#she makes a nice tea out of the dandelion later

[supermarine-silvally]

Yara, what do you like to do for fun?

"I collect plant samples. Ace likes to "help". It's something we enjoy doing together."

Ask Yara (or any of my OCs) anything!

tagging some friends @oneirataxia-girl @auxiliarydetective @daughter-of-melpomene @box-of-bats @novemberhope cuz i'm proud of this one lol

[lokidjarin-7567]

First Time

True Blue - Shane SDV x Reader - Chapter 2 - 3.8k words

More Shane interactions!! Yay

Ada had a very long week. There was a lot to do, and it felt like she hadn't stopped since Tuesday morning. She'd been back to town on Tuesday to buy some more crops from Pierre - she opted for cauliflowers, potatoes, and some tulips to spruce up the place up a bit. She'd also managed to make a deal with him about buying some of her crops, and he seemed genuinely pleased. Marnie was right, the term 'Nicholas Magic' definitely stuck - he practically jumped at the opportunity to get crops from her farm. She spent the rest of the day planting the crops, then the following day clearing out the shed. After she'd got all of the shit out, she managed to rearrange it and fix up a few of the old machines and barrels. It was a little cramped, but she figured she would move the mayonnaise machines and cheese presses to the coop and barn once she got those fixed up. And now she had working preserve jars, just nothing to put in them. She also explored the (very dusty) cellar to find a handful of casks for ageing wine and cheese, and figured she could move the kegs down here too so it's all in one place, but they were way too heavy for her - a problem for another day.

When she woke up on Thursday, she thought she was hallucinating when she walked outside and saw her parsnips had nearly grown already.. in three days? Her Granddad (and everyone else for that matter) spoke about the magic in this place, but she never thought it was actually real. She figured things grew fast when she was a kid because, well, she was a little kid who didn't know shit. This place was incredible, truly. Once she got over her shock, she decided to spend the day foraging around Cindersap Woods. Someone called Evelyn had left a note on the board asking for a leek for her husband, so she figured she would find that today if she could. A few hours later, and her basket was full of leeks, spring onion, dandelions and daffodils, as well as a few bulbs of horseradish. After delivering some leeks to a very thankful Evelyn, who forced money and cookies on her before she could say no, she spent the rest of the day processing the forage she had found. She removed the bulbs and seeds to replant each of them in her land, then decided to pickle the spring onions, prepared the horseradish to make a spicy paste, dried the dandelions for some more tea, and froze the leeks to make her famous leek and potato soup later in the season. She also delivered a little bundle of daffodils each to Leah and Marnie, with a little note thanking them for their hospitality earlier in the week. She slept that night happy again, for the first time in a long time, and got an uninterrupted sleep for the first time in an even longer time.

Friday, however, was frustrating and backbreaking work. She'd started the day with a nice bowl of porridge to prepare for making a start on clearing the farm, but it went… horribly. Her first job was to break up the rocks on the farm, some of them absolutely huge, but her sorry old pick could only manage the small ones. Once she'd cleared them from the key areas around the farmland - only around the paths to the Mountains and to Cindersap, and the way to the dilapidated greenhouse and animal shelters - she started to split the logs logs and chop some of the trees in those areas too, but that went just as bad. When she tried to chop one of the bigger logs, but that failed and she got her axe stuck in it for about half an hour, and when she finally pulled it out, she fell backwards like something from a cartoon, landing hard on the floor and only narrowly avoiding dropping the damned thing on her leg. She gave up at that point, so frustrated she needed a drink, and aching so much she needed a bath. She wanted to start getting ready anyway - even though it was like 4 hours until she needed to leave - but she was one of those people who couldn't concentrate on much else if she had something to do later in the day.

So she spent an hour and a half in the bath, letting the steamy water work her muscles back into a state of usefulness, and spending a long time washing her hair, trying to get the little chips of wood and leaves out her curls. Then she had a glass of Leah's gorgeous wine, thanked Yoba for the invention of waterproof vibrators, and let the steam and hot water make her head go fuzzy. Leah texted her while Ada had her head upside down, stuffing her curls into a diffuser, her dyed hair dripping red water all over the floor. She grabbed the phone read the message, squinting without her glasses.

Hey, I'll walk up to yours in like an hour - make sure you eat something because we're gonna fucking full send it tonight, but I don't like seeing people puke. Ok cool, see you soon.

And then another message popped up as she was reading.

Oh, it's Leah by the way, just in case you're one of those people that don't save contacts.

She laughed, glad they were already comfortable friends, shooting back a quick reply and going to the kitchen to put a pot on to boil.

An hour, a bowl of pesto pasta, another glass of wine, and a cigarette later, she was nearly ready. Her hair had dried nicely (for once) and her makeup looked flawless (as always). Being good at makeup was something she prided herself on - the only good thing to come out of having acne as a teenager. The only thing left to do was find something to wear. She threw on her only clean pair of jeans and a little white top - her favourite one, with little puffed sleeves and a straight neck line, shirring at the waist. It suited her figure, and it always made her feel pretty. She had had body dysmorphia as long as she could remember. It always ebbed and flowed; she'd be ok for a bit then it would come back with malicious intent. She couldn't even begin to count how many events she'd cancelled because of it, and it had been worse than ever recently. Although, moving to the farm reminded her that her body was worth something more than how it looks. It had done a lot this week, so that and spending most of her days in baggy farm clothes left her feeling comfortable with the way she looked. Not completely happy, but content, accepting of her reflection. Of her pale skin and sun freckles, her thicker thighs and softer stomach, her long arms and legs, and slightly taller figure. She had put contact lenses in, and she always forgot how she looked without glasses - she could actually see her blue-grey eyes, rimmed with black eyeliner, smudged into a soft wing. She was just finishing up with a touch of gloss when the doorbell rang.

She opened the door to see Leah smiling at her widely. She was wearing a pale green shirt, and had her hair pulled into her usual messy plait. Ada was rushing out the door, grabbing keys and locking up, anxiously making sure she had everything she needed when Leah stopped her, linking her arm and squeezing. She hadn’t realised how nervous she was until this moment, her heart thudding in her chest.

“You feeling ok, hun?” Leah asked. Ada took a deep breath.

“Nervous. I’m not always good with new people.” Leah laughed at that, and Ada frowned at her. “What?”

“You are the sweetest person ever, Ada, I liked you the minute you spoke to me. You’ll do great, I promise.”

When they got to the saloon, it was packed. She spotted a few familiar faces - Lewis and Marnie chatting at a table, Pierre at the bar, Robin and her husband - Demetrius - who smiled and waved as they walked in. Leah lead her to a table that was occupied by a very tall man, with long hair and a wide smile. He smiled even wider when he noticed her, extending his hand to shake. Ada almost felt herself blushing, his infectious smile creeping onto her face as she took his (very soft) hand.

“Ah, the new farmer we’ve all been expecting, and whose arrival has sparked many a conversion! I’m Elliott, I live in the little cabin by the beach. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He spoke with such grace, and he had an air of importance about him, not in an arrogant way, just self-respecting.

“I’m Ada, and it’s an absolute pleasure to meet you too.” She meant it.

“Um, I’m here too?” Leah crossed her arms and frowned at Elliott until he gave her a hug.

“Of course of course, wonderful to see you, my darling, although I did see you yesterday…” Elliott was met with a withering glare from that comment, and he held his hands up in mock defeat. “Sorry, sorry. Let me get you a drink to make it up to you?”

“That’s more like it.” Leah grinned. “Cider to start please.”

“To start? Are we having a fun night then?”

“Of course. We need to stay long enough to truly integrate Ada into the Pelican Town community. This is basically her welcome party after all.”

“On it. Our sacred mission for the evening - make everyone intoxicated and introduce Ada to the whole town.”

“Exactly!” Ada smiled. She felt lucky to have met Leah early on - she was sure she wouldn’t have as fun a night if she hadn’t.

“What do you want to drink, Ada?” Elliott asked.

“I’ll have a cider too, please. As long as you don’t mind?”

“Of course! You heard Leah, it’s your welcome party, you shouldn’t pay for a single drink!”

True to his word, an hour and three drinks later, Ada hadn’t paid for a thing. She had seen everyone she knew, and met a few new people as well - the blacksmith, Clint, who gave a weird vibe, although maybe it was just the beard; Harvey, the (very attractive) town doctor; Jodi, who left pretty quickly but seemed lovely; and Emily, the gorgeous, eccentric waitress with bright blue hair and crystals in her apron pocket. She hadn’t quite seen everyone yet, but for now, she needed a soft drink and a smoke. She grabbed a diet coke from Gus, the lovely barkeep who insisted she didn’t pay (Ada wasn’t going to argue) and excused herself.

When outside, she lit her cigarette and breathed deep. She had enjoyed meeting everyone, they were so lovely and it was so exciting to know the people who were likely going to define this next chapter of her life, but she needed little breaks to herself if she was going to keep this up all night. She lent against the wall, enjoying the cold wind, and closed her eyes.

“Smoking’s really bad for you, ya know, you should quit before you end up like me.” A familiar voice rang out from the doorway of the saloon, and she saw Sebastian standing with a pack of fags in his hand, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Oh my God, Seb!” Ada exclaimed, wrapping him in a huge hug. “You bastard, were you in there the whole time?”

“No, only just got here. Maru should be…” He was cut off by Ada’s squeal of delight when she saw her childhood best friend round the corner, and practically threw herself at Maru. After initial excited reintroductions and hugs, Maru went inside to let Ada and Seb finish smoking their ‘cancer sticks’ - always the med student. That left them to catch up. She was well aware of the common romance trope - best friend’s older brother - but her and Seb had never been like that. He was the closest thing she’d ever had to a brother. Ada had always been the intermediary when him and Maru fought, and they had bonded over music as they had pretty similar tastes.

“How’s your music going? The band?” The last thing they’d spoke about when she’d left after summer five years ago was that she was going to start a band with her friends, and she grimaced at that question. Be vague, she thought to herself, he doesn’t care about the people, just the music.

“The band broke up about a year ago, actually,” she said, casually, “but I still sing when I get a chance.” He nodded. “What about you?”

“Well, I actually have a little band in the valley here…”

“No way, that’s awesome, Seb!”

“Yeah, we play the saloon every other Friday. It’s pretty fun actually, a good hobby. You should join us sometime, a little collab. I’m sure we could learn your stuff…”

“Ah that’s ok..”

“No, it would be fun!” He seemed genuinely enthusiastic, looking at her expectantly and taking a long drag on his cigarette. “Pleasee, I’m sure Sam and Abigail could sing with you if…”

“Ah-ha!” Ada exclaimed, glad for the opportunity to change the subject. “You’re still pining after Abigail then!” Sebastian blushed, his pale skin going bright red as he stuttered. “I knew it. Five years after I left and you still haven’t asked her out.”

“It’s… it’s complicated.” Sebastian muttered, and she raised her eyebrow at him.

“I’m sure it is,” she replied, rolling her eyes.

“You wouldn’t get it.”

“Oh honey, don’t pull the misunderstood-teen line on me, we’re not teenagers anymore…” He smiled softly at that.

“I didn’t mean it like that, I meant…” he paused, taking another drag slowly, becoming more serious, “I meant you’ve been gone for five years. You got out.” Ada looked at him, and found a twinge of jealousy in his eyes. She’d forgotten about his obsession with moving to the big city and ‘making it’. She sighed.

“It wasn’t worth it.”

“What happened to you?” Ada’s breath caught in her throat, and she looked at him, confused. He looked concerned, genuinely concerned, even close to pitying.. “I just mean you used to be so ambitious, like me and..” She hadn’t seen that look in a while and she was not about to be pitied here, over a choice she made. She wanted to be here, there was nothing to pity. What an asshole.

“Fuck you.” She said, laughing a little as she said it, but her eyes told him she meant every word. “Do you not think it’s ambitious to run a giant fucking farm by myself?” He looked sheepish.

“Of course it is, but you know…”

“The corporate life wasn’t for me. That’s what happened. I tried it and it was soul sucking. I know that sounds dramatic, but it was. I just wasn’t made to sit at a desk 8 til 8, no overtime pay, just so I could afford rent and a few nice dinners out if I was lucky.” She took the last pull on her smoke, and put it out against the wall. “I just don’t think that’s how I was supposed to live my life.” He smiled and nodded.

“I get that.” He paused. “I still want to move though.” She laughed dryly.

“Of course you do.”

When they got back inside the saloon, Ada sat with Maru at the bar, talking for a while. They caught up on everything, what they had been doing the last few years, where they had been, how the valley had changed. Maru excused herself pretty early in the evening - she was an early sleeper, always had been, so they made promises to hang out again soon, but Ada didn’t think anything would come of it. They just didn’t quite click how they used to, and that was ok. She had learned that forcing friendships never ends well.

After Maru left, Ada ordered another drink. She was absentmindedly chatting with Gus as she stood from her barstool, strawberry cider in hand, back to the door, to go back over to Leah, just as the door opened. And she backed straight into it. She didn’t hit it hard, but it caught her elbow - more specifically her funny bone - which jolted her cider, which split all over her top. Her lovely white top. For fuck’s sake.

“Oh shit,” a voice from the other side of the door muttered, “are you ok?” Shane revealed himself from the other side of the door, closing it behind him. Fuck. Anyone but him. He seemed annoyed already that he had to talk to anyone, the faint scent of beer on his breath.

“Yeah I’m fine. Just …” she looked down at her top through gritted teeth and realised it was starting to go see-through. Thank the Lord she had worn a bra today. “Just a bit wet.”

“Ah shit,” he said again, noticeably looking everywhere but her shirt. “Sorry, Lovelace.”

“Stop calling me that.” She glared at him, and watched as a satisfied grin spread across his face. He met her gaze defiantly, and held her eye contact as he took off the plaid shirt he was wearing over his tee. If she hadn’t had a few drinks, she wouldn’t dare admit how fucking hot it was. But she had, so she felt herself blushing.

“Here.” He said, handing it to her.

“You’ll freeze..”

“I’ll be fine. It’s warm in here.”

“But when you walk home..”

“Stop fussing,” he grabbed her shoulders, spinning her to face the bathrooms and nudging her towards them. Yoba, she hated him. And she hated how cold her skin felt after his touch left her. “Just go change, Lovelace.” Throwing one more glare over her shoulder, she grabbed her bag and headed to the bathroom.

It looked pretty cute actually. The shirt was a forest green and navy plaid, made of a super soft cotton. It was comfy, and it smelt surprisingly nice - a strange combination of beer, woodchip and what seemed to be lime-scented cleaning spray, which she assumed was from work, as it rang true to the citrus scent she knew from her old Joja office. She added some of her own vanilla perfume to the mix, shoved her still damp top and bra into her handbag, and left the bathroom, smiling softly to herself. She saw Shane hiding in the corner of the bar, two empty beer glasses in front of him already, and he was now nursing a whisky neat, hand curled around the glass protectively. Perhaps nursing was the wrong word, as she watched him down it, gruffly asking Gus for another. She took a step towards him, then paused, her heart stilling for a moment. She had left her drink on the side, half-empty. Shit. Ok, three options. Number 1, completely ignore him, walk to the other side of the bar, and get a new drink over there. Number 2, fuck off home and hope nobody notices. Or 3, knock it over so she has to get a new one. Because there was no chance in hell that she was going to tell him she needed a new drink because it was out of her sight for a few minutes, because he’ll think she’s accusing him of something and it’ll be a whole thing and…

At that moment, Shane glanced back towards her and then turned away quickly. He muttered something else to Gus, who then picked up Ada’s glass and began to pour her a new drink. She breathed a huge sigh of relief, and walked over to the bar to stand next to him. Shane didn’t even look up, just stared into the bottom of his glass.

“Thank you,” Ada said, just in case he actually hadn’t noticed her, “for the shirt and..”

“Don’t mention it,” he muttered, and as Ada opened her mouth to speak again, he interrupted her, “no, I mean it, please don’t mention it, because then I’d have to hear you talk and I’d have to talk back and that’s really not something I can be fucked to do.” He finally looked up from the table, and must’ve registered her confused face because he carried on, “I’m fucking serious. I’ll buy your drinks for the rest of the night if you give me some space.” She felt her face flush with equal parts embarrassment and rage, just as Gus came over to give her her drink with a concerned look on her face.

“It’s on the house dear…” he said, picking up on the tension.

“Actually, I don’t know if you heard,” she said, pointedly looking at Shane and lacing every word with venom, “but Shane said he’d cover my drinks for the rest of the night.” She smiled at Gus warmly and smugly, only now realising that the space around her had gotten quiet. Gus smiled and winked back, and she could tell he was secretly enjoying this too.

“You got it, Ada. I’ll put it on Shane’s tab.” As much as Ada wanted to see the annoyance on his face, she turned around without a glance back at him, rejoining Leah and Elliott. A part of her went to say goodbye to him, but she bit her tongue. No more spending her energy where it wasn’t wanted. She knew how to take a hint.

“By Yoba, so he really is an asshole all the time then?”

“Yep..” Elliott muttered, biting on his straw sheepishly as Leah glared.

“No, he’s not a complete asshole guys… you just have to get to know him..”

“Oh yeah, because I bet that’s easy to do.” Ada scoffed.

“Fair point…”

“How long did it take you to be friends, Leah?” She paused, and answered slowly.

“Two years maybe?” Elliott started laughing. “Ok, ok, I know, but I’m also.. I.. yeah I cant even defend that.” She giggled sipping on the last bit of her drink. “Oh shit, let me get another one…”

“Oh, don’t worry guys,” Ada interrupted, talking loudly enough that Shane would hopefully hear, “the next round is on me.”

Previous Chapter: Letter to an Old Poet

Next Chapter: Favor

[pillage-and-lute]

How about-Hanahaki disease? Gerald/Jaskier? Happy ending please!

Nonny! Darling you read my mind, I’m an ‘angst with a happy ending’ kinda gal. Just so we’re clear, I know nothing of flower meanings and I didn’t research.

TW: Gore

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Jaskier first coughed up a flower at age three.

Poets loved Hanahaki, it was considered romantic, and those prone to it were tragic beauties, destined to languish, delicately spitting blood and rose petals into a silk handkerchief. No one really wrote about how it could be brought on by deeply unrequited platonic love.

Jaskier coughed a violet into his little fist and brought it to his mother, who turned him away.

Fifteen years down the line and having graduated Oxenfurt with honors, Jaskier was old hat at taking care of Hanahaki. His feelings, although often unrequited, were also often fleeting. A night spent coughing tulips into a bowl and a sore throat the next mroning, but rarely more than that.

If it persisted for a week or more there was tea. Any apothecary in even a mid sized city carried it. It was putrid and thick and slid down the throat like a cup of slugs, but in the morning there were no petals, and after two or three days of the stuff, the disease was gone. 

He was almost thankful for being so prone to Hanahaki, it was romantic and lended much to his chosen profession. People gave him sympathetic looks and free drinks if he sang a sad song and discreetly spat a rose petal into a handkerchief. Most of the time he simply didn’t mind it, and considered himself twice blessed with his mobile heart.

Sometimes he had nightmares of what would happen if he found true love.

The notions of true love itself was romantic, but everyone knew that your true love, the one you were fated to, if they didn’t love you in return no tea would save you.

He’d watched a friend, a grad student at Oxenfurt, die of it. It was no delicate coughing into handkerchiefs, no poetic languishing. He’d held her hair back as she threw up petals and blood, crying as she clutched the bucket with skeletal hands because she could no longer force food down a torn throat. 

It had been so slow, she’d said between pulling thorned stems from her mouth. More than a decade of loving the boy she’d had a crush on in her small town village. She’d lived through it all, only occassionally throwing up flowers. Always snow white roses, for him, apparently. It would have been wonderfully artistic if Jaskier didn’t know how they looked covered in blood.

Then she’d gone to his wedding to the baker’s daughter and two weeks later he watched her cough out roots wrapped around a chunk of lung and screamed for a doctor knowing it was too late. The blood stain never washed fully out of the floor.

