#why must i be cursed to like rarepairs

[stjarnskrik]

i wanted them smooching because I love them!

[amethystunarmed]

What Do You Say?

Word Count: 1753 AO3 Part 1 Written for Hatchetfield Rarepair Week Day 3: Memories Duke and Ted work on the case to get Ted custody of Peter. Duke gets a very normal migraine and Ted has a very normal reaction.

“I got your abomination of a drink,” Ted tells him. He’s only twenty minutes late to their meeting, which is honestly a record for him. Duke has started scheduling everything at least a half hour before he actually intends on starting. “Why on earth you need to add four sugars to a fucking white chocolate mocha, I’ll never understand.” Ted continues, taking a swig from what Duke hopes is his own cup. “Fair warning, it’s from Beanie’s, so it probably sucks.”

He places the cup in front of Duke, and falls into the chair for his clients on the other side of the desk. Ted says “Nothing can replace Miss Retro’s,” just as Duke picks up the cup and says, “Thanks darlin’.”

And something in Duke’s brain snaps.

Static. 

It almost makes you forget about all that.

It’s all static. 

It feels nice to be the hero, for once. 

Forget.

Miss Holloway had a good run. 

Forget, Douglas Keane. 

That’s not fair.

F O R G E T.

I couldn’t forget you, even if I tried. 

He hasn’t forgotten anything.

I’m trying to say good-bye.  

There is nothing to remember.

Can I?

So then why does it hurt so goddamn bad. 

When he next becomes aware of something other than the splitting pain searing his skull, he realizes he is no longer sitting in his chair. There is a steady hum of noise in the room. He’s on the ground, on his hands and knees. They’re warm and distantly achy. He realizes he is sitting in a puddle of hot coffee, that he must have spilled it when the migraine hit. The bizarre flare of pain recedes as quickly as it struck, just like they always do. With the migraine gone, Duke is able to parse out that the stream of noise beside him is Ted cursing.

“Oh fuck, oh shit, what the fuck, come on, man-”

“I’m fine,” Duke interrupts, voice sore. He pushes back on his hands so he can sit against his desk. The pain may have already faded, but the migraine has left him disoriented and breathless. They don’t happen often, but they leave him off-kilter. Sometimes he feels out of it for days after a bad one.

And this, this was a bad one.

“No you fucking aren’t!” Ted yells, voice squeaky with panic, “You just had like, a seizure or something. Have you had one before? We need to call 911-”

Ted pulls his phone out of his pocket like a man on a mission and Duke can’t believe he seems to be trapped in some weird temporal flux that makes Ted Spankoffski give a shit about other people. And, despite how much he would love to encourage this odd change in behavior, he  really doesn't want to go to the hospital. “Ted. It's really, really fine. It wasn't a seizure.” Ted glares at him, clearly doubtful. Duke bites his lip. “I get... Migraines.”

“Dude, that was not a migraine. You fell to your hands and knees and started screaming.” 

“That happens sometimes.” 

Ted gapes at him like he has absolutely lost his mind, and Duke supposes that, in a way, he has. 

He swallows. He doesn't like talking about it. He doesn’t think it’s anyone’s business. Right now, only three people know about his episodes: his general physician, Miss Holiday, and Duke himself. But most people haven’t seen him collapse on the ground and go nonresponsive. Most people haven’t seen the worst episode he’s ever had in person.

Ted apparently takes Duke’s silence as a sign of something further being wrong, because he unlocks his phone. “Fuck this, I’m calling an ambulance.” Duke sees Ted dial “9” and the thought of seeing an ambulance makes the static swell in his brain. 

He reaches out and places a hand over Ted’s phone. “Really, I’m fine. It’s already passed.”

Ted gives him a look of blatant disbelief.

“Look,” Duke says, “I...” He quickly thinks of a half-lie, something that will explain without going into the empty hole that Miss Holloway has left in his life, about the debilitating grief he can barely feel for a woman he hardly remembers. “I was... in an accident, a while ago. My doctor knows about these attacks, and I have been checked out for them, okay? I’m fine. That was just... a bad one.” 

