boss? Friend? Lover? You aren’t too sure right now- face to know that his cheeks are dusted rosy pink. “It wasn’t like that,” you protest to deaf ears as Derek whoops and high-fives Emily.

“About time,” he snickers at the look on your face. “So, when’s the first date?”

“It’s not-” you start to say, but Hotch speaks before you can.

“Friday.”

Your eyes widen and you turn to him. He raises one shoulder and smiles, like What was I supposed to say? “Friday,” you relent a moment later.

Derek is still grinning ear to ear like a maniac, and even Spencer cracks a smile when Aaron snakes one arm slowly around your waist. The sun is rising on one side of the jet, and the orange glow illuminates his face.

For one suspended moment, everything is perfect. You’ve got a date for this Friday, you’re more well-rested than you’ve felt in ages, and your team doesn’t seem to care that you and your boss are much closer than you were a couple of weeks ago. It’s a blissful moment to you, and it’s only broken by Emily’s gleeful not-quite-a whisper to JJ. “Penelope is going to be pissed that she missed this.”

Fluffy Feb masterlist | < Prev Day | Next Day >

Fluffy Feb tags: @doctorsteths-fluffyfeb @iammirrorball @hausofwhores @allthefandomstogether @myweepingangel @hotched @spacecowboyhotch @chibsytelford @honeybrowne @formulapierre @nd264 @hotchnerxnegan1017 (send me a dm or ask to be tagged!)

[st6rly]

please don't say you love me.

synopsis: one word from you and i'd come crawling back | wc — 0.5k

[ !! ] — masterlist.

characters: kaeya x gn!reader

categories: fluff + some reverse comfort, scenario

warnings: mild overthinking?? honestly not sure how to tag this but there's nothing graphic or heavily related to mental health at all (by my knowledge)

notes: being held up like a long slinky cat rn as a threat to write this /j kaeya simps come eat. by the stars help me the transition from fluff to reverse comfort is so clunky im crying. oh and guess i should wish the mf that's so hard for me to write a happy birthday

request: Heyyy Beau :D Is it alright if I request a fic where Kaeya spends his day off with his spouse (you)?? The soft mornings where you two sleep in and relax in each other’s presence. All that kind of stuff. - Tired

“-Kaeya.” 

Sun shone through the crack in the blinds, catching on the wedding bands that were lovingly placed on the nightstand. The hushed words of his name stirred him from a rare dreamless rest, a soft groan escaping his lips before he buried back into your embrace. Bodies entangled in a mess of limbs, you laughed and clutched him to you tighter.

Your warm chuckle was like honey to his ears as you ran a hand through ruffled blue locks. He hummed in satisfaction and tilted his head towards your touch, a periwinkle eye opening once again to gaze at you with fondness as his hand made its way to cup your face.

“Good morning, my love,” you said with a smile as your hand ran across his jawline in return, “Did you have a good rest?” 

Kaeya basked in the way your eyes glowed with faint sunlight, beams dancing over your features and how your eyes scrunched at the corner with your smile. Nodding, he pressed a kiss to your nose and tapped his forehead against yours with a grin.

“Quite the refreshing one.” He traced around the outside of your ear, keeping a laugh stifled as you shuddered at the cold touch. His hands were always freezing. “Did any pleasant dreams about me come and bless you last night?” You rolled your eyes in mirth and squished his cheeks, muffled protests being as you did so. 

“Do you know what day it is today, Kaeya?” He snaked his hand around your waist, hand rested on the small of your back. 

“No, I do not. But you’ve piqued my interest so please, enlighten me, my dear.” Your heartful stare had him pause, the smile slowly sliding off his face. 

Outward distaste to this day wasn’t something often shown nor were these feelings common. But every now and then, a weight of sharp blues and cold whites always seemed to drop on his chest. Childhood lost and found in small increments, a mess of a man is what he considered himself to be; trapped between growing too early and making up for it too late. 

“Kaeya.” He hadn’t realised that tears had begun to spring, your warm hand coming to wipe them away. Warm, you were always warm to contrast his cold. A shaky grin came to rest on his face as he let out a wet laugh, one that didn’t sound deep but held no boundaries to its meaning.