And she’d said it was worth it. That she wouldn’t have stopped loving him for the world, even as she said it through a throat full of thorns. 

Jaskier never understood it, leaping from town to town, avoiding long term connections while knowing all the while that if fate wanted him to fall in love he would. Denying Destiny only made things nastier, he knew. And then, in a tevern in Posada, with bread in his pants and a hole in his boot, his eyes met pure gold. 

It took a split second, less probably, for him to realize that, although he didn’t love the man yet, for love at first sight truly is a poet’s myth, he could love this man. And if he died for this man, maybe the love would be worth it after all.

The man was a witcher, who punched him in the gut and stank of onion and talked to his horse. Jaskier followed him anyway.

He followed him and coughed up flowers, different blossoms for different people, and he began to fall deeper in love. He wondered sometimes what flowers he would cough, as the bouquets turned into only one kind. 

What flower would represent Geralt? Not buttercups or dandelions, certainly. Perhaps if someone else were to catch Hanahaki for Jaskier those would be for him. Geralt wasn’t a dandelion. He was grumpy and spiky and after ten years wouldn’t even call Jaskier a friend. 

In the dead of night Jaskier feared it would be white roses, like he’d seen once before.

And then Geralt died in a collapsing building only to be alive and fucking a purple-eyed sorceress after nearly killing Jaskier with a djinn. Jaskier vomited flowers not twelve hours after vomiting blood.

Snow drops, tiny and delicate. And from that point forth he never coughed up any other kind.

It didn’t progress so quickly though. Jaskier had expected to die within a month of Geralt meeting Yennefer. He didn’t. Love and sex weren’t the same thing, and his love didn’t go totally unrequited either. It wasn’t the same sort of love, but in the quiet moments just after dawn it was enough. 

Then Geralt made a choice.

He wouldn’t kill dragons, he didn’t hunt sapient creatures, he wanted nothing to do with the dragon hunt, until he caught sight of Yennefer.

And that left Geralt and Jaskier, on top of a mountain, as Geralt screamed into the wind that Jaskier meant nothing to him. Jaskier felt the roots set in.

He wasn’t going to get the story from the others. He could barely breathe, the pain was so sharp and intense and he could feel it growing, feel the flowers growing. Little snowdrops had no right to be so painful.

He wasn’t going to make it off the mountain.

Jaskier took a different trail down, and then wandered into the forest a little way, coughing blood and stems the whole way. He collapsed under a tree, blood staining his doublet. He wished he had a friend to clutch his hand, hold his hair back and rub his back like he’d done more than twenty years ago. 

There wouldn’t be a funeral though. No one would know what had happened to Jaskier the bard. Worse, no one would know what happened to Julian, the person, the man. As he threw up a clump of flowers and blood he felt very much like the scared little boy who threw up a flower for the first time. 

It hurt. It burned and shredded his throat and he wanted a friend and he didn’t have any. He’d thrown all his eggs in one basket twenty years ago and Geralt had kicked that basket off the mountain. 

Jaskier leaned his lute up against the tree. It’d be such a shame to get blood on the lovely girl. He curled up next to it, in a fetal position on his side as the coughs wracked his whole body. 

His friend had lasted two weeks, he thought. But her rejection was a wedding. Not her best friend and the love of her life telling her never to see him again. That he was a burden. That if life or Destiny could give him one blessing it would be to take Jaskier off his hands. And Destiny was going to deliver. She had made Jaskier love Geralt, and she would kill him by it. 

Still, Jaskier would have given anything for the comfort of his friend right now. He began to cry, snot and tears and blood and petals all mixing. He couldn’t even breathe, his lungs burned so bad. 

His vision was blurry.

He could hear noises, tromping through the forest and who knew what awful creatures lurked here. Just like Dame Destiny to have him disembowled while dying of Hanahaki.

It was dark, but it had been noon on the mountain. Black clouds swirled and closed in his vision.

A strangled noise.

No monster made that noise. That was a man-made noise. It sounded very much how Jaskier had felt on the mountaintop. He retched up a flower and tasted pollen and iron.

“Jaskier!”

He didn’t remember hallucinations being part of the final stages, but the brain played funny tricks.

“Jaskier!” There it was again, and he was being bundled up tight to a chest that was not at all comfortable and smelled of horse and leather and sweat and onion. A buckle of Geralt’s armor dug into his cheek. Jaskier’s mouth was full of stems and roots.

GLoved fingers dug in, pulling snowdrops from between his lips and then Geralt kissed him. It was entirely awful and unsatisfying. 

Dimly Jaskier came to the realization that it was not supposed to a kiss, but Geralt trying to blow air into his flowering lungs. A nice gesture but unhelpful.

He lolled his head to the side to throw up another clump of root, not wanting to throw up directly into Geralt’s mouth. 

A shudder ran through the chest he was pressed against, like a tremor before an earthquake. Then a sob.

It was quiet. The worst sobs are. 

Geralt lay Jaskier down on the floor, one hand cupped beneath his head, gently cradling. Then the witcher curled next to him, face pressed against a pale neck streaked with blood, and cried.

Jaskier wanted to comfort him, to stroke a hand through soft white hair one last time and thank him for not letting him die alone. He just didn’t have the strength.

Another wretched, tiny sob, then, “I’m sorry, Jaskier. I’m so sorry.” Oh that wasn’t fair. A tear leaked from Jaskier’s eye.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt continued, face pressed into Jaskier’s collarbone. “I didn’t mean it, I was angry and tired and I’ve hurt you but please,” the voice faded to barely a whisper. “Please don’t leave me, I didn’t mean it, I love you don’t leave me here alone.”

Don’t leave him here alone. Jaskier though. Destiny owed him, owed them both for all she’d put them through. Don’t make him lonely, he prayed. I don’t want to leave him alone.

Geralt held Jaskier tighter, pressing even closer like he was trying to meld them into one. “I love you,” he said. “I’m sorry, Jaskier. I love you.”

The world went white.

Jaskier blinked his eyes open with blood in his mouth. It didn’t seem to deter Geralt, who kissed him so thoroughly his head felt light. Then Geralt pulled him upright. There was blood on the ground around them, some even streaked into Geralt’s hair. 

There were no stems though.

The forest floor had been carpeted for ten feet all around them with snowdrops, planted firmly in earth instead of lungs. They were so close together it looked like a sudden snowfall, trailing to fewer and farther between at the edges of their little pool of white. 

“I...” Jaskier said, letting Geralt pull him to his feet. He wasn’t sure what to say but it turns out he needn’t say anything. Geralt was clutching him like a lifeline and tucking a snowdrop into his hair.

“I smelled blood,” he said, lips brushing into Jaskier’s brown fringe. “I smelled blood and was so afraid. I haven’t been truly afraid in so long and then I found those wretched flowers.” Geralt took a shaky breath. 

“I truly thought it was too late.” He pulled back and looked into Jaskier’s eyes. Geralt’s own yellow ones were dry but the emotion was clear. “I thought I had lost you, my love.” A gloved hand, only slightly bloody stroked Jaskier’s cheek. “I thought I had lost you, my life’s greatest gift. And I wanted to lay down beside you and die as well.”

Jaskier chuckled wetly. “You overdramatic sod,” he said between watery sniffles. “What a ridiculous notion. And I can’t believe it takes me dying to turn you into a romantic.”

“Almost dying,” Geralt said firmly. There was panic written plain across his face, as if he was terrified that time would slam into reverse just to take Jaskier from him. Another embrace, just this side of bone crushing. “Almost dying, my love.”

“Not dead, my love,” Jaskier responded. 

As they made their way down the mountain snowdrops bloomed in their footsteps, but they were too busy looking at each other to notice.

[taetaesbaebaepsae]

Quiver (bbh)

Summary: You meet a man who seems to know nearly everything about you, save your name.

As with nearly every Baek fic I write, for @illneverrecover! Although she actually paid me for this one hahaha

Also thank you to my sister for betaing and making my gorgeous banner!

Warnings: angst, violence and death tw, unprotected sex, outdoors sex, oral sex (f. receiving), this is more soft and sad than horny tbh

Word Count: 10,219

Deja vu is something you don't feel very often, and so when it washes over you in a wave that leaves goosebumps on your flesh, you look around.

You're not sure what you're looking for, but you feel that when you find it, you'll know.

Your eyes fall on a man sitting at a table, looking down at a book. His hair is slicked back but with pieces falling into his face, and as if he knows you're staring, he looks up at you.

He has the warmest brown eyes, and something like a shock shoots through your heart. Your feet are moving before you realize it.

"Have we met before?"

He smiles, and your heart flutters.

"Maybe in another life."

His name, it turns out, is Baekhyun, and he works at some investment firm you've never heard of but it doesn't matter because he has the most endearing way of smiling at you while you're speaking to him.

You assume he has money because the car he leads you to is nice, not ridiculously so but expensive to upkeep, a foreign model that's sleek and your favorite color: red.

"Why red?" You ask, sliding into the leather seat of this stranger's car because you just know he's safe, somewhere in you.

He gives you that half smile again, the one that gives you something akin to deja vu.

"Reminds me of someone."

You wonder if you might fuck him on the first date, if coffee even counts as a first date, and it's the first time you've ever done that but when he makes you tea and you lean against his kitchen counter he gives you this look. It's like there's something dark and deep in his brown eyes, something both flirty and almost darkly lustful.

It makes your heart flip. It makes your body tingle. It makes you a little afraid.

But you've never been one to run from fear, especially when it's all wrapped up with excitement and lust.

When you're sitting on his couch and sipping tea he's swiveled his body toward you just slightly, open and inviting, but he doesn't make a move, just watches you, listens as you fill the silence, laughs when you make a face when you pick up his tea instead of yours, which is bitter and devoid of the sugar you love.

You make the first move, in fact, end up clutching at his shirt as you kiss his mouth over and over because it feels soft and his tongue is hot and it feels familiar.

His hands skate up your sides once, above your shirt, and then again, under it, and that feels familiar too, long fingers on your flesh.

"You haven't met your soulmate yet," the tarot reader said. You and a friend had visited her a few years ago, when you were half drunk at a carnival.

"At least," she'd continued, "not in this lifetime."

"Are you sure we haven't met before?" You ask, two weeks later when you've spent almost all

your free time with him, and most of it in his bed.

"Maybe in your dreams," he'd quipped, and you elbow him but he's already spooning you and you're too half asleep to do much damage.

"Always in mine," he says, softly, just as you're drifting to sleep, and you can't pry your eyes open long enough to ask what that means.

You start a fling of sorts with this mysterious man, and for the most part, you’re happy. But then you start having these dreams.

Sometimes, there’s fire on a wall in front of you and when you turn around it’s behind you, too.

You can feel your skin burning and you can barely breathe when you wake.

Sometimes there’s thunder booming all around you, lightning that streaks across the sky and you’re running and running toward someone, a man with warm brown eyes, but you can’t get there and when you look down you’re running in water up to your waist.

Always, he’s there. You suppose it’s because you and Baekhyun have been spending so much time together, that he’s in your head all the time as much as you hate to admit it.

Finally, he’s next to you in bed when you bolt upright, frightened by the thunder because it’s one of those fire dreams, one where you can feel the flesh on your arms crinkling, and it burns burns burns until it doesn’t, until you feel so cold you wake up shivering.

You’re afraid and disoriented and the dream all comes out in a rush — you tell him everything, small details about how you’re clutching a rosary in one hand, how the baubles on it popped n the flames, and he puts his arms around you, lets you bury your face in his chest as your heart rate slows down.

“Your name was Eva, then,” he murmurs, so quietly you’d think you were still dreaming.

Something about it rings true. You wonder if you’d heard that in the dream and told him still half asleep, so you nod against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes into your neck after pulling you into his lap and it’s so mournful it almost frightens you.

“You can’t help my dreams,” you say playfully, trying to forget it, and he gives you the saddest smile.

“No, not those.”

You keep having those dreams, and they get more and more detailed and sometimes your name is Eva and sometimes it’s Yui and sometimes it’s Sarabeth and they’re all different, you look different, but you always feel how it ends.

And Baekhyun is always there. He looks the same, unlike you, and sometimes he’s your enemy, sometimes he’s your friend but most of the time, he’s your lover.

The dream that finally makes you confront him goes like this.

Your name is Angelica and your father was royalty but you’re just a bastard, your mother a commoner, a servant of the crown.

Once you’re old enough to have his eyes, you have to stay hidden like some fairy tale princess. Except you’re no princess in your dusty cabin, and you learn to hunt small game so that your mother doesn’t have to steal so much from the castle. It’s good that you learn, because your mother stops coming to the cabin and you learn that the plague has taken her.

The plague has taken nearly everyone, and you haven’t seen another person in months when you happen upon a man.

You have your bow drawn before he ever sees you, the string (made of rabbit sinew because it’s all you had, the bow made of oak that you’d chopped yourself) and arrow pointed straight and true.

He shifts, turns around and you hesitate just a moment when you catch his gaze, something familiar in his deep brown eyes. It’s long enough for him to draw his own bow, and he’s quick, quicker than you are, so you let your arrow fly.

His arrow flies a second after yours and they meet in the space between you, shredding each other in two.

You’d thought, then, that it was an omen.

Good or bad, you didn’t know.

You’d run back to the cabin and locked yourself in, but he’d followed you.

A few hours later, he knocked on the door and your heart started to race. Your mother had warned you what men could do to an unattended woman.

There was nothing else, though, and you waited half an hour to open the door.

A basket is sitting on the doorstep, and it contains dried meat and fresh cherries and peaches.

You hadn’t had fruit in years. There’s also a small bouquet of flowers, filled with dandelion fluff and baby’s breath, a few blossoms of lavender. It smells lovely.

You take your time eating the peaches, they have the sweetest juice that you let run down your chin like a child.

It’s been so long since you’ve eaten well that you overdo it and your stomach feels tied in a knot, but you’re smiling when you fall asleep that night, for what feels like the first time.

There’s another basket at the end of the week but he’s standing on the doorstep with it, smiling.

“Maiden, I was wondering if you had any water?”

“Will you draw your bow again when I turn my back?” You ask, wary, and he shakes his head, laughing softly.

“You drew yours first, maiden. I was surprised. The plague has taken so many it seems like I’m the only one left in all the world.”

He doesn’t look intimidating, doesn’t look as if he’s about to rush you, but you’ll be damned if you’ll let a strange man into your home, so you sit on the doorstep with him and eat the peaches he’d brought.

He watches the juice drip down your fingers, how you lick it off, with something in his eyes you haven’t seen before.

You sit and chat for a while, still wary, but he keeps looking at you like that, and you wonder if this is what it feels like, if this is what is to be wanted.

Three days and three dinners of peaches and dried meat later, you let him inside for a glass of water drawn from the well out back.

He drinks it down like he’s been thirsty for days, and you feel guilty for not letting him in earlier.

The way he licks his lips when he’s done makes something flutter inside your stomach and you put a hand there, low, almost on your pubic bone.

He watches every move you make, this mystery man who doesn’t have a hint of facial hair despite living in the woods, watches where you place your hands and fingers, how you move your mouth. He watches you as if you’re something fascinating, like watching fire burn wood down to embers.

When you were young, your mother took you to the Maypole festival, and all the children had been given these long sticks to dip in the fire, to twirl them around and make shapes in the night sky. You’d done it over and over until the stick was burned down too far and even then, you tried to dip it and burned your wrist.

He looks at you like you’d looked at the shapes you’d made with the lit stick. With wonder.

The first time he touches you it feels like the first time you’d felt warm water on your skin as a child, warmed on the fire with an iron pot, your mother spooning it over you slowly.

He touches you that way, slowly, murmuring bits of your name and it slides off his tongue like honey.

“Angelica. Angel,” he murmurs, right at the shell of your ear, and your bones seem to turn to jelly as you melt into him, your back against his chest.

Your mother had told you that one day you’d have a lover.

“Not a king,” she’d said, “but something more.”

You’d asked her what’s more than a king and she’d only smiled, held a finger to her lips as if the two of you shared a secret.

You did, your secret was that you existed, that your father was who he was and that your mother wasn’t his queen, at least not in name.

You tremble underneath his hands and when he turns you around, presses his mouth to yours, he does it slowly. You’re the one who grabs the back of his head, threads your fingers through the long hair at the nape of his neck, wanting him closer, so close, wanting to burrow inside him and live there because you’re aching for him all over and you don’t know what it means.

“Let me call you by your name,” you plead when he’s kneeling before you, pulling down your underclothes, spreading the curls at your core where you’re hot and aching and wet.

He shakes his head. “I have too many names.”

“Tell me one of them,” you beg.

He doesn’t answer, presses his mouth to your cunt and you gasp, tugging his hair hard and he makes a low groan, throat exposed, that makes something come awake in your lower stomach, something somehow both like fire and honey, hot and slow and sweet.

“Give me your name,” you demand.

One corner of his mouth turns up.

“My name is Love,” he tells you, and presses his face back into your cunt, inhales like he loves the scent of you, his hands spreading apart your thighs so roughly that you brace your hands on the table behind you.

It isn’t a name you’d heard any man to have, but maybe he isn’t a man, maybe he’s one of the fae your Irish born mother told you stories about when you were a girl.

Maybe that’s the something more your mother told you about your future lover after reading your palm when you were sixteen.

You hunt together, and you’re in awe of how quick he is with his bow, how he shoots straight through the heart of even the smallest animals, voles and rabbits that you roast over the fire and feast on while he tells you wild tales about his brothers and sisters.

One rules the sea, he tells you, with a magic trident. One makes lightning bolts for his father deep underground where there’s fire so hot it melts rock and stone.

You’re fascinated, sit for hours just watching his mouth as he speaks and sometimes you vault into his lap mid sentence, silence him with your mouth on his because you want want want.

Your mother had told you many things about your future lover, about how you should be demure just like a man wants, but you can’t even try, not with him. Not with your mysterious, many named, no named lover, because he presses your nails deep into his chest when you straddle his hips, hisses when you leave bite marks along his throat and collarbone.

You pretend to be demure sometimes, if only to make him frown, to make him throw you down on your bedclothes roughly, to bite your lip bloody.

“Don’t pretend you don’t have talons, angel,” he growled, and you can’t help the way you laugh loud and open, even with your legs spread wantonly.

Physical love isn’t at all like your mother had described it, and you wonder if she’d only ever been with the king, with a man who cared so little for his paramours that he’d allowed your mother to die alone in the slums, locking her out from the castle so that his heirs might live.

It isn’t something that you lie down and take the way your mother must have, sometimes it’s animalistic, feral like you’d seen horses mate at the castle’s stables when you were young.

You present yourself on all fours and he slides his hands down your ass, grabs the flesh there to part you, presses his face into your cunt until your thighs are shaking. It’s not love that you feel during those times, not exactly, more like that want want want that you feel so often with him.

Your breath catches when he pulls your hair, wraps it around his fist so that your back arches, so that you twist to look at him. Later, when you’re both sweaty and sated, that’s when the love comes, loud and blooming in your chest as he kisses the fingerprint bruises he’s left on your hips, his fingers gentle on your sensitive skin until your breath slows.

Love is a thing that blooms, you would write if you’d ever been taught how. Love is my man’s name and it’s blooming in me like spring flowers.

You go for walks to gather berries because you’re too busy fucking to hunt and you can get by on a few more fruits and you don’t want to wake him. Once you’d brought home rose petals for tea and a piece of a honey comb that had made his eyes light up.

He’d spread the honey across your nipples, suckled and nipped there until you were sore, and one day, you want that again, especially the way his brown eyes sparkled when he’d seen it.

You have a way with the bees, after all, a way of singing high and sweet that makes them buzz around you slowly instead of angrily.

You’re halfway down the path before you realize you’ve left your quiver and bow. Love (both the man and the feeling) makes you feel stupid, heady and slow, and you pause for a moment, wondering if you should turn back.

Instead, you head forward because it’ll be sunset soon and you won’t be able to find that tree, the one with the beehive and honeycomb that your man loves so much.