“Okay...” Ted says, sounding like he isn’t okay at all. “...Are you sure we shouldn’t call someone?” He flips his phone anxiously in his hand. He has that panicked look, the same one he got right before asking Duke for help all those weeks ago. And suddenly Duke realizes he is missing something. Something important.

“Ted...” Duke says slowly. He has a feeling that if he gets this wrong, whatever moment is developing will crumble like sand. “Is something else going on here?”

“Psh, no,” Ted scoffs, “You must have hit your head when you fell.” He flips his phone quicker. He reminds Duke of the cagey high schoolers he is called to help, the ones who think they are too cool to show actual emotions. It almost makes Duke grin.

“You know, it’s fine if it scared you,” Duke reassures him, “Especially if you haven’t witnessed a medical emergency like that before.” 

Ted barks out a startled laugh. “It’s kind of the exact opposite.”

Duke frowns at him, any amusement he was feeling rapidly evaporating. “What does that mean?”

Ted sighs. He tucks his phone in his pocket and leans back on his hands. There is something intimate, the two of them sitting on the floor beside Duke’s desk. It makes Duke lean in, like he is privy to something special. But still, he is not prepared for the words that come out of Ted’s mouth.

“Peter had a seizure. Came over for dinner and we ended up spending the night in the ER. Apparently our parents didn't have time to pick up his insulin refill and he didn't want to 'worry me.’” He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that didn't work. Fucking moron.” His voice is calm, but he brings his knees to his chest and hugs them, tightly. Duke can see the tension in his arms. “I thought he was dying.” The unspoken I thought you were dying, hangs in the air. “I thought my parents had finally killed him.” Ted chuckles, like that can disarm the absolute bomb he just dropped. “But at least he didn’t have to go to Abstinence Camp? So that’s something. We both missed out on the Honey Festival though, so, you win some, you lose some.”

It’s supposed to be a joke. An out Duke can take to make light of the situation. Duke doesn’t take it. He can’t imagine just continuing and making light of this situation, like it was something normal, a wild weekend that could be mocked. 

Duke could have passed their room in St. Damien’s when he went looking for Miss Holloway’s body in the morgue.

So instead, Duke doesn’t say anything. It’s a helpful trick he has learned over the years, to just let a silence be. He reaches up and grabs some napkins from the drink tray. He begins mopping up the coffee he knocked over, and lets Ted sit.

(Besides, he doesn’t know what he would say anyways.)

“Our parents... They're not bad people. They're just distant.” Ted continues after a few minutes, almost defensively. It feels involuntary, as innate a response as shivering in the cold. Duke wonders how often he's told this lie, that he truly believes it. “So for an independent kid like me, it was fine, you know? I took care of myself when I needed to.” 

And Duke has words to say about that, has heard plenty of hurt kids say the same thing, but Ted just plows through before he can get a word in. “But Peter... Peter isn't the kind of kid you can half-ass. He's too fucking good to die because my fucking parents can't bother to drive to the pharmacy. He needs someone who can actually take care of him.” Ted laughs bitterly and gives Duke a self-deprecating smile. “Guess he really inherited the Spankoffski luck if he's stuck with me.”

“I think he's plenty lucky,” Duke says without thinking. He means it though. Peter is lucky to have someone like Ted looking out for him.

Ted blinks at him, seeming utterly dumbstruck. He blushes, a bit, and isn’t that a wonder. Ted Spankoffski. Blushing. He clears his throat. “Well, you'd be about the only one.” 

Duke smiles at him. “Let's get back to work so you can show the rest of Hatchetfield then, huh?” With the information Ted just gave him about Peter’s health, Duke figures they would have a pretty solid case for medical neglect. If Peter was taken to the children’s ward, Duke may be able to have Becky Barnes come in as a witness. She has always been a fantastic resource for him in past cases-

“Oh no,” Ted says, interrupting Duke's train of thought. He clambers to his feet, and holds out a hand to help Duke up. “You are going to take a fucking break, that’s what is about to happen!” 