“I wonder, what did I ever do to deserve you in my life.” The words came out quieter than anticipated yet you only smiled back. You went to speak but he placed his hand over your mouth. 

“Don’t. Just, I don’t think I’d be able to-” Slowly, you took his hand away, delicately placing a kiss on his wrist and interlaced his limp fingers with yours. Overwhelming warmth burst through his hand, cold skin burning up at the touch. A choked-out sob crawled its way out of his throat; tears stung the corner of his eyes leaving him to gasp. It felt like bliss; pools of warm colours off the spectrum thrummed in his heart and invaded his sight. 

“I love you, Kaeya. Always have, always will.” you cooed softly, a firm, but reassuring, kiss placed on his forehead as salty tears were carefully wiped away. “I wish I could’ve been there. To do more for you because you deserve more.” His blurry gaze was all that took up your mind and you leaned in closer, lips barely touching.

“Happy birthday, my love.”

[cookieswithay]

"The happy feelings club!"

🧡Ichigo x Orihime🧡 Ichihime fic

💝Episode 2: Yasutora Sado! (More like Chad!) Ep. 1🧡

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• Orihime's pov!

• Beep! Beep! Beep!

• ...Huh?

• I opened my eyes and rubbed them a bit. What time is it?

• Beep! Beep! Beep!

• Better yet...what day is it? I grabbed my phone and pressed the power button.

• "Thursday."

• Thursday...a school day! Ah! I gotta get ready! I (almost) fell out of my bed and scrambled around my room. There's so much to do! Breakfast, clothes, my hair! Oh! And where's my bow!? I can't leave without it, Sora bought for me! And it's so pretty-

• 💭Orihime.

• I stopped in my tracks. My brain was suddenly full of moving pictures from yesterday...that guy. ...Ichigo. Ichigo Kurosaki. I get to see him again today. I wonder...if he wants to see me too. Did I make a good first impression? Or...was I too much again..?

• My door suddenly opened.

• "Orihime! Are you awake?"

• "I made breakfast alre-"

• Eep! I jumped and covered my chest.

• "Sora! I'm getting dressed!"

• "Leave!"

• My brother covered his eyes and shut the door. That...was scary and a close one. I should really lock my door more often. Or ask Sora to knock more. But, he usually does-

• 💭Meow.

• Oh yeah, the kitty! I hope Mr. Shunshi found it a good home. Or maybe it's living at his house.

• Wait...

• The guy who saved the kitty...

• He was really tall and reminded me of that one cupcake I ate.

• ...

• I wonder who he is.

              🧡🏵🌼🍊(Intro song)🧃☄🧩🧸🧡

• "Morning, Orihime!"

• "Morning, Mrs. Suzuki!"

• Everyone always is so nice in the mornings. The street rules are followed. The dogs are lively. And the birds actually let me take pictures of them! Hopefully, I have enough memory in my camera this time.

• "Orihime!"

• I turned around. It was Tatsuki! I waved back.

• "Hiiii!"

• She caught up to me and pinched my cheek. And that really hurt!

• "Why didn't you wait for me?"

• "I told you I was gonna be late."

• Oh yeah. She did, didn't she? I blinked back tears.

• "I was waiting! But then, I saw a pigeon and I followed it!"

• Tatsuki sighed and let me go. I rubbed my cheek. ...Was that bad? She pushed her hair back. She always does that.

• "Oh well."

• "I caught up to you now."

• She slung her arm over my shoulders.

• "Now show me that pigeon you took a picture of."

• Oh yeah! The pigeon!

🧡

• Ichigo's POV!

• This desk is making my face really cold, but it's better than interacting with my class. Haha, they think I'm sick. (And, trouble. Cause my hair) Although, I'm sure I can't keep up this flimsy facade, at least it'll hold me for awhile. Maybe I'll even trick Keigo and Muzuiro. ...Probably just Keigo.

• Wait a second...

• I can hear myself breathe. Why's it so quiet all of a sudden. I raised my head.

• Hey...

• "Is this class 2-B?"

• (I had to guess the class, the internet was useless!)

• It's that guy again. The one who saved the cat the other day. He goes here? Everyone looked too scared to say anything, so I stood up. Losers.

• "Yeah, you got the right place."

• He looked at me.

• "Thank you."