It happens so quickly it feels like an instant. You step out from the bushes after gathering some blackberries, so juicy they’ve stained your fingers, and the next thing you know, you’re on the ground. When you try to stand, you can’t, a pain blooming (a lot like love) through your stomach and you’re sure there weren’t any raspberries so what’s this red spreading out onto the ground?

You see your man’s boots, barely laced, before you see his face and someone behind you is stuttering but you hear the swish of your lover’s arrow, a choked, gurgling sound and then he’s knelt down at your side.

“Angel, angel,” he whispers, and he’s crying and you want to tell him not to because it makes you afraid.

What’s happened? What’s wrong?

You don’t realize you’re not actually speaking until he cradles your face, lies down in the dirt to face you, and everything but his touch, his eyes, seems far away and unimportant.

“I’m sorry,” he says brokenly. “I need you to remember. When next we meet, remember my name.”

You want to. You want to remember everything about him but you’re sure that you’re floating away now.

“Baekhyun,” he tells you. “My name will be Baekhyun.”

As an immortal, it's hard to remember every moment. Years and decades blur together. The only moments Baekhyun can call to mind in perfect recall are the first times he's seen you

For a while, he’d thought Rome might be the worst lifetime he’d ever have.

He knows what he’s supposed to do, knows it’s his job, but he can barely ever bring himself to do it.

In Rome, you’re excited, young, bouncing around with your hair braided. Fire red, always red, always as fiery as your personality. “Eros, right? God of love.”

He’d smiled, wondering if he looked as tired as he felt. “You think I’m a god? I’m flattered.”

You scoff, swirl your dress around as you turn, speaking with your hands as always and his heart aches with how familiar it all is. “Don’t think that means you’re special.”

Baekhyun cocks an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yes. Means that you’re here to help me fall in love.”

“Is that so?” He can’t stop smiling at you, despite knowing what will inevitably happen next.

“Mmhm.” You’d taken his hand, flipped your braid over to the other side of your shoulder. He always tries. He always tries, gods damn it, damn his father and his brothers and sisters, he tries.

But there’s always this moment, where you take his hand, or brush your knuckles against his lips just so, or you just look at him up under your lashes, and the arrow he’s supposed to be aiming feels like it goes straight through his heart.

“I have someone in mind.”

It’s like the arrow in his heart twists, and gods know his arrows have always been true and fatal.

Your smile is so bright, and his heart is so full but it hurts at the same time and what a curse this is, to be able to fall in love with you so easily but have you fall for someone else just as fast.

He tells himself that he won’t try to change your mind, that he won’t let himself get close to you as you go on this search for your true mate.

You’d been childhood sweethearts, you and your match, but he’s been called away to war and you’ve been in mourning ever since.

He’s a god, but he is the god of love, after all, and with all your heart you believed that you loved another. He tells himself he’s doing the right thing… for the third time.

The first time, when it had all started, he’d fallen in love with you and seduced you and you’d forgotten all about your true match and it had all ended in fire and blood.

In Rome, in your third lifetime, he tells himself he won’t let that happen again. So when you put your hand on his thigh when you crouch down to drink on your journey, he wills his skin not to heat and his heart not to skip.

Three weeks in and you’re exhausted, your feet are swollen and bleeding from all the walking and you slide into his furs instead of your own, press your face against his chest.

“Maybe he’s gone,” you say, quietly, and Baekhyun is as still as death, telling himself he doesn’t want to lean down to kiss you, to tell you that it doesn’t matter where your sweetheart is because he’s here and ready and he wants you more than anything.

“We’ll find him,” he promises, and it’s a promise he keeps, even when you press your mouth to his and he takes it, this small comfort, until you fall into a fitful sleep.

Greece was bittersweet, because you found your match in the end and Baekhyun shot his arrow hoping that he’d miss. But his arrow was true, shot straight into the heart of your paramore.

You found your true match, fell in love, had children, and Baekhyun could have gone. Could have sailed away at sea, gone anywhere in the world. But even in Greece he’d spent three lifetimes with you (in one way or another) and he can’t bring himself to be more than a few miles away from you.

Instead, he’d watch you playing with your daughter in the garden, watch you kiss your husband, laughing into his mouth when he picked you up.

He watched you grow old, have grandchildren, plant roses that still never bloomed. You were never a gardener, no matter how you tried. It’s odd, how happy he feels for you, and how his heart clenches in his chest, how hard he wishes it were him.

He would never grow old, and he would never have you more than a few fleeting weeks, months, once even two wonderful years. Eros is love, and love isn’t supposed to fall in love.

So when he did, all those years ago, his father cursed him to find your match, over and over and over. It was you then and it’s you in Greece and Rome and England and Portugal and a thousand other countries that didn’t even have names when he’d met you there.

He’d thought Greece would be the worst because of the longing, because of the jealousy that brewed vile in the back of his throat, but Rome was much worse.

The Church ruled everything and at first Baekhyun thought that was normal. After all, when he was young he and his family had ruled everything. These are just different gods, although perhaps harsher ones.

They called you a harlot because of the fire red of your hair, the way you wore dresses slit up to your hip, the way you'd laugh if someone asked the last time you'd gone to confession.

"You should go to Mass," he'd warned with a lock of that fire red hair slipping through his fingers.

You'd smiled at him. "Why's that, lover? You want to hear my confession?"

He tugs your hair, exposing your throat as you let out a raspy moan, grinding against his thigh.

"What have you to confess, stellina?”

(Of all the languages and all the pet names he'd called you, stellina is his favorite, translates to star, and you burn so bright and beautiful it breaks his heart.)

"Impure thoughts," you muse. "Fornication before marriage.”

You pause. "This might take some time, amore."

You slide down under the linen, leaving open mouthed kisses and nips on his hip bones and thighs, and he forgets what he was going to warn you about.

(He loves any term you call him, in Spain mi corazon, in England love, in German liebling. But his true favorite is when you learn his name, his true name.)

You die fighting, that lifetime, clawing at the priests who’ve decided a witch needs baptism, holding you under the water until you finally stop, your nails broken and bloody.

Baekhyun finds you there, hours too late because he’d been sleeping off the night before, when he’d warned you about Mass, when you’d both stayed up all night, love talk and making love and a good deal of fucking, too, and he hates himself.

Hates that even though he is what he is, he needs sleep and food and water. He hates himself when he lifts you up, your fire red hair darkened by the water, hates himself when he kisses your bloody nails one by one and buries you behind the garden where you used to plant roses that never bloomed.

He hates himself most because it never gets easier, seeing you die, never gets easier knowing that he can’t, that he’s cursed to do this over and over.

In 1402, in Malaysia, you’d just had two streaks of red locks in the front, tendrils that stuck to the sides of your face when you were sweating, and you’re sweating when he first sees you, although you hit him before he ever sees your face.

You’d dropped down from a tree branch, locked your arms around his neck and cut off his airflow. It isn’t as if you could have killed him, but he respects it, all the same. You’ve got this little knife and you slice his throat but it doesn’t bleed, closes up as you watch and you drop to your knees, wide eyed but still, not submitting. Even when you know he’s a god, you never submit. At least, not that way.

Later, he kisses all the scars on your forearms and wrists, defensive wounds from battles and scuffles with the male soldiers who’d found you out.

"I never let them break me," you'd said, proudly, but there's something behind your eyes that makes him want to slaughter all the male soldiers in their sleep, bring you their heads, a sacrifice like the old gods had demanded.

As he had once demanded, before he met a human girl with an immortal soul full of fire and was punished for worshipping her.

Now it's 2021 and he's been through so many years, and he's tired. He's changed his name, over and over, from Eros to Cupid to then more common names.

He's been Baekhyun the last four lifetimes because you seem to like it, it makes you giggle in 1924 when your red (always red, red like fire and blood and love and all things that are important to him) hair was bobbed and you were wearing a black sequined dress at a speakeasy.

"Baek," you'd laughed, tipsy, one hand on his arm and he couldn't stop smiling at you. "Almost like Bark, like a dog."

"I'll be whatever you want me to be," he'd answered, flirting but also honest. He'd always been whatever you wanted because he got so few years with you, each time.

"You'd be my dog?" Your eyes sparkled with booze and excitement.

He nodded. "Follow you around like a puppy."

When you'd given him an incredulous smile, he'd opened his mouth in the middle of a packed speakeasy in New York City and barked like a dog.

The way you'd laughed is something he can hear in his dreams years later, tries to make it the memory he remembers most instead of the ones where you'd died screaming.

Now, there are no more gods who want you for sacrifice, all of his kind who were vengeful had gone silent, moved on or passed on, including his father who'd cursed him in the first place.

He's hoping, every lifetime, that this is where it ends. He's hoping that this time he doesn't have to tell you.

He's wrong, just like he had been in 1425 and 1604 and 1976. The curse outs itself, as curses always do.

You sit up in bed, watching him sleep and shivering, for what seems like hours after that dream.

He wakes slowly, but scrambles up into a seated position as soon as he’s fully conscious, being careful not to touch you.

“Do you remember?” He asks.

“I don’t know.” You mumble, even if you have a feeling you do.

“At some point, you always remember.”

“What are you talking about? Why are you so goddamn cryptic?” Your voice is hoarse and loud.

He nods, as if expecting your outburst.

“Sometimes you’re not ready to hear.”

You want to scream in frustration. “Hear what?”

“What I am. What we are.”

“And what are we?”

“Immortals.”

You gawk at him. He makes it sound so simple, like he’s talking to a child.

“You’re an immortal?”

“You, too.” He pauses. “Well, in a different way.”

“So what, you’re telling me that was real? My dream? Angelica?”

Baekhyun lets out a long breath, shifts on the bed to face you.

“You were Eva. Angelica. Yui. In Greece I called you stellina. You’ve had more names than I have.”

You look up into his eyes and if he’s lying, he deserves an Academy award for the performance.

“What… what are you?”

You aren’t sure if you’re frightened or intrigued or both.

Baekhyun smiles then, wryly.

“Eros. Cupid. Angelica simply called me Love.”

“You’re telling me you’re like... the god of love? The one with the arrows?”

He looks as if he wants to laugh at you but wisely, he doesn’t. Instead he nods.

“Is it… is it always like it was when… when I was Angelica?” You ask, breathing in deeply because you remembered the pain in your chest, the way the blood spread out on the dirt in your lucid dream.

“Almost always,” he says softly, and reaches out to put his hands on yours.

You would have thought you would have flinched away but instead, his touch seems to comfort you and you lean into him.

“What happens when I don’t?” You ask, curiously, and something shutters over his eyes.

“You’re happy.” He rubs your knuckles between his fingers.

It’s a lot to take in and you have a million more questions but also, you can’t think of a single one that you can put into words. You pace around the bedroom and when that’s not enough, your entire apartment, and then outside to the elevator and back and he stays put, sitting cross legged in bed and looking at you with those deep brown eyes.

Finally, you plop down on the edge of the bed, exhausted.

“So what do we do?”

He just looks at you, again with that bemused smile playing at the edge of his mouth.

“How do we fix it?” You demand.

Instead of responding, he takes your hands in his again, brushes his lips across your knuckles but this time you do recoil.

“I’m not going to die horribly again. You can’t want that.”

“Of course I don’t,” he murmurs, and you want a reaction, something other than the way he’s just looking at you so you shove him and he just lets you, falls back on the bed when you do it a second time.

“You just keep letting me die?” You accuse, crawling up onto the bed and he makes a growl in the back of his throat, grasps your wrists with one of his hands and pins you when you try to shove him again.

“I never let you die. I try over and over and over to save you, but I can’t. The only way I can save you is by finding-”

He looks away from you, shuts his mouth with a click of his teeth and you wriggle under him.

“Finding what?” You insist.

He lets you go, rolls over and puts his forearm over his eyes.

“Your true match. In all the lifetimes that you’ve lived to old age in, I shot my arrow to find your true match.”

You deflate, lying there next to him and staring up at the ceiling.

“So you’re saying in order to live like a normal person, I have to fall in love with someone else?”

“Yes,” he says miserably. After a few moments, he lifts his arm and opens one eye to look at you. “Got anyone in mind?”

You shove at his arm, but not as hard this time, and he breaks into a smile, takes you into his arms. You melt against him, just like before, because that’s what feels right, that’s what feels natural.

“That happened? Before?” You ask, stroking his hair and usually he preens at the attention, leans back to kiss you but now he buries his face in your hair, avoiding your gaze.

He murmurs something in affirmation and kisses just under your earlobe.

“You found someone else for me?”

He nods, still not lifting his head, and you huff out a breath, wanting some kind of reaction out of him.

“Was he hot?”

Baekhyun groans and laughs, rolls over onto his back. ‘You always do this.”

“Always do what?” You demand, poking at his side. “You know all these things about me...or well, some version of me, and I don’t know anything about you.”

He looks at you, smiling just a little. “You know everything about me.”

You huff, frustrated. “It doesn’t feel like it. I want to know more. I want to know how I died, why I died, what all this means.”

To his credit, Baekhyun tries to explain it to you. The curse, his family, but it’s all twisted up in your mind with these memories you have of him in past lives, of being so in love with him you can barely breathe, wanting him so badly you can barely sit still, and it ends with you tearing off his clothes and him laughing into your mouth as you guide him inside you.

After, you’re contrite, kissing along his collarbone.

“I don’t want you to find anyone else for me.”

Baekhyun makes a sound in the back of his throat and you don’t know if it’s surprise or something else.

“I don’t want anyone but you,” you continue, orgasm drunk and with this fire burning under your skin, remembering how Angelica felt, how Yui felt, moving closer to him on the bed because you can’t bear to have your skin not touching his in every place you can.

He pulls you on top of him, kissing you after you squeal in surprise and your lips feel swollen and bruised already but it’s the sweetest ache.

“I don’t think I could, even if you asked,” he admits, and something about the way he says it makes you proud, makes your heart swell. His hands skate over your upper arms and his touch gives you goosebumps.

“No?” You shift to spread your thighs, liking the way he hardens under you with just the barest movement.

Baekhyun shakes his head, his tongue coming out slowly to lick his lips. You see that you’ve bitten his bottom lip bloody and it sends a shot of heat through you.

“Usually I never found anyone else for you, not after I’d touched you. I started out meaning to find someone for you. Touching you first… having you first… it makes things complicated.”

You don’t speak but shift again and it seems to spur him on.

His face is flushed and it’s cute, makes you smile.

“You know why.”

“Do I?” You’re grinning now, like the cat that ate the canary, and he groans but he’s smiling.

He sits up suddenly, bracing himself against the headboard and he puts his hands on your hips to move you backwards so that his half hard erection sits right at the cleft of your cunt and when you gasp and try to guide him inside you, he tightens his hands with a slight shake of his head.

“You gonna make me say it?”

“You know I am.”

You gasp when he puts pressure on your clit with his thumb, humming in the back of his throat.

“I’ve loved you for centuries, and I’ll love you for centuries more, stellina.”

“What does that mean?” You gasp, your insides on fire with lust and love and full to bursting, rocking your hips forward and he gives you what you want, puts more pressure on your clit and lets you guide his cock inside you.

“Star,” he says softly, moving a hand up to cup your cheek. “Because you burn.”

You do burn, you burn inside and out and you want to tell him that you burn for him but he sticks his thumb in your mouth, presses down on your tongue just how you like and all you can do is moan around it.

He keeps his other thumb positioned just right so that you can rock against his hand and lift your ass so that his cock slides against your g-spot and you suck on his thumb until he hisses and bucks beneath you, moving so that you can lean down and kiss him hard, brace your hands on either side of him so that you can get more traction.

You’re sure that you’ll be sore in the morning, ever since you’ve met him (in this lifetime, at least) you’ve been in some type of bittersweet pain, an ache across your throat, soreness in your thighs and hips and ass where you’ve been riding him, a rawness deep inside from too much sex and not enough rest.

There’s never enough, never enough of your sweat misted skin sliding across his, never enough of his hand fisted in your hair, of his cock at the back of your throat, of his fingers hooked inside you. The past couple of weeks you’ve only left his apartment for work and a few changes of clothes (not that you wore them much, anyway).

It makes you feel more sane, knowing that you’ve wanted him this way in other lifetimes, makes you feel like the way you feel makes more sense, because you were beginning to think you were going crazy.

It isn’t as if he’s some kind of sex god, exactly, he just seems to know exactly what you like, exactly what you want, right away. That makes a kind of sense, now, how even when you’re on top he knows exactly what to do and say to get you to tip over the edge.

“I love the way you look like this,” he rasps, looking up at you as if maybe you are a star exploding and it isn’t just some nickname he gave you in Rome. “You’re so fucking beautiful, you know that?”

You cry out his name, throwing your head back when you cum and he palms his hands across your breasts and the stimulation across your nipples sends an aftershock through you right after. You’re like a ragdoll for a few moments after your orgasm and he shifts you around just like one, using you to get off and you kiss and kiss and kiss him, loving the way it feels when he spills inside you.

You say it then, maybe because he said it to you first or maybe just because your heart is full to bursting with it.

“I love you.” It’s almost defiant. “I love you, and I don’t want to love anyone else.”

He strokes your cheek where you’re still lying on top of him.

“I don’t know if we get a choice, stellina.”

There’s always questions when you find out, and Baekhyun is prepared for them. There’s often questions that hurt, somewhere deep in his bones, questions you’d asked over and over again.

Sometimes you’re curious about your other perfect matches, and that stings. Sometimes you want to know about your deaths, and those are hard memories to bring to the surface.

The question that always hurts the most, though, is the one you ask after you’ve both showered, lying sated and exhausted in his bed, the curtains blacking out the sun outside.

“Did we ever have children?”

You’re rubbing your stomach and there’s something caught in his throat and he has to cough to clear it.

“We didn’t. You did. Sometimes.”

You look up at him and frown. “With my true match?”

Baekhyun heaves a sigh so deep it hurts his chest. “With him, yes.”

You pause. “Was it the same guy? Same… soul, I guess?”

Baekhyun nods slowly, his heart sinking, but you don’t ask anything more, you just lie your head on his shoulder.

He wonders what you’re thinking, wonders where it branches off from here. He’s been here so many times before. He feels more tired than he should.

But instead of asking more questions or storming out crying or any of the things you’d done after you’d found out, you start to snore softly, curled up next to him.

Baekhyun wonders idly if he’ll be able to sleep, but he’s drifting off before he’s even completed the thought.

When he wakes, you’re gone, and he scrambles out of bed in his boxers to pace around the house. He can feel you aren’t around and it’s like a hole in his chest. It’s always been that way, he knows when you’re close and when you’re not, and you must be miles away because now, there’s nothing.

When he checks his phone you’ve texted that you’ll be back with food. He’s shocked that it’s nearly noon, it hadn’t even been sunset when he’d dozed off.

Perhaps immortals can be just as bone tired as mortals, sometimes. After a dozen lifetimes of fighting, he doesn’t know why he’s surprised.

He waits for you, sitting on the couch and idly flipping through the channels, and he thinks about when it all ends. His father had moved on, had no one worshipping his name anymore, and it isn’t as if school children are learning much about Eros, Cupid relegated to only one day out of a year with awful sour sweet candy and paper mache hearts. He’s stored his bow a few hundred miles away, hoping that this lifetime he wouldn’t need it, hadn’t actually found a true match for anyone but you in centuries.

Baekhyun wonders, with no real sense of urgency or fear, if this is the last lifetime. There’s a kind of exhaustion he’s never felt before that seems to weigh him down, and he’s finding it hard to care about anything but you. He hopes it happens before you pass, before the curse ends your life too young and too violently. He wants to move on and set you free, because he knows he can’t resist you for more than a couple of lifetimes. He’s tried too many times and failed.

You return bright eyed and with half a dozen books and a notebook, a pen pinched between your teeth.

At your urging he goes out to the car and brings in the breakfast you’d bought and you spread your books across the table.

“Greek and Roman Mythology for Dummies.” He reads aloud, laughing, and you look up at him from the floor and frown.

“Don’t judge me, this is all new to me.”

He holds up his hands. “Not judging. What’s all this for?”