Duke blinks at him, even as he takes Ted’s hand. “Ted, I told, you, I’m fine-”

“Can it,” Ted interjects, and pokes his finger at Duke’s chest. “We’re not fucking up my little brother’s life because you were too out of it to file the proper paperwork. We’re stopping until I’m sure you’re not about to keel over.” 

And just a few weeks ago, Duke would have been annoyed. But somewhere along the line, Duke has realized that Ted is physically incapable of being emotionally vulnerable, even about his brother who he so clearly cares for. Most of his worrying about Peter comes out in complaints and bitching. And Duke thinks that, maybe this is just Ted’s version of caring.

He finds himself oddly touched. 

Duke feels a fond little smile creep onto his face. “Sure,” he says, “Seems like we need to pick up more coffee anyways.”

Ted looks down at the puddle of coffee-soaked napkins at Duke's feet.

“To be honest, this is probably for the best. I think both our drinks had spit in them. The baristas at Beanie's do not like me.”

And, for a brief, impossible moment, Duke finds himself wondering why.

“I mean, the crabby one is not NEARLY hot enough to be as mean as she is.”

Ah. Right.

[whitelikeroses]

Ship of the Week!

Gonna start posting these here too because why the hell not. I love to scream with joy about my ships. Starting off strong with one of my favorites (actually they're all my favorites), Blacksmith's Familiar! Which is my name for the ship comprised of Blake/Yang/Penny (I named it for the fact that the ship name for Yang/Penny is Blacksmith) Now let's get into it!

These three are, as I so affectionately refer to them, my 'THEY COULD HAVE BEEN SO FLUFFY THEY DESERVED TO BE FLUFFY' OT3. I mean, notice how in the pictures above, Yang lets Penny pick her up, and Penny lets Blake lift her when she hugs them! Anyway Combat Kitty happens to also be one of my favorite rarepairs. One of my favorite things to talk about regarding it is how Blake must know how Penny felt in the early volumes, being different but being able to pass being both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because they can blend in, they aren't targets. A curse because they can't be authentically them. And then you have Yang. Yang who has never been anything BUT authentically herself. Yang who doesn't care that Blake's a Faunus or that Penny's a robot. Because they're still them! And she loves them! And they should be able to love themselves too! Yang Xiao Long who goes out of her way to remind them that not only are they wonderful for everything that they are, but she'd never want them any other way. I hc that Yang runs warm, and thus she appreciates that Penny is cool to the touch. Her favorite times are when Penny and Blake are leaning into her on either side, snuggling into her while she wraps one arm around Penny and uses the other hand to gently pet Blake's ears. Think of the affection in her eyes as she gazes at each of them. Yang's always worn her heart on her sleeve, and that means Penny and Blake are never left in the dark about how she feels about them. This is great for Blake, because she never has to worry about empty promises from Yang. She means and does what she says. It's also great for Penny, who has always struggled with the nuance of interacting with people, and struggles when people either don't say what they mean, or worse, suddenly change their behaviors. Penny's bluntness and slight inability to lie also helps. It helps Blake for the same reason Yang's earnest nature does, and it helps Yang because of her issues with people leaving her, lying to her, and in Raven's case, even trying to manipulate her (I hope I'm making sense). I am so delusional about these three I stg. They would be SO obnoxiously in love that Weiss would have to take to wearing earmuffs in their vicinity to ignore the stream of loving words, and a blindfold to ignore the sweet gestures they'd constantly exchange. Like They're so adorable I could DIE Anyway, Thank you for reading! I have been delusiona- I mean Apex and this has been a Ship of the Week post! See y'all next week!