• He said. Everyone freaked even more when he fully walked in. A few one 'em looked like they might even pass out. And this guy is completely oblivious. I "coughed" and pointed to the empty seat next to me. I hope this guy gets the hint. He strikes me as someone's who slow on the uptake- Oh, nevermind. He's coming.

• ...Goddamn, he's tall. The moment this guy sat down, I was...intimidated? No, not intimidated...overwhelmed. He's HUGE. His hair covers his eyes and he's tan. He's probably not from here. And if I get crap for just my hair, this guy probably has loads of problems.

• ...

• Do I wanna be friends with this guy-?

• "Ichigo!"

• I looked through the door. It's Orihime! Kensei won't be back for a hot second... Maybe I can just say hi. (Keigo said it too, but I drowned him out.)

🧡

• Orihime's POV!

• I tried not to laugh as Ichigo "walked" towards me.

• (He tripped over someone's backpack and his friend was tugging on him🤭)

• He eventually got out of the classroom and leaned on the door.

• "Good morning, Orihime."

• I smiled and bowed down. All my hair falling with it.

• "Good morning, Ichigo."

• He cleared his throat and looked off. ...Do I have breakfast on my face?

• "Do you want something or are you just saying hi?"

• That's...a good question. I...don't have a reason. I just spotted his orange tuft of hair and spoke to him before I could even think about it.

• So, I shrugged. And that made Ichigo laugh.

• "Ah-em."

• Oh yeah...Tatsuki's still here. How embarrassing.

• "Since when do you two know each other?"

• Wait, Tatsuki's knows Ichigo? Since when? Did she always know him or did they become pals here?

• "I'm the new member of the 'happy feelings club'."

• Oh, he's gonna explain.

• "I'm sure Orihime told you all about the cat situation."

• Tatsuki sighed.

• "She sure did. She called me the moment she got home."

• As they talked, I looked through the window of class 2-B. Huh? Most of the girls in this class are the ones that say they'll come to the HP club, but don't. ...It's the kitty saver again!

• That gives me an idea..!

🧡

• Ichigo's POV!

• "Ichigo, be more careful, you moron."

• Tatsuki sighed, crossing her arms.

• "You would've died, if Orihime didn't come along."

• "I know."

• I already got the 'be safe' careful speech from Yuzu yesterday. (Mr. Shunsui gave my old man a call about what happened.)

• "Ichigo! Ichigo!"

• I looked down. Orihime's on my arm. She's making the "lean down" motion too. So I did.

• "Can you do me a favor?"

• She "whispered." I nodded.

• "Sure, what is it?"

• She looked back at my classroom.

• "Can you ask him to join our club?"

• Huh? I looked up.

• "Who?"

• The ginger pointed at the new guy who's sitting next to me now. Mm...that might be tough. Not only did I only say 2 words to 'im, I don't know if we can trust him yet. He seems quiet, but I've been duped before.

• "Are you sure?"

• Orihime nodded.

• "He's a good person, I sure of it.

• Okay...um...

• "I'll have a answer for you after school, okay?"

• She smiled. Whew, it's okay.

• "Well, the bell's gonna ring soon so..."

• Orihime let go of my arm and stood next to Tatsuki again.

• "Bye, Ichigo. I'll see you later!"

• I chuckled and waved. Tatsuki nodded to me too. I watched them off, thinking.

• ...

• How the hell am I convince that guy to join the happy feelings club!?

🧡

• Sometime later...

🧡

• Chad's POV!

• I think Ichigo wants to be friends with me. (I saw his name on his folder earlier.) All day, he's been asking questions and just staring. I don't mind, I guess. I think he might be doing it for his girlfriend though. I saw them chatting in the hallway earlier. And right now, Ichigo's following me. Or is he grabbing the volley balls too?

• ...

• This is getting awkward.

• "Uh, Ichigo."

• He looked up.

• "Do you need something?"

• He looked away. ...I thought so.

• "Y'know, you don't have to hang around me out of pity."

• "I have friends that don't go to this school."

• I hope I didn't come of as rude but... This isn't the first time this has happened. I just want to end it before he does.

• ...

• I don't hear anymore footsteps. Guess I got my point across.

• "Hey."

• I turned around.

• "I'm not talking to you out of pity."

• ...

• "I genuinely want to be your friend."