“I’m going to find a way to end the curse, of course.”

Baekhyun sits down hard on the couch. “Oh.”

“What does that mean?” You demand, your nose scrunching up just a little.

He can’t help but smile at you, and he shrugs.

No reason to shoot down your hopes. Not yet, at least.

Four hours later, your eyes red rimmed from staring at books and your laptop screen, you jump onto the couch and into his lap.

“I found it!” You screech, and kiss all over his face.

Baekhyun smiles, kisses you back, and you make love there on the couch. You want to be bent over, his hand on the small of your back to keep you over the couch arm, up on your tiptoes and making a little grunting noise every time he thrusts into you.

Baekhyun may be exhausted after all this time but he never gets tired of this. He never gets tired of you.

Your moans are muffled in the couch cushions but he hears his name, the one he always uses with you, ever since you were Angelica and that hunter’s arrow had pinned you to the ground.

Baekhyun is tired. He’s tired in a way he’s sure no human ever could be. He’s tired of all the times he’s lost you, to your true match and then worse, to death, and he’s tired of living them over and over again.

But when you stand up, twist his face to kiss him, your eyes bright when you grin against his mouth, he thinks that it’s all been worth it.

You’re always worth it, and the thought of getting to meet you again, another you, is all it takes for him to keep going.

It takes a few months to get the time off work, match up travel plans, and get supplies.

Supplies meaning mostly travel gear and light clothes and a passport, the place you need to get to is high up on a cliffside in Northern Greece.

Baekhyun’s supportive enough, you guess, but you feel a bit nervous about his lack of excitement when you’re finally there, in Greece, at a gorgeous resort near the cliffside. Money hadn’t been a problem. Apparently when you’re immortal you manage to accrue a bit of savings.

“Aren’t you happy? Doesn’t this feel like home?”

Baekhyun laughs, loud and open, for what seems like the first time since you’d found out.

“This isn’t my home, stellina. I’m older than Greece.’

You blink, shocked. “But you are Eros.”

He nods. “I’m Eros, and Cupid, and Ishtar, and Kuni. Many gods and goddesses, different names. My duty and purpose was always the same, but I’ve never had a home. Except with you.”

He brushes your cheek with his nose and you sigh, hate that the way he says that so simply, as if it’s the whole truth, makes your heart clench.

“Still, you remember being here.”

Baekyun nods, staring out at the sea, reliving some life you only half remember.

You don’t ask many more questions, at least not until the next day when Baekhyun is listlessly pulling on his clothes and you’re tugging at his hands, excited, wanting to hurry and have this curse looming over your head end, so that you can stop thinking about it.

“Why aren’t you happier about this?” You pout, but you quiet when he looks up at you, his usually warm brown eyes dull and exhausted.

“You haven’t been sleeping?” You ask, softer now.

Baekhyun shrugs. “Some.”

Then he grins at you and there’s a flicker of life in his eyes. “I’m a very old man, you know. I need my rest.”

It makes you laugh, makes you forget, and you don’t think of it again until you’re hiking up the trail, about an hour’s long journey to reach the top.

He’s behind you by a few hundred feet and you frown at him, waiting until he reaches you. You’ve never seen him out of breath.

You take his hand, tug him further up the trail but it’s only a few moments before he stops, bracing himself on a tree near the trail.

“Stop,” he wheezes, and you do, tilting your head at him in confusion.

“Baekhyun, we have to-”

“Just stop,” He insists, and you’d think he was angry if his voice weren’t shaking.

“Why? What’s wrong? What aren’t you telling me?” You fire off at him, moving closer, and he shakes his head.

You take his chin in your hand and force him to look at you.

His brown eyes are still as tired as earlier, and wet now, too.

“I don’t want to do this again,” he manages hoarsely.

You take a step back. “Have we done this before? Have we been here before?”

Baekhyun doesn’t answer, but there’s a truth in his silence.

Your eyes begin to well with tears. “So what? Maybe this time it’ll work, maybe this is different-”

“It’s not different. In France you were called Jacqueline and we came here. You read books about it, forced me here just like you did this time. You were so certain it had worked.”

You shake your head but he keeps talking.

“You were so certain that after a couple of months, I was certain too. Three months later, there was a bus accident.” His voice breaks and he’s quiet again and you feel like you can’t breathe properly for the ache in your throat.

“We don’t know that will happen again.”

“I know!” He bursts out. “I know it will happen because it does, over and over again! Listen, we should go back to the hotel. I can get my bow out of storage and-”

“No!” You cry, stalking over to him. “No, that’s not the way to fix this.”

Baekhyun laughs bitterly, and he won’t look at you. “There’s no way to fix this.”

“You don’t know that,” you say stubbornly. “Whoever I’ve been in the past, I’ve never been this person, and I know I can fix it.”

He pushes himself away from the tree as if it takes effort to do it. “You always say that,” he says, and he doesn’t sound angry anymore, just tired.

You’re angry, heat rushing through your veins, and you don’t know if it’s at him or the fact that some ancient curse has decided to come through your life like a brushfire.

You push at him and he doesn’t fight back, doesn’t even keep you from pushing him against the tree.

“You don’t care, is that it? You’re what, bored of this? You want to get your bow so you can get rid of me?”

His jaw tightens and he looks away from you. “Maybe I do.”

You push him again and he has nowhere to go, backed up against the tree so he just takes it, stands there.

“Coward.” You spit. “You’d rather match me with someone else. You’d rather let someone else-”

“Stop it,” he says, something like a warning in his voice and you want to laugh or cry or both.

“Look at you. You can’t even hear me say it, but you’re going to marry me off like some 14th century child bride-”

“I’m not-” Baekhyun huffs, then stops, runs his hand through his hair. “He’s your true match. You… you always love him, when you meet him.” He struggles with the last sentence but he maintains eye contact, jaw working.

“Fuck my true match. And fuck you if that’s your answer to this.” You rage.

He doesn’t speak. “You’re always happy when you find him.” His voice is weak and it sounds like a weak excuse to your ears and you’re shaking with anger and fear.

You have this memory, sudden and sharp like a knife.

You're in this stone room, an inn you think, and you're half asleep but you can hear a low murmur from the room. It's familiar, from your traveling companion of the last few weeks.

His name is on your lips as you sit up but he's pacing around the room, not paying any attention to you. The way he's talking to himself makes you worried.

"You have to do this. You have to, you know you do," he mutters and there's something liquid in his voice.

Suddenly he slaps himself across the face and you yelp his name, stand up to take his wrist in your hand.

"Baekhyun," you whisper. "What are you doing?"

His face is flushed and his eyes look so tired, so worn, like he's lived a thousand years.

"I'm sorry I woke you," he manages, pulling away from your touch as if you'd burn him.

A few days later, his hands are shaking when he draws his bow, and your eyes are on him instead of your true match.

"Wh-what if you miss?" You whisper.

Baekhyun smiles but he won't look at you. "I don't miss."

He doesn't, but part of you wishes he had.

The memory just makes you angrier, makes you want to push him again.

“Am I? And what about you? What about you, Baek, are you happy without me? Are you happy giving me away?”

He scoffs, finally looking at you.

“No, really. Tell me. You must be happy giving me away because you want to do it so badly-”

“I hate it!” He bursts out. “I fucking hate it, every single time. I hate the way you look at him. I even hate how happy he makes you. I should be happy giving you away so that you can be safe, so that you can have the family that you want, but I fucking hate it.”

“Why do you hate it?” You demand to know, tears streaming down your face.

“You know-” he starts and you shake your head.

“I need you to tell me.”

Baekhyun puffs out his cheeks, he does that when he’s frustrated, when he wants to scream but you don’t have time to think about how cute it is right now.

“I hate it because I love you. I hate it because whoever your true match is, you’re mine.” He says, finally, heaving in a deep breath and exhaling slowly.

“Because I’m yours,” you parrot back at him, and his mouth opens, brows furrowed in a frown.

He takes a step toward you, now, but you don’t back away, and you don’t flinch when he takes your hips in his hands, tugs you toward him, claiming your mouth.

You claw at him, can’t help yourself and you don’t care that brambles are scratching your legs when he lies you down on the ground, don’t care because he’s panting your name into your ear, your name, not all those previous yous. You don’t care because you’ve chosen him, despite whatever the gods had determined to be your “true match.”

“We have to do this,” you tell him as you’re adjusting your clothes and he’s still lying there, panting.

He nods, as if humoring you, but he isn’t as listless when he starts back up the trail with you, keeping up with you and stealing kisses and making small talk.

You’re sweating by the time the two of you reach the top of the mountain, and when you look back, Baekhyun has fallen behind a bit, struggling up the hill.

You startle when thunder cracks overhead, sudden and close, but you walk back down the path to him, put your hand on his arm and he’s trembling.

“We’ve never made it this far,” he says, voice hoarse. “I don’t know what will happen next.”

“We don’t ever know what happens next, Baekhyun, but you know what happens when we don’t.”

Baekhyun shakes his head. “Not if you let me get my arrows, we can stop all of this, we can-”

“No!” You yell. “No, shut up about that, I can make my own choices!”

You tug on his arm and he stumbles forward only a few steps before stopping again and you can see the circle of stones at the top of the hill, where you’re supposed to stand according to the legends, and you haven’t done weeks of research and travelled across the world for nothing.

You take his hand in yours, squeeze, and look into his eyes.

“It’s okay,” you promise, and you have no idea what’s about to happen and it’s raining now, cold against your skin, but you know that you have to do this.

Baekhyun looks at you and there’s nothing in his eyes but fear and uncertainty but you tug at his hand again anyway and this time he follows without resistance.

It happens so quickly after that.

You step into the circle first, and he pauses, hesitating before breaking the barrier by stepping over one of the irregular stones. The second he does, lightning cracks above your head and you cry out, frightened.

Baekhyun grabs you out of instinct or some desire to protect you and you go down, scraping your elbows against the rock and sand as you try to catch yourself. Baekhyun puts his hands on either side of your head and it’s raining so hard that it’s all you can hear, that and the thunder, and there’s lightning everywhere, lighting up his features as he looks down at you.

“I was never strong enough to do this before,” he says, nearly yelling over the storm. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t-”

He’s cut off by another crack of lightning and he seems to be… lighting up, somehow, some glow that you think is from the lightning but then you see it’s coming from inside him. He arches his back, his face lined with pain and you realize something’s happening, something bad but when you reach up to touch him, he’s giving off so much heat that the tips of your fingers burn.

“Baek,” you whisper, and he manages to focus on you again. When he does, his face… it isn’t his face, but somehow you recognize it anyway and it keeps changing, cycling through all the lifetimes you’ve shared together.

“I’ve been so many things,” he says, and his voice is strong even over the chaos. “but I’ve always been yours.”

He manages to touch his forehead to yours and you’re terrified by the storm and what’s happening and especially how it seems to pain him to even move, how he’s glowing brighter and brighter until your eyes start watering.

He says your name but it’s your name and Jacqueline and Eva and Yui and so many others, all wrapped into one, and kisses you, the bright light coming from him forcing your eyes shut as he gets closer.

When you open them, there’s no sound of the rain or thunder and the ground under you is dry, as if you’d imagined it all.

But you can taste the rainwater in your mouth. You can still taste him there, too, but he’s gone.

You scramble up, yelling out his name and there’s nothing, just the sound of the birds in the trees. Moments before, the sky had been black, but now it’s sunny again.

You don’t realize you’re crying until you feel the tears running down your throat as you stumble down the path.

You’re sobbing by the bottom of the path because there’s nothing, no evidence he was even there at all. You’re remembering what he said, how he said you’d never been that far before, but you’re wondering if he’d known, anyway.

You’re wondering if breaking the curse means that he has to die and how all of this is your fault your fault your fault.

There’s a sound in the woods and you barely realize it until there’s a man standing next to you.

“Miss? Are you all right?”

You sniffle, looking up at him, and your breath catches in your throat.

It’s Baekhyun, just the same, wearing the wet and sandy clothes he’d been wearing just a few moments ago, but something’s wrong and you can’t rush to him like you want to.

“Baekhyun?”

He rubs the back of his neck, smiles a little sheepishly. “Is that my name? I seem to have forgotten it. I think… I think I got lost.”

You think about how this feels, how there’s not a single light of recognition in his eyes and it feels like your chest has cracked wide open. You think about how he must have felt this, over and over again, and understand why he didn’t want you to have to feel it.

You take a deep, shaky breath and wipe at your eyes with the heels of your hands.

“You’re not lost,” you tell him, and take his hand.

Baekhyun looks down at your hand in his and then back up to you, a smile breaking across his face. “No, doesn’t seem like it anymore.”

You’re trying not to cry as you lead him back to the resort when he stops and you turn back to look at him.

“I know this might seem like an odd question, but… have we met before?”

It hurts but you crack a smile anyway, remembering how he’d done this for you over and over, remembering what he’d said to you a few months ago.

“Maybe in another life.”

[a-scaly-troublemaker]

Cookies of the Same Batter

A/N: I don't always, but usually write ships.

TW: Panic Attack

Relationship: Espresso and Reader

The first time you realized Espresso had a panic disorder as well as anxiety was when he had a panic attack in front of you. There were too many judgemental eyes on him that day. You saw him clutch his head, his thought processes going too fast for him to keep up with. You saw tears stream from his expose eye and roll out from under his hair. Since you both were relative introverts, you kept a fair distance at first while he broke down, though it hurt you to give him space. He wrapped his arms around himself, and you kneeled, still roughly a Cookie's equivalent of a meter away from him. You remember that he mumbled something about there being too much disorganized noise, and you handed your headphones over to him. You'd been listening to Dandelions by Ruth B. for a while. When Espresso heard the song, his stress levels plummeted, much to your relief and his. He wiped his eyes.

"Excuse m-me for breaking like that. How unsightly and unprofessional of me..."

You reassured him that it was okay to not be perfect, which you hoped would ease his perfectionism and weaken his anxiety's hold on him. He relaxed at the comment, finally starting to believe it after you'd said it for the umpteenth time.

"Everyone makes mistakes, Es. Nobody is perfect. Madeleine might have failed someone once. The important thing is that you get picked up by someone and keep going, keep performing to your best. And the more mistakes you make now, the fewer you'll make later."

Espresso wiped his eyes.

"I suppose so..."

You stood up and offered your hand to him. He took it and rose to his feet.

"...this is a nice song, by the way." He commented.

"I thought so, too... lunch?" You offered.

"...sure." He'd smiled that day, and it was sweeter than usual. Your bond had deepened.

Fast forward a few months later, you hugged him from behind while he's doing his work, but made sure to start slow, as not to give him too much of a scare.

"Oh- Y/N, you startled me..." He chuckled weakly.

"Go to bed, Es. It's nearly midnight."

He sighed, now considering more than just the fact you'd pester him into sleeping. He was finally starting to slow down with his workaholism, and it was petering out to safe levels. After he'd gotten his meds changed, he'd been calmer. His anxiety was still there, but not debilitating anymore, thankfully. He smiled weakly.

"Alright, alright, my work can wait for now..."

You smiled at him from inside your hoodie, then ruffled the slightly shorter Cookie's hair. He pouted, which you had always found cute.

"Y/N..." He grumbled, elongating the last syllable of your name.

You only chuckled, knowing that if he really didn't like the teasing, he'd have showed you the door the already. You sat with him, drinking some herbal tea to ease your nerves while he sipped some that was mildly caffeinated. Low caffeine levels could actually help him sleep, while high levels woke him up. He made sure to take his sleeping meds, the ones Madeleine had bought for him, which brought a smile to your face.

He got talkative at this time, going on about his day, processing his emotions that he hadn't previously, and sighing a lot while he vented. You simply sat and listened, looking at him intently. Though he didn't leave much room for comment, you slipped in a few here and there.

"Aww, man, that really sucks. Cream Puff needs to be more careful when she's running through the halls like that. Or not run at all." You said. He listened to your comment, growing more exasperated with the situation as time went on.

"I know! I had to change into one of the spare suits in my closet, and you know how I hate tight clothes. I much prefer my loose mage's robes." He sighed, setting his head on the table. "It sucks."

You chuckled at how dramatic he could be.

"Well..." He yawned. "...I guess I should get some sleep. How about we meet up after my shifts at the Institute of Magic?" Espresso offered.

"Sounds like a great idea, Es. I'll see you tomorrow. Good night, coffee addict." You teased him just a little, not enough to genuinely annoy him. He groaned slightly and rolled his eyes, then headed to his bed and curled up in it when you went home. He didn't get out of his bed after that, which you commended him for later.

[phoenix-downer]

Spring Birthday

After Sora’s return, Naminé’s friends celebrate her birthday with her. While her early days were lonely, her life is very different now, and she treasures each new memory with the people dear to her heart.

~1650 words. Post-Kingdom Hearts III and Melody of Memory. Gen, Friendship, Fluff. Naminé POV. Written for @naminezine​, and the banner art is by the lovely @somniumars​.

“Naminé, when is your birthday?” Kairi asked over breakfast one day, scones with jam and clotted cream, served with a hot cup of tea for both of them. They liked to visit this cafe together at least once a month. It had outdoor seating, and the weather was finally warm enough again for them to sit outside with light jackets. 

Naminé stopped buttering her scone for a moment and frowned. It was a simple enough question, and yet she found herself unsure of what to say. 

“Well, I suppose it was the day Sora released his heart to save you,” she said at last. “But as glad as I am to be alive, it feels strange to celebrate that day, considering what happened.” 

“I understand,” Kairi said softly. “Are there any other days you can think of?”

Naminé paused once more and thought as Kairi sipped some more of her tea. The only other day she could really think of was… 

“The day of my rebirth. It was spring on Radiant Garden. The sun was shining, the flowers were blooming, and the weather was perfect.” She sighed happily at the memory. “I’ll never forget what it felt like to walk outside for the first time in a body of my own.”

“Then why don’t we make that your birthday? I know we technically missed it last year, when we were all searching for Sora, but it’s coming up here soon.” 

“Sure, that sounds nice.” Naminé put one more cube of sugar in her tea to get it to just the right sweetness, then added a little more cream and stirred. “I’ve never really thought about having a birthday of my own before.”

“Well, you deserve to have one,” Kairi said with a determined glint in her eye. “You’re your own person. Always have been, always will be.”

The two girls chatted some more as they finished their breakfast, and the subject soon slipped away from Naminé’s mind. It wasn’t until she and Xion were gathering shells together on Destiny Islands a few days later when the topic of birthdays came up again.

“See,” Xion said as she picked up a thalassa shell, “I like these ones the most, with the pink centers and yellow edges.” 

“I like them too. Yellow’s one of my favorite colors.”

Yellow was the color of the sun. A hopeful color for a girl that had begun her life in a cage, longing to see the outdoors for herself. For that reason alone it was precious to her. 

“You like blue too, right?” Xion said. She placed another thalassa shell in Naminé’s palm, this one with a blue center and yellow edges.

Naminé nodded. “Yes. Blue is the color of the sky… of the waves… all the things I longed to see when I was imprisoned in Castle Oblivion.” 

“It suits you, and so does yellow,” Xion said with a smile. “Born from the waves, and reborn during the spring.” 

“Xion, when is your birthday?” Naminé suddenly asked. She realized she hadn’t really gotten to celebrate it with her before. 

“Oh, my birthday? I figured it should be during the fall. I don’t know why, but I’ve always been drawn to falling leaves, the seasons changing, that kind of thing.” She smiled ruefully. “I suppose because I felt like my time was limited, just like those leaves. Kairi actually asked me about it recently, I think because she wants to—”  

Her eyes went wide, then she coughed and craned her neck. “Look, I see some more shells over there!”

Naminé found Xion’s startled reaction rather curious, but she didn’t press her friend. It was just nice to spend time together sharing a hobby they both enjoyed. For a girl who had started life with no friends of her own, Naminé was lucky to have so many now. 