[bronanlynch]

❤💔💕 fire emblem canon of your choosing 👀

❤: Which character do you think is the most egregiously mischaracterized by the fandom?

all of them but especially the main three lords like. you have the people who think edelgard is an evil ~crazy tyrant, the people who have some wild fucking opinions abt dimitri's mental illness, and the people who either think that claude is just a silly meme guy (or that he's 100% pro-church)

💔: If you had to remove one major character from the series, who would you choose?

those who slither in the dark. like edelgard can have a shitty ambitious uncle who wants to use her to gain power and whom she is using in return. but please. he can just be an ordinary guy who sucks there should not be a group of ontologically evil non-human guys who secretly manipulate all world events for their own gain. genuinely wild that I have only very rarely seen anyone point out that uhhhhhh that's classic antisemitic conspiracy theory shit that the game would be better without on so many levels

💕: What is an unpopular ship that you like?

it's time to tell you abt yet another girl that I think should kiss edelgard. it's understandable that this is a rarepair bc hapi & edelgard don't interact much and also hapi is from the dlc (she's from the secret fourth house in the sewers) and there's another girl from the same dlc that she's ~gal pals with, so people tend to pair them together (they're cute too, and tbh these ships are not mutually exclusive, the other girl is one of the ones who has a paired ending with edelgard (the magic scientist who wants to restore her family's status) so like. polycule. anyway). hapi/edelgard. the thing abt hapi is that she's cursed (every time she sighs she summons monsters, because she was experimented on by the same people who experimented on edelgard) which is why the church threw her into abyss and she's. understandably angry abt them locking her up instead of helping her. see: this entire conversation between her and byleth, that caused me to immediately be like "you and edelgard Need to have a conversation abt this" especially this part

like. the thing abt hapi is that she's very jaded and disillusioned and acts like she doesn't care abt anything or anyone as a defense mechanism and I think that's a fun sort of character to set up with someone like edelgard who believes So strongly. girl who doesn't think the world can change so why bother hoping x girl who believes that the world Must change and she has to be the one to do it. this too is yuri

anyway that's why I wrote a fic abt them

[camakkuma]

I can't keep shipping rarepairs!! Its a curse! Why must i only like ships with little content!!

[seventfics]

Autumn Birds

Written for @witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo

Prompt: We fell in love, but your previous lover reappeared/returned Relationships: Eskel/Jaskier (w/ past!Geralt/Eskel and past!Geralt/Jaskier) Rating: T Content Warnings: None Summary: They’d met just as the leaves were turning yellow. 

Read on AO3

* * *

They’d met just as the leaves were turning yellow.

Jaskier had heard of a witcher staying in town and, as was his prerogative since his acquaintance with a certain White Wolf, he’d ventured to see what the man was all about. It was not so often one got to meet someone of their caste. Why not have a little courage to break the ice himself?

The whispers spoke of a witcher with a terribly scarred face. Two swords strapped over his back, their pommels shaped into wolf heads. The women said he had a voice like a dog’s growl, so grave that when he spoke, it made children cry.

He thought that last bit was rather mean, and followed the trail of curses into a grimy tavern where a fight was about to break out.

“You promised fifty.”

“The best I can do is half.”

Jaskier’s hand freezes on the door. Whatever he’s come to doesn’t look good. The witcher’s back is to him, his padded shoulders raised with tension. The village’s alderman paces in front of him, fuming over a contract’s fee. There’s a few antsy people in the crowd too. The anger written on their faces makes him nervous.

He’s seen how this ends a dozen times. It’s gotten his own arse kicked butting into the middle of a witcher’s bargaining, actually.

“Now, now, gentlemen,” Jaskier interjects boisterously from the doorframe anyway. “This is no mood for drink and cheer. Calm your spirits with a little of the former—”

The alderman grumbles under his breath about merry idiots meddling in what they shouldn’t. “Shut up, bard. This here’s serious business. And I’m not about to be robbed by a witcher’s ridiculous high prize.”

“It’s not ridiculous. The contract says fifty, and,” the witcher stops to lift the bloody stump of a water hag’s head, “it’s already done.”

“That contract was up weeks ago. The reward’s gone down. You’re lucky half’s on the table at all.”