• He walked past me and grabbed a ball.

• "Whether you want to be friends with me is your choice."

• "But just know,"

• Ichigo held the ball up to me.

• "I'm choosing you to be on my team for the game."

• I didn't say anything, but I nodded. I'm...I'm okay with this.

🧡

• Orihime's POV!

• "Alright, Orihime! You're up to bat!"

• Tatsuki shouted. We girls have baseball for p.e. today! West girls against East girls! (Our school is split into two. It has a interesting reason but, I can't remember.)

• I gripped the bat tightly. Loly's pitching. If I don't hit the ball at the right time, it'll hit my breast! Or my throat, or stomach, or somewhere else painful. But, me and Tatsuki have been practicing. I'll...be okay.

• "You got this Orihime!"

• (Chizuru cheered.)

• "Good luck!"

• (Michina)

• "Hit the winning point!"

• (Machana)

• My friends are cheering me on. I can't miss the ball now. I took a breath and stared in Loly's pink eyes.

• I can do this.

• The ball flew.

• I swung.

• And..!

• "Oof!"

• A volleyball hit me in the face instead? I fell one my butt, a little dazed.

• "Orihime!"

• Is my nose bleeding? Or is that...it's probably blood. Someone pulled me up to my feet.

• "Who the hell did that!?"

• "I'll give the most painful and slow death ever!"

• It was Tatsuki. (And the other bit was Chizuru.)

• I was leaned against her shoulder. My nose doesn't hurt anymore. So, I should probably save whoever's facing Tatsuki's wrath. I stood up straight.

• "Tatsuki, it's okay. I'm fine-"

🧡

• Ichigo's POV!

• Shit!

• I moved Tatsuki out of the way. And stretched forward. I won't forgive myself if Orihime falls!

• I missed her by a second.

• Dammit!

• Whoosh!

• I saw Chad's hand grab hers.

• (So, I named the guy cause I don't know what's on his birth certificate. Sue me.)

• "Sorry about the ball."

• He said, oddly calm. He always is, but this was a serious adrenaline rush. My chest actually hurts. Orihime looked down. I nearly saw spirals in her eyes.

• "I'm...a-okay!"

• Whew, at least she sounds okay. Hold on-

• "Whoa, you're nose is bleeding."

• Like ALOT. Damn, how hard did I spike the ball? (...Really hard. Ikaku kept taunting me.)

• She stood up and wiped her nose.

• "Ah. No, Orihime. You'll get blood on your arm."

• I said, using my own shirt to wipe nose.

• "What's going on over here?"

• Dammit, it's Coach Zaraki. All the girls (except Tatsuki) hid behind Chad. I swallowed hard. Guess I'll explain.

• "We, uh, accidentally hit Inoue here with our volleyball."

• "So, we're just apologizing."

• Zaraki narrowed his eyes at me and then looked at Orihime. And he cupped her face with one hand. I flinched. That's not hurting her, is it?

• "Hmm..."

• The blood trickled on his hand.

• "You're fine, child. Just get some napkins and get back to baseball when you're done."

• "Got it?"

• Orihime nodded. And he turned around. FINALLY, he's leaving-

• I felt a big hand on my shoulder. Dammit, I spoke too soon!

• "You can go with her, but in exchange,"

• "You're coming to the ring tomorrow."

🧡

• Orihime's POV!

• Uhh...Ichigo looks scared! Is Coach Zaraki telling him something scary!?

• I felt a tap.

• I looked back. The cupcake guy wanted something. Oh, and he has a tissue. I took it and blew.

• "You're Orihime, right?"

• I nodded. I am but...how does he know? We just met now.

• "I saw your flyer and Ichigo brought you up."

• He did?

• "Was it nice things?"

• I did NOT mean to say that outloud.

• "Uh-huh."

• No details. Okay then...

• "Ichigo told me you need new members."

• "Do I have to bring something to the table?"

• I gasped and almost cheered! But, I covered my mouth and took a deep breath.

• "Just bring anything that makes you happy."

• He remained quiet and nodded. I think I saw a little smile though! (And a brown eye too!) He picked up the ball and walked away.

• ...

• Aw, bean sprouts! I forgot to ask his name! Ichigo popped back up next time me.