The next time she met with her friends, it was for a picnic on Rapunzel’s world, in a clearing in the woods near a small pool. The weather was perfect, sunny with a breeze blowing dandelions and flower petals through the air, and she and Sora and Rapunzel were all cloud gazing after a delicious lunch of sandwiches and cookies and lemonade. 

“See that one right there?” Rapunzel said, pointing up at the sky. “It looks like Maximus.” 

“It sure does!” Sora put his hand behind his neck and grinned. “The sky’s full of all sorts of interesting clouds today.” 

“I wish I had my sketchbook with me,” Naminé said with a sigh. “I’d love to draw all of them.” 

“Take a picture with your Gummiphone then,” Sora suggested. “You can always draw it later based off of that.” 

“I’d like to, but I’ve run out of room in my sketchbook. I could really use some new pencils, too.”

Sora and Rapunzel exchanged glances, and Sora grinned.

“Naminé, you should come to the castle,” Rapunzel said. “I’d love to show you some of my art supplies. Have you ever tried painting before?”

Naminé shook her head. “No, I haven’t, but I’d love to. Thank you for the invitation.”

“What are we waiting for? Let’s go now!” Sora sat up and sprang to his feet. 

The three of them spent the rest of the afternoon trying out Rapunzel’s art supplies. Well, more like Rapunzel showed Naminé her things and let her try them out while Sora kept typing away at his Gummiphone. Naminé giggled at how he still typed with one finger, like a bird pecking at grains of rice. 

“There we go,” he said all of a sudden, then put his phone in his pocket. “What’d I miss?”

Naminé and Rapunzel both giggled and showed him what they’d made: a painting to hang on the walls of Naminé’s room in Twilight Town. It was of the beautiful woods where they’d had the picnic with dandelions flower petals floating through the air. As soon as she got home, she put it up and gave it a satisfied nod.

The days flew by until at last it was the anniversary of her rebirth. There was a knock on the door late in the afternoon, and when she went to get it, she was surprised to see Riku and Roxas waiting there for her.

“Hey Naminé,” Roxas greeted with a grin. His eyes were playful, like he had a big secret he couldn’t wait to share.

“Come with us, there’s something we’d like to show you,” Riku added, and she ducked back inside to grab a few things before following them through the woods and to the Old Mansion. 

“Why are we here?” she asked. 

“You’ll see,” was all Roxas and Riku said, and she followed them inside. She was shocked by how nice the entrance looked, like someone had been in here and cleaned things up—

“Surprise!”

She gasped as she entered the foyer. A huge banner hanging from the stairs read Happy Birthday Naminé, and all her friends were gathered around a large table in the center of the room. The evening light shone through the window behind them, pink and purple and blue, another gorgeous twilight on this world she called home now. 

“Happy Birthday Naminé!” her friends all cheered, and she couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face. So this was what they had been plotting and planning all this time. Roxas grinned and grabbed a camera to take a few shots, and Sora and Riku had some of those confetti poppers that they popped with loud crackling noises.  

The seashell decorations were yellow and the star candles were blue on the cake Xion held. Axel lit the candles, and they cast flickering lights and shadows over everyone’s faces.

Kairi leaned close and murmured, “Make a wish, but keep it secret.”

“A secret?” Naminé asked, tilting her head.

“It won’t come true if you tell us,” Ven explained, and Terra nodded. 

As Naminé looked at the faces of her friends, what she should wish for became clear. She knew, deep in her heart, what she wanted more than anything.

With that, she blew out the candles, and everyone cheered loudly. Aqua swept the cake out of Xion’s hands so she could cut it properly, and then everyone sat around the table. The cake was delicious, vanilla and lemon, and after everyone was done eating, it was time for Naminé to open her presents. 

“Here!” Sora said, his eyes shining as he handed her the first one. “It’s from all of us.”

Naminé’s hands shook as she removed the wrapping paper. She wasn’t used to getting gifts, and it took her some time to free the box. But once she did, she couldn’t have stopped the smile on her face even if she’d wanted to.

“They’re like the paints Rapunzel has! And in all the colors I like too.” She hugged the box to her chest. “Oh, thank you so much everyone, I can’t wait to use these.” 

When she was finished unwrapping the rest of her presents, more art supplies and nice jewelry and cute clothes, she thanked her friends for making this such a wonderful birthday night. But there was one last thing that would make it truly perfect.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Naminé said, “let’s make a painting together. So we have something to help us remember tonight.”

Naminé loved drawing on her own, but drawing with her friends was truly wonderful. Everyone brought their own unique spark to the table. And when the painting was finished, it was one huge flowing mosaic of color and life and creativity. Sure, it wasn’t a masterpiece, but it was something truly unique that only they could have made. And that was why it was a work of art. Not because it was perfect or technically skilled, but because it had their hearts poured into it.

Naminé couldn’t have asked for a better way to commemorate her birthday.  

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A/N: Thank you so much to the mods for making this project possible and for being so caring and supportive! And thank you to the other contributors, this zine was such a joy and I enjoyed talking to you all. A big thank you too to Somnium for drawing the banner! I really enjoyed working with you!

And thank you for reading!

[poormeowmeowcollector]

We would name our children Jackie and Wilson

Relationship: Loki/Female Reader (Hozier did the gender first, don't @ me)

Warnings: Major Character Death, Mourning, mental health, alcohol.

Summary: Your relationship reminds you of a nice soft song. But things are not always so sweet.

Notes: this is part of a somewhat Collab with @lucywrites02, her part is done and can be found here, read it to soften the pain. I would say that I'm terribly sorry for the pain ahead, but I'm not. Meaning of the song can be found here, I used it for reference

Read On AO3

So tired trying to see from behind the red in my eyes

Loki fights for a deep breath.

It's just your face, you idiot. What are you afraid of? This mean voice from the back of his head asks.

They manage to draw a shaky inhale and puff it out, finally opening his eyes and staring at the reflection.

But those hateful crimson eyes staring back is too much, even though they look at them behind tears.

"Maybe another day…" he sighs and wears the illusion again. But the bloodshot eyes stay, this time not because of the Jötunn form.

No better version of me I could pretend to be tonight

For how long will you hide from the monster you are? This same voice asks in the dead of the night.

Once again, it's not mistaken.

"I can't walk amongst mortals like this. This illusion helps me avoid some of the staring," they respond. It's a beautiful lie, Loki almost believes it.

Still, it will break down. Like everything does.

This argument stays and torments him for the rest of the night.

Soul deep in this swill with the most familiar of swine / For reasons wretched and divine

Stark had suggested another night out on a bar. Loki usually declines, but comes to this one.

Soon enough, everyone is drunk and happy. Alcohol from Midgard is like a beverage for Æsir, and Loki can barely get tipsy. But Loki still decides to drink.

This period had some very successful missions, and the avengers are celebrating it by drinking. Little do they know that Loki drinks for a whole more different reasons…

She blows out of nowhere, a roman candle of the wild

It's late. Loki's surely past the tipsy phase, but still has control. So, they just sit on a bar and watch the others have fun.

"Would you mind some company?" you yell from a part of the crowd. Loki tries not to flinch, loud sounds do no good at him.

Then they see you, all smiling and beaming like a firework, drink in hand as you walk closer and point at a stool beside him.

They have to admit, you look ravishing.

"You're free to sit, if you want to," he smiles back and nods at the seat. You grin and slide there, placing your drink in the bar and having your attention to them.

"Are you not afraid someone might drug the drink?" Loki winders, eyes on the cocktail.

"Sitting beside an Avenger is safe enough, don't you think? And it's rubbish anyways, I probably won't finish it,"

Midgard has different communication patterns, and Loki's inability to catch up in time has made their silver tongue rusty and useless. But you make a conversation with him out of nowhere, like it's the most easy thing.

Laughing her way through my feeble disguise/ And Lord, she found me just in time

A few days later after the night out, the sparks of happiness you casted on Loki's heart have died out. But Thor insists that being out of the four walls of their chambers will do good to him, and Loki gives in. They wear an illusion to hide the mess that he is in and join Thor on their afternoon walk around for some food, mostly.

During the hours long conversation, you didn't mention that you work for Stark, in the Tower. They smile and call your name the sparks igniting inside his heart once again. It gets stronger when you give them this glowing smile and walk closer.

"Brother, will you mind if I get stolen for a moment?" he turns to Thor.

"Have fun, brother," he smiles before greeting you and leaving.

"You know, there's a nice coffee shop with a big tea collection, what do you think?" you beam, knowing it's an offer Loki cannot resist.

It's not far away, and truly a sweet little place, crammed between the offices. You order your drinks and settle on a table nearby. You give Loki the chair with the view on the passers by, sitting so you can only see them and the wall behind him.

"You didn't say you work for Stark," they hum, taking a testing sip of the dandelion tea that caught his attention.

"That's cause I work for the Avengers, technically, not Stark. Mission support agent, Romanov brought me here," you shrug one shoulder. Loki can't hide a smile, they always had a soft spot for humble warriors, for they're so rare on Asgard.

"Odd, I don't remember you in any field," he mutters.

"I haven't gone on a mission with you. I find it insulting for a God to be supported by someone who learned how to tie their shoelaces at age 12," you laugh. Loki doesn't share the enthusiasm for the 'joke'.

"You'll be the best support, if you ask me," they smile, and change the subject. And then, you throw this damned question.

"So, how are you doing?" you trail off.

"Just fine," he scoffs. You see through it like they're the worst liar ever.

"I know we're somewhere public, but you are allowed to be honest," your eyes scan him.

He takes a deep breath and makes an illusion of you and them just talking. Then, he lifts his own.

Your face stays almost unreadable as the green glow reveals the mess of them. Expect for the eyes that speak of sympathy.

Underneath the table, you cup his right hand, your thumb petting it. "If you want to, we can go somewhere more private. Your call,"

"Only you can see this. Don't worry, I'm not making a fool out of you," they laugh without humour, voice almost breaking. You now squeeze the hand.

"You'll have to actively try to make a fool out of me, your highness. It's your boundaries I'm worried about," the playful tone leaves you as you speak.

You've barely done anything, but Loki is already determined to kill for you.

Cause with my mid-youth crisis all said and done / I need to be youthfully felt 'cause, God, I never felt young

"Forget it, I'm not doing it. It's stupid!" he tries hard not to yell at you.

"But it's going to be fun! Come on, you can cast an illusion if you're embarrassed. Didn't you have fun as a teen?" You grin, pleading for them to come.

Little do you know that the last question feels like a knife in the guts.

"No," he whispers.

"Okay then. I'll be there with Sam, you can pop up if you change your mind," you sigh. It takes some minutes for them to realise what you just said.

"Allow me to rephrase it. No, I didn't have fun as a teen, I had to prepare myself for the throne I wouldn't take. And… this park will do nothing but remind me what I've lost. I'm sorry but I can't come nor change my mind," he fights against tears as he talks, your eyes on them. You walk closer and cup one cheek, letting them rest their head.

"Society says that you must have certain experiences at certain time frames. It's wrong, especially for someone who will live for as long as you. There's always time to replace things you've lost, the question if if you'll do it or not,"

Loki gazes at you and takes a deep breath, in, holding it, and out. Almost like he's smoking the air.

"Fine. But don't force me to stay if it's too much," they smile weakly, but it's genuine.

"Have I ever forced you?" you grin and place your forehead against his. "And anything critical to your physical health doesn't count,"

They laugh before nodding a no, a small kiss being blown in your nose.

Lord, it'd be great to find a place we could escape sometime / Me and my Isis growing black irises in the sunshine

Out of all the things Loki expected his fallen heart to do, daydreaming was last on the list.

They're a realist, always have been.

But the image of him and you in a nice stone castle in the middle of the woods is too perfect to resist. How you two would wake up and sleep together, have no one and nothing to make you feel anything but bliss. The two Monarchs in your little kingdom of two residents

Norns, they haven't even talked to you about these feelings. And he's already scheming his retirement with you.

How are you doing this to them?

Every version of me dead and buried in the yard outside / We'd sit back and watch the world go by

"That's it, Laufeyson," he's glaring at the mirror, one finger pointing at the glass, "no more lies. Fuck those illusions and games and just say the damned words!"

They sigh and run their fingers through the hair, testing if the smell of smoke is still in there, after five sessions with the shower. He has noticed that you don't like the smell, when you keep some distance on his bad days. And stinking on a moment like this is the least they want.

"Alright… into the battlefield…" he conjures his weapon, a bouquet of black irises, your favourite flowers. They finally teleport themselves on the field, outside your door.

Goal of the mission: be vulnerable.

He rings the bell, fixing his already perfect posture before you open the door. This smile they know and love so much is on your lips.

"You didn't have to! Come in," you exhale, beaming as you make space for him to walk in.

They call your name, the tone making your smile drop. "I have to tell you something I've been hiding from you for a while…" he sighs.

You nod, the agent face on. A green shimmer makes the flowers rest in a vase on the coffee table, Loki's hands now free to pick on each other.

"I appreciate your friendship, more than you can ever imagine. You're the only person who has reached out to me like this for eons. But, my heart has started to yearn for more. I've fallen for you, hard. And I can't keep the illusion anymore," they recite, eyes scanning your unreadable face. You stay dead serious, making Loki's nerves eat him up.

"Took you long enough," you grin and bring them down to a kiss.

It's nice and warm and slow, one devouring the other while also offering the best you can. Then, a salty taste makes you break the contact and cup Loki's face.

"Love, why are you crying?" you whisper, wiping away the thin paths the tears have crossed. He hasn't even noticed he's been crying.

"You can't imagine how happy you make me… I love you," they whisper.

You barely have time to say anything before he pulls you into the tightest hug possible, tears streaming down to your shirt and those three words coming out of their lips again and again like a prayer.

Loki has no idea how many lifetimes he washed off within just one hug, but a weight they never noticed they carried was gone when you break the embrace and stare deep into his now puffy eyes.

"I love you too,"

She's gonna save me, call me baby / Run her hands through my hair

"I'm telling you, you have to be more careful in the missions. Yes, you are a God, but don't be so reckless," you groan as you rinse them with water and try to remove the blood and dirt from their hair.

Just the right amount of strikes, and he now can't lift his hands enough to wash his own hair. If you weren't so good at it, they would refuse to stoop so low.

"It was supposed to be abandoned. How would I know that it wasn't? I'm a God, not a prophet," he sighs, holding his sides. Even talking is making their scattered ribs pierce him… "And I did call you to save my arse, that's the exact opposite of recklessness,"

"If you say so. But what will I do if one day my baby comes home with something more than a wretched ribcage?" you laugh.

They try to answer but both the pain and the pleasure from your fingers on his hair, massaging his scalp with shampoo, are making his tongue a knot and his throat release one moan of pleasure after another.

She'll know me crazy, soothe me daily / Better yet, she wouldn't care

You walk through broken mirrors and scattered furniture, reached out to Loki, who's hiding their head between their knees.

You don't say anything, you just play with his hair. It's cold, much colder than usually. But you don't care.

"Leave, please. You'll get hurt," their voice is growly from the smoking but weak.

"Forget it. I'm not leaving you alone in this state," you declare matter–of–factly. A sound comes out of his throat, something between a chuckle and a cough.

They snap their head up, blue and scarred cheeks wet with tears and flaming red eyes with blue veins all over them drilling holes in you. "Do you dare say this in my true face? Declare that you care about a monster?" He spits, lips shaking as they try to hold back another crying fit.

You face stone, you grib his cheeks to stop them from breaking eye contact. "I am not leaving you alone like this, because I care about you and I love you. And, I don't give a fuck what others have made you think of yourself, you're anything but a monster," you keep your voice steady, trying to physically pin those words in his mind.

They sigh and lean against your hands, eyes closed and breaths slow as tears start rolling down his cheeks again. They turn to kiss your palm, now the rest of his body relaxing and hands bringing you close to a hug. "Thank you," they breathe out against you, the weakest of smiles forming slowly.

We'll steal a Lexus, be detectives / Ride 'round picking up clues

"Feet off or I'll chop them off and put them in the truck," you snap, eyes on the road as you try to find a place to park.

"Relax, it's not ours," Loki brushes off the threat. You sigh and park the car among some trees on the edge of the road, hoping no one will see it. He tries to mask it, like always, but you can see how the pain is making their features harsh.

"You can drop some spells, we're well hidden," you point out, watching as the pale skin starts melting and dark azure replaces it. Your skin crawls, you don't know if it's the cold or the awe. Loki breathes out, head resting back on the seat. "I didn't know the illusion is so painful," you think out loud.

"When running so low on rest, everything is painful. Now, where are those files…" they mutter and turn around, searching for the yellow case in the back seat. "Here. Do you have any idea?" he asks, giving you the file.

"I'll probably find something to milk. Now get that rest before you pass out on the field," you glare at them with that Look. He grins and nods before laying against the window, a thin layer of frost already forming.

Then, they start laughing.

"What's so funny?" you ask, not looking up from the report you're reading.

"Before I even talked to you, I had the honeymoon trip already planned in my brain, with too many versions to count. This wasn't even on the list," he straightens up and smiles. You laugh too.

"Well, it's not exactly as bad as you make it sound,"

"Norns, are your standards so low or are you so disappointed in me?" They raise one eyebrow.

"Neither, love. Now get rest before I have to knock you out," you smile through threatening him.

"Kinky, might try it later," they wink and lay back down, his breathing deepening some minutes afterwards.

We'll name our children Jackie and Wilson / Raise 'em on rhythm and blues

You're laying against them, smiling like an idiot as he runs a hand on your stomach and feeling this new anomaly.

"Are you sure?" you ask, watching a small wrinkle from between their brows.

"Yes. Two of them. Perhaps boys but I can't tell yet," he whispers, hand still resting there even though the spell is over.

"Twins… we will become parents," you smile, breathing out and laying against their shoulders.

Loki calls your name. You turn around and he rests his forehead against your own. "I love you so much, you know that? All three of you," they grin. You chuckle and close your eyes, accepting the kiss that's definitely coming.

"You know, we'll have to name them something," you point out after they break the kiss.

"Narfi and Vali," he's… quite fast on picking up the name.

"No way,"

"Why?"

You freeze. "It's silly…" you mutter.

They cup your face, glowing green eyes on yours. "It's bothering you,"

"It's the myth… how Narfi and Vali suffered in the myth because of your… because of Loki's mistakes… I don't want this to happen to the little guys," you sigh.

"Then, do you have to suggest another name while I'm trying to think of a second choice?" he smiles.

"It's even more silly," you giggle.

"At least it won't be your mythological dead kids,"

You take a deep breath. "Jackie and Wilson, from the song," you are ready to hear them laughing at you for the suggestion. But he just smiles.

"Jackie and Wilson…"

Cut clean from the dream that night, let my mind reset / Looking up from a cigarette, she's already left

Loki has no idea how long they've been staring blankly at the ashtray, the suit in front of him mocking him.

It's maybe the first time they're so hesitant about wearing all black.

It was supposed to be a small mission, nothing dangerous. You were supposed to be back, safe, within an hour.

You were supposed to raise your sons and retire in that castle in the middle of the forest.

Why was he so foolish to believe that he deserves a happy ending?

"You have to collect yourself. You have to say the farewell, a fucking thank you for all you've got from it, you coward!" they spit at the mirror opposite to them, hand tensing and breaking the cigarette in half.

A deep breath, in and out, a tight squeeze on the wedding ring hanging from his neck, and they stand up to put the damn suit on.

I start digging up the yard for what's left of me in our little vignette / For whatever poor soul is coming next

The funeral is over, the farewell has been said. But there's a small dinner coming afterwards.

Out of all the public appearances, this is by far the worse. Malevolence is something Loki has learned how to deal with a long time ago. But these eyes of pity are unbearable.

The strangers, probably reporters or Stark's acquaintances, coming to express their "condolences" are at least few enough to allow Loki to slip away to the bathroom.

He sits on the cold floor, this numbness drowning him. They hoped you had made it go away, but you just suppressed it. He wants to cry, to scream, to beg to whatever cruel Deity did this to bring you back. But their mind cannot give the order.

He takes your phone out, opening the music app and wearing your earphones. They press play on the last song you listened to, only to hear some familiar chords echo from the small device.

You were muttering this song all the time since you found out about the pregnancy, it's no wonder it's the last tune you listened to. But the upbringing melody of the song and the dark emptiness in Loki's heart are painfully opposite.

He sits there and listens to the whole song in silence, trying to milk some happiness out of it.

But they only manage to whisper along the last two lines, or an alteration of them. Just before he starts weeping at the tile floor until Thor finds him.

"We would name our children Jackie and Wilson, Raise 'em on rhythm and blues,"

[vibing-and-writing]

dandelions & beginnings

A/N: so... in case yall didn’t know i love Jean lmaooo. this has been occupying my thoughts for a hot minute and i also wanted to work on like a different style??? honestly i have no idea bUt i hope you enjoy this. there will definitely be multiple parts to this so lmk if you enjoy it!! 

Summary: A ballroom and and accidental meeting was all it took for a beginning. 

Jean  Gunnhildr X Reader (GN)

Clean linen and a bouquet of flowers. That was what she smelled like when they bumped into each other. Like lightning striking, there was a faint pause. A stare and an apology for the jostle. As she walked away, they stayed, stunted at the lightness in their chest, the chaos in their stomach. Like dandelion seeds blowing in the wind, the same dandelions embroidered on her coat. 

She was a guard, they noticed, a sword hung delicately on her belt. A beautiful bird around the hilt of the sword. Beautiful, like everything about her, they’d assume. 

It always started like this. A quick glance at a pretty woman and they’re interested, though something seems different. Every glance they make, she seems to catch. Every chance at conversation, she reciprocates. An underlying interest, they assume, finding a new friend in an unfamiliar place. Introductions are had, and then the evening chill sets in. They’re conversing, learning more about each other, and cataloging it for later. “And then I punched him,” they finished, laughing at the memory. They were an adventurer Jean noted, from then on keeping her ears out for their name in the Adventurer's Guild. Another thing she noted: they were cold but wouldn’t admit it. Jean looked at them consideringly, her head tilted slightly. “Would you like my coat?” Jean asked. They replied with a small nod, and suddenly they were enveloped with warmth. It’s a friendly gesture, a test of trust and generosity. 

Clean linen and flowers were their new favorite smell. Glancing at Jean, they took in her appearance. A dress shirt was underneath, professional and free of any wrinkles, her sword on full display without a jacket to hide under. Beautiful and deadly, they’d never known those two words would describe someone, but life is dull without surprises. 

“Do you attend balls often?” they inquired, genuinely curious to what her activities that Acting Grandmaster entailed. “It’s a formality,” Jean answered, seemingly more relaxed she could drop her facade. “But yes, I do.” The adventurer hummed in understanding, politicians, and people in power from different nations talking throughout the venue. “How’d you get an invitation?” Jean inquired in return, glancing at their formal attire and jewels. Wrinkled and well-loved, they called it their favorite outfits, though the shoes were scuffed. Glancing at Jean cheekily, the adventurer grabbed a glass of champagne from a waiter that passed by. “Didn’t get one,” they answered simply, letting the statement settle in before taking a sip. Letting her eyes widen slightly, Jean glanced around the room for listening ears. “How did you get in here?” Jean asked, a little impressed but also exasperated. She was supposed to be secure after all. The adventurer let the question hang in the air with another long sip, their rough hands leaving the glass on a nearby table. “That’s for me to know and for you to never figure out,” they replied. Jean knew she should be more concerned, but she couldn't be bothered as a laugh took over her body. A full-body laugh, her hand hovered over her mouth to control it. When her laughter subsided, she laid her hand on her hip and her other pointing an accusatory finger. “I should escort you out of here,” Jean joked. “But you haven’t gotten into trouble yet, so you can stay.” The adventurer laughed at that, pointing out how Jean had said ‘yet’. Once there was a pause in the conversation, the band seemed to get louder, an especially slow song drifted through the venue. 

Jean, ever the lady, offered her hand and bowed at the hip. “Would you like to dance?” she asked, her head tilted up to them. They wish they had something to capture the moment, they’d think later. The moment they’d meet their life long lover. The moment their life changed in the most amazing way. Instead of an answer, they grasped the grandmaster’s hand and moved towards the dance floor, wary of the other couples around them. 

It was a whispered conversation, a conversation about everything and nothing at all. No romantic pretenses, per se, just two beautiful people reveling in each other’s company. It was a strange dance. While the couples around them whispered sweet nothings, they whispered about their favorite books, and Jean laughed along. A joke she didn’t understand, but she was curious to learn. The weight of each other's arms grasping their waist and her shoulders. It forged a connection, a friendly one that grew and blossomed, until it spread in the wind, taking twists and turns until it settled, nestled in a place for growth. But that story was for another time. 

Right then it was just the pair. The band had stopped playing, not that they noticed. Sat on bar stools, her jacket still on their shoulders. It felt nice, the adventurer thought. Conversing with such an intriguing person, someone with more experience holding a sword than talking to a new friend. Though they supposed that was what made them friends in the first place. No expectation for anything but authenticity, a rarity in a world with strange monsters and sugar-coated politicians. 

The sun was starting to peek over the horizon, the early morning humidity settling over Monstadt. Jean dropped them off at their doorstep, a smile gently gracing her face, highlighted by the orange glow of the sky. “I had a lot of fun,” the adventurer said, their body rested against the doorway in fatigue. It was satisfying fatigue, like their energy was well spent. Jean nodded in agreement and settled her jacket back on her shoulders. The jacket had a new scent then, like freshly brewed tea and rain. 

That was the beauty of a beginning, they both thought as they exchanged mailing addresses, a promise of a letter on each of their lips. It was just that: a beginning. 

[four-loose-screws]

An Interview with Mr. Toshiyuki Toyonaga about Fire Emblem (Claude‘s Japanese VA), Pg. 10 (The Grand Finale!!)

Being a Part of FE Like This Is Toyonaga-San’s Dream Come True! And His Thoughts for the Future

How do you feel right now about being asked to appear in official live broadcasts for the FE series?

Toyonaga    To be a part of the FE series like this is a dream come true, and I can hardly believe it’s all real. I was so thankful for being requested to come to the broadcasts and that I was able to talk about the series. I think my school age self, who was just a player of Genealogy of the Holy War at the time, would have slowly fainted if you told him where I am now!

Because this is a special series that you’ve loved for thirty long years! If you have any final words that you want to share here at the end, please go ahead.

Toyonaga    Something I want to share to congratulate the thirty year anniversary? ...Hmmm… I want to request that they make me another “Waku Koyasu,” and call me “Waku Toyonaga!”※ Laughs.

Image on the right:

We’re giving away a signboard Mr. Toshiyuki signed personally! (see page 97 for details)

Signboard reads: “Nindori November Issue” and “Claude Von Reigan”

Mini Q&A

What is your favorite class in the series?

Toyonaga     I use Knights when doing challenge runs, but it would be more accurate to say that I like the feeling after they class change to General and all the hard work pays off a bit. When I’m playing normally, I like magic users. Mages, Sages, and so on… The magic classes are thrilling to use, don’t you think? Their magic stat is high, so they can rout the enemy during the enemy’s phase, but because of that, their HP could be slowly chipped away at. They can easily be killed, and it makes you feel so tense. I think I like the feeling of the thought, ‘Please don’t defeat any more enemies!!’ I personally really like the feeling that they contribute a lot to the fight, but also that any little thing could make their situation take a turn for the worst!

Please tell us your impressions of the illustration made for the promotional card included with this issue.

Toyonaga     Where he’s inviting someone to the dance floor? And, of course he’s winking, just like always! Laughs. It’s so unfair when he winks! From the viewpoint as a member of the cast, I’m quickly filled with complex thoughts when I see him and the other characters in a situation where no one knows yet what’s going to happen next. But I wonder if this scene was chosen because it was the most memorable for everyone who played the game, and it is from the Academy Phase where all three of the class leaders are together.

And we’re all really curious about the fact that he’s taking someone by the hand, right?

Toyonaga     Yeah… Claude will even do this to male Professor Byleth, so I think that was a bit surprising to see! As the person who performed his role, when I think that this scene, where he takes the professor’s hand, might be what made him so popular with everyone, I feel very deeply that everyone is saying “Thank you for making it!!” Laughs.

Please tell us your impressions and thoughts about recording the FE Three Houses Extra Drama CD: An Officers’ Academy Sleuthing Story.※

Toyonaga     Having the three class leaders team up together is something that isn’t possible in the main game, or the Ashen Wolves DLC, so when it was decided that a drama CD would be produced, I was personally happy and glad they were able to do something together. As drama CDs are especially known for their fanservice, I felt that I would be the one amongst the three making things fun and lighthearted. As I performed Claude’s lines, I had the thought in my mind that he would especially carry the burden of relieving the tension between the trio.

Toshiyuki Toyonaga

Birthdate: April 28th, 1984

Height: 162 cm (5’4”)

Title: A jack-of-all-trades who can even do voicework!

Hobbies: using computers, video games, writing, spending time lost in thought

Likes: his house

Dislikes: coriander, sea urchins, oysters, spicy food, people who are too friendly

Favorite tea: darjeeling

Favorite flower: sunflowers, dandelions

Q: Which do you prefer: sweet foods or spicy foods?

A: Sweet foods (I can’t eat spicy foods.)

Q: Which do you prefer: meat, or fish?

A: Meat (I can’t stand the smell of fish.)

Q: Are you a dog person or a cat person?

A: A cat person.

Bonus     Can we ask you about Earthbound as well?*

We know that this is a totally different series, but we’d like to ask you about Earthbound as well.

Toyonaga     Oh! Ah ha, okay.

It’s a very popular game with Nintendo Dream readers even now.

Toyonaga     Wow, really!? That’s amazing! But I had a feeling that was the case. This brings me back to my aunt again, but she played the first game. I was a bit older when Earthbound came out on the Super Famicom, but my aunt bought that game as well. As I watched her play it, I wanted to play it, too. So, since there were three save slots, I believe? She chose one for me to use, and let me play it.

That was so nice of her!

Toyonaga     I was stuck on the name entry screen for about two to three hours, choosing my favorite food, and then after that, my favorite thing! I remember thinking while entering them, ‘Why are they asking me something like this?’ and things like that. I loved collecting the melodies. Of course, I also thought that Shigesato Ito-sensei’s script was amazing as well, but I was really moved by the music. I thank the game so much for its superb music! Later on, I was also moved when the third game came out.

*T/N: In the English-speaking world, we better know Mother 1 as Earthbound Zero. The popularity of the Mother series has resurged in Japan, to the point that new merch has even been a frequent occurrence over the past several years! A two page spread about a merch line in 2021 was even included in this issue, so Mr. Toyonaga being asked about the series as a part of this interview makes perfect sense in context.

※Waku Koyasu: Refers to Mr. Takehito Koyasu, the voice actor who voiced Navarre in the first FE radio drama, alongside some other appearances; and is known for being a huge Fire Emblem fan. His passion for the series has led him to perform roles for every game since Awakening, and earned him the title “Waku Koyasu.”

※Three Houses Drama CD: You, the listener, appear as the game’s main character, “Professor.” The story is about the three house leaders and Sothis wandering around inside Garreg Mach Monastery together to search for a very important missing key.

[whumpiary]

whumptober 2020 | day 2: collars (in the hands of the enemy)

 i wasn’t originally going to post this because it doesn’t quite fit with the day’s theme, but now it’s three days later, and i still liked it on the edit so i’m posting it dammit and fuck you to the little anxiety monster.

set in the future. the vaguest of references to the characters of @evermetnotforgotten and @card-games-and-pain

content warnings: referenced captivity, panic attack, mild d!ssociat!on, mild flashbacks, semi-unresolved sticky feelings

-

It’s the strangest thing. He hasn’t thought about it in so long. In years. It’s easy not to think about it. It’s easy to lock parts of what happened to him up. He has to a lot of the days. But that’s easing. 

Thalia is helping. The therapist. He doesn’t call her the therapist and she doesn’t call herself the therapist but that’s what she is and they both know it. Either way, she does help. Is helping. 

But they’re in a pet store. Mal and him. Just stopped by to get some litter and food for Mal and Lou’s cats on the way by, and Cass sees the collars and he reaches out his hand…

He closes his eyes and for a moment he’s not in a pet store. He’s not anywhere at all. He opens them again and he’s in a pet store but his is heart racing and there are memories in his head he doesn’t want and fear in his legs that he doesn’t need and disgust on his tongue that he can’t shift and —

He reminds himself to breathe. He reminds himself of the things Thalia says. He reminds himself to ground his feet, he reminds himself to let his shoulders relax so he can breathe, he can breathe, he can breathe. He reminds himself to find Mal, even though he can’t find the other man’s eyes and then –

“I’m just gonna meet you at the car, is that okay?”

Mal looks at him and something in him changes and Cass knows he’s been seen. Mal gets this softness about him that used to prickle, used to burn, but right now it just… washes Cass clean. It helps him breathe, feels like protection. Thalia’s been helping.

Mal nods. “Yeah, mate. Of course.”

He ends up taking a walk. He walks around the back of the building and he keeps walking along the wall of the shopping complex and every time he blinks too long he’s not anywhere at all so instead he just keeps taking stock of what’s around him.

Grass, concrete, dandelions. Sunlight, shadow, sky.

By the time he gets back to the car, Mal’s already there with bubble tea, squinting against the sun and leaning against the hood. He smiles easy and offers out Cass’ drink. Like he hasn’t been waiting for ten minutes. Like Cass didn’t disappear with no explanation. 

They get into the car in silence, strapping up their seat-belts, and Mal doesn’t turn on the car for a bit, pretending to fiddle with something on his phone. He’s good like that. Doesn’t ask, but always leaves space. 

“There were other boys,” Cass says eventually, staring out the windscreen, biting at his thumbnail. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Mal shift a little in his seat, kinda turning to face him. 

“Yeah?”

Mal says it like it’s something he doesn’t already know. He doesn’t already know it, not this, but he thinks he does, and so it’s nice anway. Mal thinks Cass is talking about the other boys at the Estate, who he knows about just fine, but he still says yeah? like it’s some new information and even though he’s misunderstood, Cass appreciates the gesture.

Cass takes a breath, in and out, and remembers what Tahlia says about releasing his jaw, letting the muscles in his shoulders relax. It helps and he doesn’t know why but he doesn’t need to know why because it does. 

“I don’t mean Christopher’s boys,” he clarifies, after a heavy beat. “I mean there were other... there were other men. Men who, um... who kept... other boys. The same way Christopher kept me.”

There’s a long, still silence.  If Cass listens he can hear Mal’s breath hitch. Internally, he flinches.

“Sorry. I don’t want to-”

“No, you’re fine,” Mal assures, stopping him before the run-away train starts. “Keep going if you want to. Or stop. Both are fine.”

Cass nods, squeezing his eyes shut for a sec, hands gripping his seat belt like it’s a lifeline. Maybe it is today.

“They, um,” he has to stop and take another breath. “They had it worse than me. I think. I mean, I know–”

“Mate, you know that’s not something you can-”

“No, I mean it,” he says, turning to look Mal in the eye. “I really mean it. They were treated like… They wore, um. They had to wear…” he makes a gesture around his throat when he thinks words are gonna fail him and then- “Like dogs.”

Mal takes a big, deep breath in and for a second, Cass doesn’t think he’s gonna exhale ever again. But then he does. “Did seeing the collars in the store make you remember?”

“Yeah,” Cass says, frowning and wiping at his brow with the back of his hand. “Not that I forget really. Ever. But it’s usually kinda…”

He trails off and his eyes flutter closed, makes another gesture.

“In the backwaters?” Mal offers up. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, and it’s-”

He can feel something welling up. Feels his breath starting to pick up and he closes his eyes and lets his body take over. Sometimes it's better to just let the feelings come. Let his body sort it out. It helps, somehow, to just feel the panic run him through instead of trying to squash it or push it away. It stops the numbness from setting in.

“M’fine,” he mumbles as reassurance though it comes out high and squeaking. He presses his hand to his eyes, elbow resting on the sill of the car window, and the breathing switches from steady to laboured. From even to quick.

“I know you are, mate,” Mal says, voice soft. Cass is certain that if he were to open his eyes and look down, the man’s hand would be offered out on the console, to grab hold of if he wanted, to leave if he needed. He doesn’t know when it started being a thing they all did for him — Mal, Josiah, Lou, whoever – but it nearly brings him to tears every fucking time. Today he leaves it. 

The breathing evens itself out in a minute or so, and Mal’s there waiting for him as it does. Cass feels tears on his cheek before he feels much else, and the headache starting quick behind his eyes. “What am I meant to do with that? What am I… how am I meant to deal with that?”

“We’ll figure it out,” is all Mal says. 

Cass sniffs, swipes his cheeks dry. More tears come and he lets them. He takes Mal’s hands and closes his eyes again as he feels the other man squeeze it. He cries, breath quiet and hitching in little bursts, and when that finally evens out, “Do you think any of them are still alive?”

There’s a heavy sigh. “I don’t know, mate.”

“Please don’t lie to me.”

And Mal never does anyway. He’s good like that. He shrugs. “Best guess? Probably not, no. But you’re here. And that wouldn’t have been my best guess either.”

Cass kinda laughs. The best way you can when you’re already halfway through crying, anyway. “Yeah. And you’re here too, I guess.”

Mal closes his eyes with a smile and a breathy laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah. And I’m here too.”

“Sorry, I’m not saying-”

“I know you’re not saying,” he says. “You’re all good.”

Cass stares out the windscreen for a long while, chewing his lip. His head feels waterlogged and heavy, like he’s just been drowned. Or not quite. It aches more when you’ve been drowned. And your throat and nose burn more.

“I hope they’re not alive,” he says, watching a pair of birds hop along the roof of the shopping complex. His voice comes out clearer than he’d expected it to.  “I hope they’re— I mean, I don’t… I don’t want them to be dead, but I don’t want… If they’re still... I hope they’re not-”

“Yeah,” Mal says. Righting the run-away train again with a word. Another sigh. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Me too.”

There’s a long, heavy silence that settles over them that lasts maybe a full minute.

Cass watches a mum walk by with her kids, one sitting in the front of the trolley she’s pushing while the other one skips backwards, walking beside. He can just barely hear the bubbling of her voice. She sounds happy. Excited. It makes him smile just a little, corner of his mouth twitching up even though he still kinda feels wrung dry. Up on the roof, another pair of birds join the first. 

Mal gives his hand a departing squeeze and then lets it go, turning on the engine and sticking the car in gear. He pulls out of the lot and reaches across to hand Cass his phone as they turn onto the freeway, AUX cord already plugged in, ready to go. “You wanna put the music on?”

“Yeah,” he says. He scrolls through and picks a playlist that looks like an easy mix of not too heavy and not too happy and sets it to play. “Hey, I’m, um… I’m s-”

“Don’t be,” Mal says, with a quick little glance across at him. “Thank you for telling me.”

The guitar riff of the song filters out the speakers and Mal turns it up just a little, humming a long with the melody. And then –

“Thalia tomorrow?”

Cass nods. “Yeah.”

“Wanna order in lunch after you get home?”

“Yeah,” he says. He dares to let himself feel comforted. “Yeah, I reckon that’d be good.”

[soldrawss]

Does Big Bro!Mikey AU have an april or no? I think it would be nice for Mikey to have a bff april!!

April is a part of this au, yes! She started out as just a classmate of Mikey’s, they had the same homeroom in high school before Mikey dropped out the summer before his Junior year. They hadn’t really kept in contact, mostly because she only knew him by proxy (Mikey was nice and friendly to everyone, April of course included, but they didn’t have much in common, and their main friend groups were different, so they didn’t hang out much) and when Mikey all but disappeared without an explanation, she kinda just figured he moved or something, and left it at that, not giving him any thought for the next three years.