• "Okay, I grabbed a hell ton of napkins and-"

• "Oh, you already got one."

• He looked around.

• "Chad went back?"

• I nodded. (That's his name?)

• We walked to the fence and I used a few more napkins.

• "Did...he say anything to you?"

• I smiled.

• "Yeah! I think we got a new member of the club!"

• "High five!"

• Ichigo chuckled and put his hand on mine. (It wasn't hard like a normal high five though.)

• I sighed. A new friend and a new member.

°○°•●•°○°•●•°○°•●•°○°•●•°○°•●•○°

• "Bye, Orihime. See you tomorrow."

• "Bye, Michina!"

• I gotta round up my things quickly. Sora's picking me up today. And I have to babysit Nel. Plus, I'm getting really really hungry, since I lost my lunch earlier. I picked up my satchel and zipped out if my classroom.

• (Not before leaving my finished assignment on Mr. Jushiro's desk. And a candy bar too. Can't let his blood sugar go down.)

• "Excuse me!"

• I dashed through the hallway. Once I get in the car, I'll test Tatsuki that I'm getting home safely-

• Once again, I slammed into something. But, this time it was a back. A tall-ish one.

• "I'm sorry. I should've been more careful!"

• I saw GLASSES next me. Oh my goodness, I bump them hard!

• The person (turns out a boy) picked up the glasses and put them back on. Huh? He has band aids on his fingers.

• "Be more careful next time."

• And he walked away. Hm. I stood up and dusted my skirt off. Sora's probably waiting-

• Hold on a sec. I bent down.

• It was a keychain. With a beautiful little doll on it. I looked at the bustling hallway. Was this the glasses boy's doll?

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(Tag list time: @elyonholic, @o0o0thorn0o0o, @ichihimelover1503, @ichinoue, @takibikaen, @usoppsstar)

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This accidentally longer than the first episode, but I hope everyone enjoyed this! And the intro music. I...wish I fleshed this episode out more, but I have good plans for the next episode! So please, stay tuned and warm😎)

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[spookyson]

Okay soooo just wrote like my longest fic ever I'm so happyyyy

A lil peak;

Dick Grayson gets home to find his little brother missing.

Which was, unfortunately, not rare or new, but this was infinitely worse. Because Tim was a baby.

Dick, along with most of the team, rummaged through the Manor and Batcave. They had gotten back home around an hour ago, sometime after 3, and the routine debrief had been abandoned when Cass noticed the empty bed.

“Tim! Timmy!” said Dick, his voice growing hoarser by the minute. “Come out, buddy! Please we’re not trying to hurt you.”

Dick was upstairs, investigating the manor along with Damian and Stephanie, while the rest of them double-checked the cave—no sign of him.

What if he wasn’t even here? What if he was in the city? What if he was in danger-

Fuck, fuck. Dick had grown used to it, the fact that all of his family were usually in a life-threatening situation. He was the same and if Batman, the most controlling asshole Dick had ever managed to love, let all of Dick’s siblings head out at night to fight crime, then he could too. It’s just that everyone else was trained, experienced, and older than 3. Also, this was Tim. Who always managed to make the worst enemies and get into the worst situations. What do you mean Ra’s al Ghul wants your babies? Why the fuck don’t you have a spleen? Assassin friends? Why do you have assassin friends?

Bottom line; Dick was stressed and he would not be sleeping tonight unless Tim was at home and under lock and key.

God, Bruce had already called Clark. And Bruce never called Clark. It was like a pride thing or something, Dick wasn’t really sure, he never paid much attention to what Bruce said back when he was Robin.

Dick frantically checked Tim’s room for what must have been the twelfth time in the past twenty minutes. There wasn’t a lot in it, Tim had moved most of his stuff into the Nest, but Dick meticulously checked under the bed, closet, and adjoining bathroom for any sign of his brother. There was none.

“Richard!” called Damian from the threshold of the room.

Dick looked up from the closet. “News?” He fought to keep his voice level. Damian was still so young, he didn’t want to scare him.

Nodding, Damian gestured for him to follow. “Drake has been located. He should be arriving shortly, Father wants all of us in the Cave.”

When they arrived, Tim was already there.