That is, until she meets him again, in the halls of Hunter College, looking like he was gonna collapse at any minute, which he kinda does, into an empty bench at the schools outside cafe and lounge area. April waffles for a few seconds, because ‘holy shit is that Mike Hamato?’ before biting the bullet and making her way over to say, “Hey, Michael right? Hi, it’s been a while. It’s April, we had homeroom together freshman and sophomore year. I haven’t seen you since Savanti Romero’s pool party. How are you?” And his smile is a slow, automatic thing at first, more out of common politeness than anything else, but then it grows into something much more genuine and glacier melting when he responds back, “April, hey, yeah, hi! Wow, has it really been that long? Man, it seems like just yesterday you were fishing Mondo and me out of the pool after one too many chicken fights. It’s good to see you!”

And catching up seemed so easy, April was almost surprised they hadn’t been better friends in high school. Though, she suspected that was mostly due to Mikey’s incredibly easy charm and naturally inviting warmth. (Dude could make friends with just about anyone)

He was a little different than how she remembered, a little more weather-worn and tired, a kinda weariness that hung off his shoulders like heavyweights. But there was still a bright shine to those penny-colored eyes, and when he smiled, it was with all the dimples and joy that she remembers so clearly from when she was 15. Holding back a laugh at the Hamato kid that was preforming springing handstands across the cafeteria just to draw attention away from the impending fight between two of their more hotheaded classmates and ease the tension out of the air in a ridiculous but effective manner.

She doesn’t ask why he left high school, it doesn’t really occur to her to ask, but after 2 hours of talking (April not even realizing she was missing her history class because she was so caught up in their catching up) he offers the information anyway.

His dad died. When he was barely 16, and he was left alone with 3 baby brothers and no other family that could help take care of them, and oh my god, he just dropped out of school to get his GED like it was the most common thing in the world and he went to work, what, 2, sometimes 3 jobs just to make enough money to support them all and April didn’t mean for tears to start pooling up because that so wasn’t fair to Mikey at all, if anyone should be crying, it should be him, but Mikey just looks a little shy and bashful about it all. “It was hard, but we got through it. And hey, now I’m working at like, this really prestigious Italian restaurant, super classy and everything! And they pay me more than I’m probably worth, but I’ll get my culinary degree in like a year, and then after that, a lot of things will change,” He says like everything in the world is just that easy, handing April a few tissues from his book bag and giving her one of those genuine, if not a little crooked, smiles of his.

Mikey promises to have lunch with her again (because April absolutely refuses to let this dandelion haired lunatic walk away from her life a second time and practically demands that they hang out again) since they both have the same free time before their respective classes at the college, and makes a show of saving her number with probably a few too many emojis as a contact name just to make her smile.

And what turned into a promise for another lunch date turned into almost a daily routine, them having lunch together on the bench, talking about classes and teachers and jobs and April’s problematic little kitten she affectionately named Mayhem and Mikey’s little brothers who are probably equally as problematic but he doesn’t have a say in what their names are, and things are fun and casual between Hamato and her.

That is, until two months later, when April gets a call from Mikey at 5pm on a Saturday.

“Donnie’s sick,” Mikey says almost breathlessly, and even without the context, April was already springing to her feet just at the sheer tension and concern in Mikey’s voice, like a taught wire about to snap. “I can’t get off work for another few hours, but I don’t want to leave him by himself with a fever. And I know this is like, putting you on the spot and really awkward and you can totally say no if you want to, but I don’t know who else to call and,-”

“Mike, it’s ok. Breathe hun,” April is saying, not unkindly pushing Mayhem off her lap and reaching for her backpack off the floor in her dorm room, stuffing a few random things in it before grabbing her jacket and her car keys off the counter. “Text me your address. I’ll be over there in 5 minutes tops.”

And it’s more of a promise than a fact, because his building is technically 20 minutes away from hers, but April makes it in 10 just by spite alone (and maybe driving a little recklessly downtown) and knocks on the door of the little apartment on the 6th floor, unit 404.

It takes a hesitant second, but then the door lock clicks open and April is greeted by warm brown eyes and a freckled face that reminds April so much of Mikey that it takes her almost a full 10 seconds before she introduces herself with an automatic smile. “Hi sweetheart, I’m April. I’m a friend of your older brother Mikey.”

Raphael, if April remembered Mikey’s brothers correctly, didn’t really need much convincing to let April in after she mentioned he was a friend of Mikey's, and doesn’t hesitate to pull her into their little apartment, leading her to the bedroom that the twins share with a small but tight little fist around hers.

“Mikey called and said you were coming. Leo’s atah sleepover, but Donnie’s in here. His head’s still hot and his voice is all scratchy, even though I made sure that he took the medicine Mikey left out. And he won’t eat anything I give him,” the 7-year-old reports diligently, much more mature than April had expected from the young child. 

April’s been babysitting since she was 11, and considering how all the neighborhood kids around her block adore her, she likes to think that she’s got a pretty solid Ph.D. in knowing how to take care of a sick pre-teen who wants nothing to do with her. So the heavy-lidded and red-eyed glare that Donatello shoots at her from under his covers is duly noted but otherwise ignored as she gently knocks on the door and slowly follows a much less hesitant Raphael into the bedroom.

It takes a while, a long while, for Donatello, no, Donnie, to warm up to her, but he gets there eventually, with the help of Raphael, Raph, who’s hanging off of Aprils shoulders, having warmed up to her almost immediately simply because ‘any friend of Mikey’s is a friend of ours Dee! Don’t be mean and eat some soup!’

After realizing that Donnie just had a little cold, and was in no real danger even with a fever, Raph seemed to cheer up immensely, and was more than willing to help answer all of April’s questions about what medicine Donnie had taken, any allergies, the last time he ate, and even helped her make some egg drop soup since they didn’t have enough ingredients of chicken noodle, which Donnie put up a fight about, but eventually took after one look of Raph’s puppy dog eyes.

Donnie was out like a light 15 minutes later, after taking some night time cough medicine and April sent a reassuring text to Mikey two hours later when his fever finally broke, to which Mikey replied with an explosion of heart emoji’s that April couldn’t rightly decipher other than he was happy about it.

Mikey got home at 11 that night, and April had to flag him down quietly from where she sat trapped under a sleeping, pj clad Raph on the couch; a Jupiter Jim movie marathon playing on the tv. 

“Thank you so much, April,” Mikey said to her in the kitchen 20 minutes later, handing her a cup of hot tea. He had efficiently plucked Raph off of April’s lap like a pro with years of experience, putting him into his own bed before checking on a still sleeping Donnie, whose face was no longer a burnt red from his fever earlier. “I don’t know what I would have done without you. I don’t get my paycheck till next week, so I can’t really pay you right now, but I brought home some chocolate mousse cake from my work that you can have until I can-” “You didn’t tell me you worked at Huesso’s!” April didn’t shout, because there were two kids sleeping down the hallway, as she grabbed the bag Mikey had offered to her. “Dude, their deserts are like, crazy good! I love their cheesecake, but they’re stupid expensive and you have to get a reservation like, 4 months in advance to get in.” And April uses the change in topics as a distraction because there was no way she’d let Mikey try to pay her for helping out, she didn’t even want that to be an option. April didn’t do this for the money. She wanted to help out Mikey out. She liked Mikey. She thought he was funny and charming and had a heart big enough to cradle the entire world if he was as big as all the love he has. And she adored being around his baby brothers.

April grins at Mikey when she opens the box, and slides her finger over the glossy frosting of the cake and licks her fingers of the chocolatey goodness before she says, “Listen, if I could convince you to bring me home deserts from this place, then I’ll hang out with the boys anytime you want me too. You have my number, literally call me anytime, for any reason, and I’m here.”

[starlitwishes]

Windblumebard asked:

Here is Evan with a belated birthday present for Lisa. It's a basket, full of all sorts of little goodies. An ancient text, some metal sculptures of roses and assorted flowers, a few book marks, and of course, a bottle of high quality dandelion wine. "Sorry it isn't much, but--happy birthday, Lisa." 

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

@wisteriawishes​

"Aww, cutie, is this all for me? Thank you so much for thinking of me."

Lisa takes her time unpacking the basket, appreciating each object as she pulls it out. Her thumb traces the details of a metal rose and swipes over the bookmarks, each going into a small pile at the side of her desk that she'll put back into the basket later.

She pauses to tuck a sculpture of what appears to be a Cecilia into her hair, right behind her ear. After she does she smiles, lifting a hand to indicate it.

"What do you think? How do I look?" she asks, before laughing lightly and going back to the gift. She pulls the metal sculpture away as she does so--it’s awkward to have it sitting on her ear like that.

She doesn't really have to ask, after all, she knows she's stunningly beautiful.

The wine will be enjoyed in a more special time between a close friend--Lisa doesn't drink often, preferring tea to alcohol, but sharing with someone else would make a good bonding experience.

"Oh! What's this?" Her eyes light up. She's seen the text in the basket, which she eagerly pulls out, taking care to not jostle the precious item much. Her lips part in awe, her mind already whirring in excitement. "Where did you come across something like this?"

It's obvious what the favorite part of the gift is. Already she can't wait to work on translating it, her mind naturally curious, although she'd long left those academic spheres back in Sumeru.

“Of course! You’ve been quite a help for me, so it’s only natural I’d want to repay you in some way. Besides, everyone deserves nice gifts on their birthday, right?”

He laughed more when she placed a metal sculpture of a cecilia in her hair, and though she didn’t need him to answer, he still replied; “It makes you look like a kind, beautiful, but mysterious witch--oh, but that’s how you are every day, isn’t it?”

It was a playful bit of teasing, but not disingenuous.

He knew immediately the text would be her favorite part, seeing how her eyes sparkled at the older books in the library. He smiled wide, almost grinning. “While I was on a commission, I came across the text in a chest. The old binding to it was completely wrecked though, and I didn’t want the actual book to be damaged, so I hope you don’t mind that I made it a new cover. I was careful to make sure not to damage anything, of course.”

[afterhoursfic]

Hi! If it's your cup of tea, how about Jaskier's awakening to food kink? like some good ol inappropriate use of honey^^

So this is my first time writing anything like this so I’m sorry if it isn’t great but I hope you enjoy it anyway 

.

He doesn’t know when he started to think of food differently. Maybe it was when the barmaid in Oxenfurt would put a cherry in her mouth and a minute later spit the pip out with the stem in a knot, and later that night he’d learned her tongue could do a fair few other things as well.

It kept happening, she’d catch his eye before popping it into her mouth and when he’d next turn to her, out on her tongue was the stem in a perfect knot every time and only a few minutes later they were pressed up against a wall rutting like animals.

Or maybe it was the farmer's daughter in some no name village who had sat on a stool with her tits practically hanging out as she held his gaze and teased her mouth around the tip of a banana before swallowing it almost whole. She had demonstrated her skills to him an hour later round the back of her house where he possibly received the best blowjob of his life before her mother came storming out. He never looked at the fruit the same way.

It became a habit then, to see the explicit in anything people ate, from the pie one woman bought still warm from the bakery that he couldn’t help but think of sinking his cock into, or the cream one maid spilled over herself and looked far too much like come painting her chest that he desperately wanted to lick off before replacing it with his own.

Even when Saovine comes around and he sees people carving holes into their pumpkins, albeit to make a scary face, but all he can think of was making one just big enough to fit his cock, what the squeeze of it would feel like and the cool of it against his cock, hot and leaking, but he kept his resolve and turned his head the other way when the thoughts came to him.

His answer came to him one spring as he traveled through a quaint little town on market day, and came in the form of one seller practically shoving a jar of honey into his hand, insisting the master dandelion take the gracious gift and if he was willing to play for them.

He couldn’t refuse, especially at the thought of sticky fingers dragging along his chest, the insides of his thighs, and even up to his cock, speaking of he had to adjust himself a little before he performed because it wouldn’t do for the whole town to see how eager he was to get somewhere private.

In the end, he played for just over an hour, and after a bit of bargaining got a razor and some soap from another vendor, he may be horny but he wasn’t exactly stupid.

The process to shave the hair around his cock, balls, and chest was intimate and its own kind of foreplay, a tease waiting on things to come and was enough to get him hard before he’d even reached for the jar.

It was perfect really, a proper jar of honey, one that won’t grow stale or mold on the road, and he can excuse it as being a sweet treat as he traveled, seemingly innocuous to anyone that asked, except for him of course.

First, he dipped the tips of a couple of fingers in, just felt the drag of it as he moved his fingers before bringing it to his mouth where he eagerly shoved them into his mouth, licking every inch of them off, even nipping at his fingers when he was done until he spared a thought to get more, moaning when the taste of it hit his tongue again, it really was good honey.

Next, he moved to one of his nipples, he didn’t use a lot so he could feel his fingers stick and drag against the skin, the tug of it so sensitive it was like lightning under his skin and left him gasping. He brought his other hand up, bare, so he could compare the feel of it, disappointed for a moment at how unsatisfying it felt, even as he pinched his nipple, he couldn’t even get his skin to pebble in excitement, it may have been a loose shirt teasing his nipple for all the effect it had, so could he be blamed for dipping two of those fingers into the honey as well and brought them back up to tease.

It felt good, better than good just knowing he was doing something wrong but getting a thrill out of it anyway. He’s sure if he tried, he could come just like this, teasing sticky fingers over his nipples, even straying them a little to matt in his chest hair, just to feel the pull of it, slowly wandering lower and lower until…

He pulled his hand away with a hiss as his cock jumped as if eager to get a hand on it and fuck if he wasn’t desperate too, but he went to grab more honey, skirting his hand around his cock to go lower to tease and squeeze his balls, smearing the honey into the soft skin and biting back a groan when he pulls it off and feels the slightest sting of pain when he has to slowly pry his hand off, only to do it again and again until it loses its effect, scooping some more honey out of the jar to do it again and again.

At this point his cock was steadily leaking pre across his stomach, begging for attention and Jaskier didn’t think he could wait any longer, so he scooped another healthy helping of honey, only half mournful given how he’d used a good portion of the jar already, maybe he’ll make a detour through the town tomorrow, put on some charm and hope for another generous gift.

That thought was quickly swept aside with any other thought other than ‘good’ and ‘fuck yes’ when he wrapped his hand around his cock. The honey was slightly cold, making his cock twitch at the touch but it only made him moan as he slowly stroked his hand up his cock, dragging out the movement so he could feel the honey cover his cock and feel the pull of it as he steadily moved his hand.

The sound was obscene, almost like he was fucking a wet cunt, but gods this felt so much better, bracing his hand on the wall his head hanged down as he slowly fucked his fist so he could draw out the touch and feel the drag of his cock sticking against his hand.

He lost track of time like that, it was only when the honey was beginning to feel a bit tacky and sticking a bit too much for comfort, but with still a delicious lick of pain, he started to fuck his fist faster. He had to bite his lip to stop himself from smearing a thumb over the head of his cock and watch his precome mix with the honey before sucking it off of the digit, another time.

He knew he wouldn’t last long, hell he’d been teasing himself for gods knew how long, and he was desperate for it. It was just when he was beginning to feel that curl in his gut that meant he was close that he got the idea, haphazardly reaching for the jar and when he did he angled it so when he next fucked his fist, the tip of his cock went into the remaining honey and he’d barely got his head into it when he came with a curse.

Slowly he fucked himself through it, leaving the tip of his cock in the honey as he stroked the base of it, his other hand moving to squeeze his balls and draw his orgasm out longer, especially when he felt his hand truly, almost painfully, get stuck to the skin.

Clean up was going to be a bitch, he needed some warm water and a scrap of cloth, but he could wait a little longer, with his cock sensitive and still aching for release, and groaning as he pulls his cock out of the jar and watches as honey drips off the end of it ever so slowly like the continents greatest tease. What he wouldn’t give to be able to suck his own cock right now.

For now, he was definitely going to make use of how sensitive he felt, especially when he laid back against the bed and felt the head of his cock, still covered in thick honey drag along his thigh, leaving a sticky trail to where it now rested and twitched at his stomach again.

Right now, though he was going to test if he really could get himself off just playing with nipples, hard and sticky with dried honey, and if he teased a finger over the head of his cock, collecting the honey gathered there to tease at his hole well it was nobody’s business but his. Maybe next time he’d ask for a nice jam instead, thick but a little easier to fuck into and his cock was definitely on board with how it twitched in anticipation.

[mhdiaries]

Wave 4 Venus McFlytrap Diary

9*9

Today I got in trouble for not paying attention in class. It’s not like I wasn’t interested in what Mr. Hackington was saying but after a week of clouds and rain the sun was calling my name. Shouting it actually - “HEY VENUS - YEAH YOU MCFLYTRAP! DON’T JUST SIT THERE LIKE A POTTED PLANT GET OUT HERE!” I HATE IT WHEN THE SUN SHOUTS AT ME; SO RUDE AND STISTRTACTING. Plus Mr. Hack’s classroom is so cold and dank. Not exactly the kind of place where a ghoul wants to put down roots. Good thing I knew I knew the answer to the question Mr. Hack was asking, even if I didn’t hear it the first time he asked me. “Photosynthesis!” “That’s correct Ms. McFlytrap… did you know or guess?” What I wanted to say was, “Oh, was that the answer?” I though I was placing my lunch order.” Instead I just pointed to my notes, which seemed to satisfy him for the moment. Mom always says, “Be a flower not a weed.” Of course the difference between a flower and a weed depends on the gardener. Whoa. I’m not even sure what that means but next time mom tells me not to be a weed I’m going try it out on her and see what happens.

9*15

I went outside to eat lunch today and saw Operetta sitting under a tree playing her guitar. I walked over to ask if she minded me sitting down to listen and she immediately stopped playing. She looked up at me and wrapped her arms around her guitar like she thought I was going to try and take it from her, “This guitar was made for me by my best friend out of ah hard rock maple tree that blew down in a storm and I ain’t about to apologize or give her up for one made from recycled plastic bottles so you can just save your speeches.” She really hurt my feelings but I wasn’t about to let her see me wilt so I yelled back, “I don’t care what your dumb old guitar is made of I was just going to ask if I could sit here and listen to you play!” She looked surprised at first then she threw her head back and laughed! “All right, all right pull in your thorns ghoul friend and have a seat.” I sat down and she played. She is scary good. I told her being a plant monster means I get all my nourishment from the soil, air and water around me so living in a clean environment is important. I know it may seem selfish but I bet if other monsters saw garbage being dumped into something they were about to eat they’d be all up in claws too and it’s not like I want to build a big fence around the outdoors so no other  monsters can enjoy it cause that wouldn’t be fair either. But I don’t think it’s too much to ask for monsters to throw something that can be recycled into the recycling bin and not treat the environment like their own personal trash  can. Operetta said, “I reckon I see your point but I’ve also seen you do that pollen think to monsters who don’t agree with you an no monster wants to feel like they’re being manipulated into doing something even if it’s something good and that’s why some of ‘em run whey they see you coming.” Whoa. Then she told me why she doesn’t sing in front of audiences. “Monsters who hear me sing live will believe and do whatever I tell ‘em to just like they do for you – only they’ll keep doing it till I tell them to stop.” I almost laughed but I realized she was dead serious. “Now I reckon I could be the biggest music star in the monster world with that ability but I’d rather my music be listened to cause it really is the best not just because I tell monsters it is.” I guess I see her point too.

9*19

I guess I’m getting adjusted to Monster High but it hasn’t exactly been easy. Probably cause I’m really not very good at going along just to get along. Even when I was just a little sprout I wanted to do things my own way. Like one time these monster aphids infested my whole class but instead of using that nasty shampoo or letting my mom comb them out of my hair I totally pruned my head. I looked like a dandelion that had lost its seeds for a while, but at least I didn’t have aphids anymore. I even decided the pruned look was scary cool so I kept it that way on the one side. At my old school all the classes were taught outside so that we were always in our element so to speak. Being indoors all day was really making me droopy but I didn’t want any monster to think that I was some kind of fainting violet cause I’m not. Lagoona must have noticed though cause she told me that I should go talk to Headmistress Bloodgood and let her know I was having a problem. I was like, whoa. I didn’t really want to cause the last time I had to go see her was when she caught me using my pollens of persuasion to make Meowlody and Purrsephone pull aluminum cans from the regular trash and put them in the recycling bin. I got a very long lecture on the need for self-control, and assignment for an even longer paper on the ends not justifying the means, and I had to apologize. Lagoona kept bugging me until I finally made an appointment with the Headmistress. She told me her old assistant was a plant monster and she turned a supply cabinet into a special grow room with lights that mimicked the sun . Headless Headmistress gave me the key and said I could use it any time I was feeling droopy. Amazing,… just amazing.

10*2

I had my meeting with Mr. D’eath, the school guidance counselor today. He wasn’t there when I got there so I had to wait for him. I wasn’t really looking forward to it at all. He always seems to be sighing about something and he cracks his knuckles… a lot. It sounds like dry branches snapping which is like claws on a chalkboard to me. The other day I overheard Miss Kindergrubber telling Mr. Hackington that unlife had not been very kind to Mr. D’eath this year and that lately he was looking more gaunt than usual. I’m not sure how that could even be possible. Of course Miss. K. is always telling some monster to eat cause they’re just “skin and bones”. Guess it must be a prerequisite for her job. Anyway, Mr. D’eath’ss office always smells like herbal tea… can’t really even think about that… and his walls are covered with motivational posters. There’s one with this troll sitting on top of a bridge instead of underneath it that says, “Don’t be afraid of a new perspective.” Whoa. Deep. I’m sure they’re supposed to be profound and encouraging but they’re really not my kind of fertilizer. There was also a picture of him and some other teachers white water rafting down the River Styx. It would take a pretty penny for me to do that. He finally came in with my records, sat down and started flipping through them:

Hmm… okay… I see… oh ho! Well Miss Yelps I think you have a bright future and, if I may confide in you for a moment, over the years a job like mine can make one rather brittle. It gets so discouraging when students don’t listen to my advice especially after all my years of education and seminars which I am beginning to suspect are taught by monsters whose last interaction with students was back in the day of the quill and inkwell. You mention something as simple as an iCoffin and they look at you like you’re speaking zombie… no offense.

He went on about how according to my permanent file I, (Ghoulia), could go to any poison ivy league school that I wanted. He said some other really nice things about me (her.) and then gave me a bunch of college brochures. He told me it had been a real pleasure and that I could come back any time. I didn’t have the heart to correct his error so I just moaned and shuffled out. I’ll probably get in trouble for it later but I’ll sit on that bridge when I come out from under it.

10*15

I got some new art pencils today so I did some sketches of Chewlian who wasn’t being very cooperative. I think he was mad that I closed my window when I went to school. He likes me to leave it open in hopes that lunch will come creeping, crawling or flying into my room. I don’t like bugs nearly as much as he does though and sometimes I forget and close it. I finally had to tell him that I’d let him spend the day out by the compost heap if he’d be still. He was pretty good after that and I was happy with the results.

11*15

When I got called into Headmistress Bloodgood’s office, last week, I was thinking it was because she found out about my appointment with Mr. D’eath but it turned out to be an “opportunity for growth” that would involve me rooting myself in a face painting booth at the middle school carnival. So today I sat in a booth with Draculaura turning werewolves into zombies, vampires into skeletons, zombies into Dead Fast… okay that was just Ghoulia… and cute little ghouls into “scary” normies. Draculaura was happy to do all the kittens, bats with pink bows and the occasional full on mini-makeover although it was mostly the moms who requested those. It also gave me a perfect audience to talk about the importance of keeping the world around us clean. Then we got to watch Robecca, who is a wonder of sustainability, do an amazing stunt. Whoa. It was really scary cool. I think every monster from that time on wanted me to turn them into a robot. Lagoona and Gil even came by and Gil let me paint his helmet to make it look al steam punkish. Not sure I did any growing but I got to spend time in the sun with my beasties, use my art skills and maybe plant some seeds about taking better care of the world around us.

[oncetheearl]

.Primary Colors

Grell Sutcliff

warnings: none, it's mildly fluffy prose

a/n: Written for @saturnberry. I hope you had a nice Valentine's Day. Because there were so many mentions of Grell in your posts I knew right off that's who I wanted to write for, though admittingly I feel like I don't have a good enough hold on Grell's personality (hence why I avoided a ship with another canon character.) This is technically Grell x Reader as it uses instances of second person; however, the gender of the reader is left open ended.

In a world where everyone is designated a color—an indicator of who they were to become as they grew older—you were born an unremarkable cluster of blues, not bright enough to add to the sky, too morbid for the painters to use.

It was as though everywhere you went, people outshone you. In school the other children were wondrous blends, and your shade felt understated, a waste of anyone's attention. Even the other blues were brighter than you: one girl you likened to the ocean, a sapphire crystal—so warm a shade it leaked into the atmosphere. In class you sat beside a yellow, a cheery snaggletooth boy with sincere eyes behind coke frames, a penchant for silly games, and a willingness to try anything. You knew the rainbow, a brown—tough as nails. She hardly flinched at an encounter with broken glass. A dark grey who only spoke to you once. Even a pink, who laughed with the purples. It came from his uncle, he told you one morning, picking dandelions from the field beside the schoolhouse.

You on the other hand, sat beneath a tree with roots ripped and picked weeds out the Earth, never at home enough in your own shade to cajole with the others. It'd all be different when you grew up, you considered. Adults weren't like this; they'd treat you better, teach you there was never anything wrong with your color—because surely, it couldn't have mattered in the real world.

Yet, when you grew, your sense of loss grew with you. 

The world was organized by color files in a dusty cabinet, by designation and molds that weren't intended for expansion. Bosses had those they preferred. Oranges made good leaders, they said, and greens could be consultants if they wanted. Trichromatics were sought after inclusions. But blues were in abundance, and therefore mere grunts, worker ants; those that populated the factories of London's lower regions.

Needless to say, you did not need to ask in order to know what designation the casualties were; some accident in a factory you heard. But you always waited for your carriage here and chose to do so regardless, even though the air agitated.

As you watched the road ahead, out came someone, bemoaning their line of work (an investigator, you wondered? who else would be in there?), glasses askew, near knocking you forward into the pavement before the fact you should move presented itself to you.

The speed in which you felt your chest constrict was maddeningly slow (surely an instant, but forever in your head based on the lump in your throat.) Away you had looked, heart an unruly child turning pans into drums. You prayed that no one could hear it sputtering beneath your coat, that the stranger in red couldn't sense your nerves. The stranger was definitely a red, just as their clothes would have said. You could tell by the mannerisms, those teeth, the flop of hair into the vision. The annoyance that the rain kept pouring and pouring as though the sky had a rip.

But then that stranger gave you a look, and said something, and for a brief moment you forgot to add air to your lungs, the necessity of breathing.

You can't recall what you were told... cliche of love at first sight, and all. It could have been mundane complaints about how the sky was drenching you both, or questioning of why you seemed incapable of looking upward, or where White Chapel was—but you know it had to have been something sweet like 'what's someone gorgeous doing out here looking so glum' or 'what a pretty coat, where can I get one?'

(If not, why were you so flustered, then?)

You would later put a name to this stranger, but for now it did not matter. Grell had been complaining about the storm, eyes upward, expression turned near startled when you extended a hand and professed lunch on the Eastside, my treat, too willing to say please.

Oh, God. What possessed you to, you wonder? You were not spontaneous, or the type to offer lunch to a stranger in the dark. Reds and blues did not go together—because neither understood the other. Though it wasn't such a mystery why, the rain reminds. Red was your favorite color. That jigsaw smile, the collision of a million things into one, twisted upward, and you knew, no longer had to wonder: you liked red, even if it belonged to another.

And Grell brought out the red in you. Made you so always willing to run, to say I'm hungry, let's have dinner. Promise we'll have candles or flowers or a band that plays Saint-Saëns in fantasia.

I'll make it loud and bold, I'll make it red—because you wear it so.

How about the pier? The symphony? A massage—I'll do the planning.

Your hair is quite long, can I comb through it with only the tips of my fingers?

One day you had stopped to ponder, why is it I love red, I wonder?

Why not orange, or blue, or the shade of wet feathers? Why something so loud and abrasive and untamed. Untethered. Why stand out when it's comfortable in the rafters? Why did you feel more red than you were? But maybe those feelings didn't matter.

Your grandmother was a blue, and so was your father. Your mother had developed it one noon as a girl, came down with it like fever. It ran in your blood, slept in your grandfather's genepool, was inherited in your skin, lived in the liversplotches on your cousin's lips. You were a blue, and that was not worth denying.

You liked your books, the ones with the spines wrinkled. You drunk tea in evenings without sound. Your dwelling had seen better. Your wall clock swing was musicality; oh how boring, you'd imagine Grell would think.

Your shade of blue was mute, tired. A housecat slithered under a creaking armoire. An old weeping oak. A desire to rest before time ran out. But for all the inherent blueness of you, Grell never complained: and that confused you. Not even where you lived; an old building on a simple street with cramped beige walls and floors unnaturally even. At least if they were lopsided you'd feel more unique.

(Luckily, Grell had only insulted your abode once, when a long strand of red had gotten caught in the spinning wheel next to your bed and yanked from the scalp. It was in jest—you hoped—though Grell had been incensed and seemed alarmingly serious about cutting the thing apart...)

Fixing makeup in the mirror, spraying you with scents, Grell spoke where you preferred to listen; 'try this' 'no this smells much better' 'a maiden must always be adorned in fanciful arrangements' 'roses are my favorite, you know?'

Oh, did you ever. And so was bright weather, pretty corsets, lace feathers, heels that made the calves go on forever. Every utterance, complaint, and silly trait was inscribed in a tongue known to no one in the valley of your heart. You were a blue after all, and blues were dutiful lovers. Had memories like harp strings taunt; sharp. And how could you ever forget anything about Grell when there was always more to learn.

But you wanted to share that brightness. You'd walk and consider, could I make red if I mixed others? If I took his orange, my blue, that woman's green, maybe a splash of pink for authenticity... would I have a said shade like yours, a color that says 'look at me, I'm worth beholding'?

Maybe the rafters aren't so pretty. Maybe I'd like them all to look at me even if there's no smiling. Be seen. Red stops everyone, always has them looking. But you cannot make red from anything other. You are born red. You are born yourself. You would never have that shade, ever.

Sometimes you both spoke of what it would be like to be reborn, who either of you imagined would be the other.

Grell would be a supernova; grand, the death of something and the birth of another, a force you can't stop. A contradiction, a paradox; the brute with the love of flowers. Grell was red to the core. Wore it as though it was summer. Red was fond. Red was sticking up for your lover. Red was passion, and great things, and goosebumps from too much laughter. A person who in death, found that bold was always inside them. The poet's encouragement to be yourself. Something strange: spring in the snow, a funeral full of smiles. Red and worthwhile.

Grell hoped you'd still be you, to your wonder, because no one knew Grell better. You smiled when you were told, and that's because you're blue, hun. No one would understand those little details, loves, see so well beneath the water. Only a blue would. Could. A blue keeps the order while maintaining the spontaneity of a boat ride at the shore.

It was because you were blue. Because you were you. And blue is a nice color, Grell told you. Imagine how boring it'd be if we were all red or violet or green.

'I'd be bored'

You laughed, because maybe there was a point. Maybe blue wasn't such a bad color to be, because balance is pretty, a necessary evil. Grell had a flair for losing boots in the gutter, sneaking out to join the ball, and you liked picking up Cinderella's lost shoes. You've got a lover who loves a kiss on the hand, and you, a romantic from reading at all hours. Together you'd make blends and yellows and greens and purples; the shade of sallows, the sandy crunch of the desert, capture the sunrise's caricature.

I love your red, you tell. And Grell thinks your blue is quite special. Because it's red and blue together that unlocks the rainbow.

[springday-aus]

Gardener!AU with Sanha

moodboard link

Group: ASTRO 

Member: Yoon Sanha

Genre: fluff, romance

part of the Odd Summer Jobs!AU ⇸ introduction of the Summer Boys!

check out the others on the au masterlist! 

Type: Butllerpoint AU 

Word Count: approx. 1.7k

I know, I know... a guy who can’t handle bugs does gardening?

highkey that’s the only downside of this job

the amount of wasps he’s had to wave off is…. many

one time he saw a bug in his garden in process and…….. let’s just say that Mark def lost some hearing bc Sanha kept screaming in the car bc he was afraid of having the bug follow him into the car

it was a whole thing

anyways

Sanha’s jobs includes two things: decorating gardens and cleaning them up

like some people hire him to make their garden prettier than it originally was

and others hire him to clean them up

there’s this one lady who hires him to just do the weeding in her garden

tbh it isn’t too hard of a job

it’s really just bc some people are too lazy to do it

and the other people like to garden with other people

overall, he actually really likes it tho

primarily bc most of the time, the customers leave him alone and, on top of that, he also gets free drinks

there’s also the personal satisfaction whenever his flowers blossom

But then there’s the sadness whenever he sees that they’re dead

Kaunlin: “are you crying?”

Sanha: “thEY’RE DEAD OF COURSE I’M CRYING”

Chan: “just leave him alone, he needs a moment”

Jisung: “it’s more than just a moment that he needs”

Mingi: “ I mean, he’s not wrong…”

omg there was this one time that he worked on this garden for like three days and he was so happy with the result and then learned the hard way that he should plant seeds that are very low-maintenance

altho there are a couple of people he knows he can trust

it’s primarily the older folks who are just at home and don’t want to learn knitting

speaking of which

they find him super cute bc he’s just a tall, overgrown puppy who likes to run into a field of flowers

and he kind of is

bc he would def do that

whenever he helps Minhyuk with his dogs, Minhyuk just thinks it’s another dog he’s walking lmao

even tho Sanha told him that he was looking for inspiration

…. he just ends up in running in the fields anyways lol

anyways

back to the actual gardens themselves

they’re not really gardens bc it’s more of little areas that aren’t grass

he doesn’t limit it to just flowers and caring for them

this one time, someone wanted to start a vegetable garden and it turned out super cute

bc he helped them out, he gets free tomatoes now (whenever they’re in season obviously)

and he always shares them with the other Summer Boys bc he def gets too much sometimes

(there’s also another couple who gives him free cucumbers and he gets so many stink-eyes from Seungkwan and Chan and he ignores it but yeah)

he also does bushes—specializes the most in rose bushes

one time, him and this cooky, old, neighborhood lady wanted to try that thing from Alice in Wonderland

so he spent like five hours with her, painting the white roses red

a complete waste of time but it was so much fun

they had a bonding experience

on the other hand….

they kind of looked insane from an outsider’s perspective

Mark, from inside his car: “I was told to come here around 1…. should I just… leave him here?”

Chenle: “nah, we should stay and see where this goes”

Mark: ….. “I should really start charging y’all for these free rides”

Jisung: “shush”

moving on

he’s also part of this gardening club for his neighborhood

and it’s super adorable

bc half of it is where he gets most of his customers

the other half is mainly just the old ladies who call him cute

remember how I said there’s only a couple of people he trusts with his pretty gardens?

yeah, those are the only ones he trusts

so, this club is also important bc this is how he got to meet you

you were bored this summer and thought about picking up a hobby

there were flyers for a gardening club and you thought, why the hell not

when you came, there was definitely less people than you thought

and they were definitely older than you’d thought

but it was still fun

so you just kept coming

everyone was super nice to you too

you were having a good time

they meet like once a week so it’s not like you couldn’t make the time

(plus you were highkey satisfied with your flower arrangement—and it was actually really fun)

meanwhile the elders were like: “Sanha, look, it’s someone closer to your age”

Sanha: minding his business and watering his flowers

Sanha: “hm?”

“talk to them, you’re garden neighbors :)”

Sanha: ….. “okay”

with a bit of a push from the others, he slowly approached you while you were watering your side in the garden

Sanha: “hey”

You: “hi”

Sanha: topic of conversation, find a topic of conversation

Sanha: “I like those hibiscus flowers”

You: “thank you, it took a bit of time, but they turned out good”

Sanha: “yeah, they did”

Sanha: “they’re very low maintenance and they turn out beautiful”

You: “it’s literally the only reason I picked these seeds”

you two get to bond

and leave with a new number in your phones

you two get closer and closer with each week and each text

it’s cute

the elders were eating that shit up

some of your club pictures is just you two in the garden

with the sunshine and butterflies and dandelion leaves blowing in the wind

it was incredibly photogenic for a bunch of people in their mid-40s to 80s

anyways, it’s a beautiful friendship

so what changes?

there’s an exhibition at the botanical gardens and, the club makes plans to meet up to go to it

when you all meet up, you initially go off together

but since each section of the garden is so huge, you end up breaking up into groups and pairs and such

you and Sanha were under this gazebo in the Japanese Gardens section on a little bench that faces out on the mini sized river

the both of you were so caught up in the conversation, you didn’t even realize when your hands were laced together

it started from knee nudges to elbow bumps and then…. hands

the other club members definitely noticed but no one said anything to preserve the *possibly* rare moment of the two of you

you can count on the fact that they took a photo of that too

(they sent you copies like a week later btw)

you were both enjoying the silence for a bit

and Sanha is lowkey staring at your profile

you look so peaceful

he smiles to himself, a bit lost in thought

his concentration breaks once you start giggling

Sanha: “what… what’s so funny?”

you can’t look at him, instead you keep laughing to yourself and, you’re worried you kind of look like a maniac but

whatever

You: “nothing, nevermind”

Sanha: “no, tell me”

You: “okay, okay, but give me a second”

you clear your throat a bit, before trying to look at him again

You: “sorry, this is kind of hard”

Sanha: “don’t overthink it, it’s just me”

You: “it’s because it’s you though”

Sanha: “what do you mean?”

You: “I like you……”

his eyes widen from the confession

You: “you know, just a lily bit”

and then they close at your bad joke

despite the cringeyness of your words

he can’t hide his smile

Sanha: “that’s a shame because I like you very mulch”

when you get back to the group, you’re holding hands and the blush on your cheeks are very evident

“YES IT FINALLY HAPPENED”

“omg, Susan, calm down”

so, other than the time you two spend at the club, you both also spend most of your time together at the park

it’s nice and calming

and it’s super cute to see Sanha in his element

Minhyuk goes with you two sometimes

only sometimes

bc being the third wheel isn’t fun

hence why he brings dogs with him

but, no he’s glad his friend found someone who makes him happy

and lowkey he wanted to meet you to report back to the other Summer Boys that Sanha was in good hands

yo, when you met with the other Summer Boys

you could understand why they were so popular in their neighborhoods

they’re all so fun in their own ways

(Mark extended his rides for you too bc he’s such a sweetheart)

anyways

other notes

Sanha can’t kill the bugs

so that’s your responsibility now, whether or not you’re okay with that

if you are, you lowkey use tease him after killing or catching the bug

Sanha: “stOP HOLDING IT SO CLOSE”

You: “it’s a bug, not a disease”

Sanha: “say that to the plague”

if you aren’t okay with getting rid of the bugs….. then be okay with it bc Sanha’s not doing it

Sanha: holding the flyswatter in one hand and bug spray in the other

Sanha: “you get it”

You: “nO you get it!”

Sanha: “nO”

You: “I’m not doing it!”

Sanha: “well, neither am I!”

The Bee: 👁️👄👁️

anyways

Sanha asks you to accompany him whenever he has to work on a couple of gardens

he likes your input

remember that rose bush thing?

he showed you it

and the lady he did it with? she invited you both in for tea

it was really fun

(she makes really good cookies)

but stuff like that occurred more often with you around

not exactly planting flowers, but more fun and creative ideas

you even recommended for him to do those fancy lights in the wintertime for extra money over break

(which he is totally going to do now)

it’s because of stuff like this that he trusts your ideas

it’s a good dynamic

You: “hey Sanha”

Sanha: “what?”

You: “I needed somebudy like you”

Sanha:

You:

Sanha: “I thought we agreed no more flower puns”

You: “you like themmmmm”

Sanha: “I don’t know about that but I know I like you ;)” 

You: … “shutup”