Old photographs of the kids hung on the walls, baby photographs that no one was quite sure how Bruce had procured. Or were too scared to ask about it at this point. The photo nearest to the door of the kitchen was one of Tim’s, an image from when he would have been around eight. He had been a small child.

This Tim was even smaller, clinging to Kon with one miniature hand and arguing with the Batman.

“Why am I here?” he said, large eyes narrowed at the crowd assembled before him. Dick must have not missed much. He spotted Clark in his Superman costume, sporting the awkward look he got sometimes when any of them talked back to Bruce.

Bruce was still Batman, only his cowl was lowered to reveal a tense face. "You are compromised. It would be safer for everyone if you remained at the manor."

Baby Tim's face screwed up into an adorable pout. Dick physically held himself back from scooping up his (currently) youngest brother and wrapping him in a blanket. The third Robin possessed a youthful quality to his looks, often appearing much younger than he was, and Dick had never considered its devastating effect. He wondered how Bruce had stopped himself from adopting Tim on the spot. According to all Dick knew about Tim's pre-Robin years, he's been attending many of the same parties as Bruce.

"I know I look 3, but I'm not actually that age, B. I won't snitch, you don't have to worry," says Tim. He looks to Kon, who nods his agreement.

"Uh, yes sir. Tim's his usual self."

Which is not exactly the problem Timmy. "Nevertheless, I think the team would rest easier if you remained home today." If you hadn't known Batman for as many years as Dick had, you'd think he didn't care, but all of this was pretty much Bruce-speak for ‘I am very concerned about you, please stay in my field of vision for the foreseeable future’.

Dick couldn’t judge. There was something about Tim, his smallest brother (since Damian had recently surpassed him in height a few months ago; something they still managed to fight about) becoming even smaller. Tim was also just really freaking adorable. He had those big blue eyes, a shade lighter than Dick’s, chubby cheeks and he was also clad in the smallest Superman t-shirt Dick had ever seen. Which actually, he flicked a look at Kon, was probably meant to be a Superboy t-shirt.

Anyway, Tim was cute and Dick wanted to hug him. He was also painfully vulnerable and had so many enemies and why would they let him out of the best-protected place in Gotham when he could be safe right here? Matter resolved.

“I can’t waste time over here, B. I have other responsibilities.” Tiny Timmy sighed and rubbed his small hands up and down the bridge of his nose and Dick was grasped by a sudden urge to dress him up in a miniature suit and provide him with a small briefcase. And then take a fuck-load of pictures. Tim proceeded to yawn adorably, therefore proving that the mini photo shoot needed to happen now. “Red Robin aside, WE needs me.”

“What’re they gonna do with ya right now, baby bird? Nap time?” crowed Jason.

The glare that Tim aimed at Jason was poisonous enough for it to have been terrifying, but at the moment, Tim was 3 and just about the most precious thing anyone in that room had ever seen. Dick cannot hold himself accountable for swooping in from behind Bruce to scoop up his smallest brother into a tight hug.

Tim’s frail little bones knocked harmlessly against muscles gained from years as an acrobat and vigilante, so Dick was free to squeeze in a way Damian would have never allowed and Jason would have bit him for. “You’re so cute, Timmy! Why did you never tell me you were adorable?”

“I’ve always been adorable,” sniffed Tim, weak arms straining against Dick’s chest in an effort to pull me away. “Now lemme go… I need to sign contracts and drink coffee.”

“And chase down the bitch-ass magic boy,” added Kon, his face impassive.

“And chase down the bitch-ass magic boy,” repeated Tim.

To his credit, Bruce only raised an eyebrow and continued; “All of which can be handled from here. I will return to Wayne Enterprises and we will cite your absence as a family matter. Zatana is due to arrive shortly, we will know anything vital to your current condition. Red Robin’s patrols will be covered by the rest of the team in shifts. Any running cases will need to be handled by the other vigilantes in Gotham.”

Tim ceased his relentless wriggling and swerved his head to Bruce. “That’s really… nice of you, Bruce,” said Tim. His small forehead wrinkled in thought. “But I don’t mean to impose for long. Kon and I can handle it.”

“Tim,” began Bruce, and then stopped. Because Tim had fallen asleep.

This is just a little part. The actual fic is 18k words omfg so if u enjoyed I put in the link to the whole thing down below. Please tell me what u think!