The witcher grunts—a familiar sound to Jaskier’s ears which translates to wordless annoyance—and drops the head on the floor. “You’re lucky the hag didn’t move closer into the village in that time.”

“Is that a threat?”

At the rising outrage in his tone, Jaskier slips closer to stare at the alderman over the witcher’s swordless shoulder. “Ah, I believe the witcher means more of your people would have died, had he not taken care of the problem so promptly. The reward hardly sounds like an unreasonable amount. I could get twice as much on a profitable eve of singing. In fact,” he flips to the witcher, who does not yet deign to look back at his unforeseen defender, “I could turn this place around and earn us both a decent share in one night. I’m no fop on the job!”

It’s then that the witcher looks towards him, but the bard only manages a quick glimpse of an incredulous set of eyebrows before the alderman starts shouting.

“Get out! Both of you! Out of my town or I’ll have the dogs chase you out!”

They both take that as their leave, Jaskier with a bit more speed in his jog.

At the outskirts the witcher turns fully, and at the sight of his whole face Jaskier almost gasps out loud. A long scar runs through his cheek, from eyebrow to jaw, and over his lips. It puckers the skin all around it, disfiguring half of his face.

Whatever caused that scar must have hurt a lot.

The witcher shifts in place, quiet for a long second as Jaskier does his best to hide his nerves. “I’m sorry to have involved you.”

“Oh, please, don’t be. I involved myself. Jaskier’s the name, by the way,” he introduces himself, hand extended in greeting.

The witcher scratches the back of his head. His lips twist to one side, bashful. One of his teeth peeks through the scarred tissue over his mouth. “Uh. Eskel.” He takes the offered hand and shakes it.

It’s the firmest handshake Jaskier has ever received.

“Well, Eskel. Are you short on coin? Because so am I.”

The snort he gets is—soft. Not at all like the gruff from before, with the alderman.

“I’m not doing too bad, I’d say. Just currently fifty short of what I expected to have at the end of the day.”

"How about I help with that? I wasn't lying when I said I could earn both a decent share, given the right crowd."

It's the sunset hour, and the leaves were falling on top of them. Everything is gold. The sky, the trees. Eskel’s eyes when they blink at him and he breaks into a genuine laugh.

Jaskier knows he’s a romantic. His heart flutters every odd day over strangers with pretty smiles. He’s just never seen such a shy, sweet smile on someone with such an intimidating facade.

Making him smile again became a personal quest.

* * *

At the next town over, Eskel speaks to the alderman there. This one is more reasonable at least, and up front about the sort of beast that lurks in the northern farms. Which brings up a whole new conversation as Jaskier doesn’t part from Eskel’s side despite the obvious danger.

Eskel grunts and sits him down, not unlike the times Geralt tried—and failed—to convince him to stay put. Jaskier just blinks his pretty blue eyes and says, “and how will I write a song of your prowess in battle if I am not there to witness it?”

“This is a dangerous contract, bard. It would be best if you let me handle it alone.”

“Oh no. No, no, I’ve heard that before a dozen times.”

Eskel pauses at that. “What?”

“I am perfectly capable of staying out of your way.”

The wyvern they encounter says otherwise.

To be fair, he had done a good job of staying out of the witcher’s way for most of the fight. It is only when the beast slams its tail into Eskel’s side on a backswing that Jaskier shouts in worry from his hiding place and brings undue attention to himself.

Wind whips around him for a split second, scattering dust into his eyes. It takes a moment to wipe them clean so of course he doesn’t see the great shadow flying at him. Doesn't realize the immediate need to hide or flee for his life until a giant claw snatches him by the bunched fabric on his back.

Jaskier's stomach plummets as he soars up. The ground recedes. His clothes start to rip. This is it, he panic-screams in his mind, this is his final day. Either as monster food or a blood splatter on a rock, his time has come.

A severe overreaction, and his own mistake for not trusting in a witcher's skill. He doesn't realize it in all, what with all his flailing about, but Eskel fires a crossbow bolt perfectly at the wyvern’s eye.

The beast screeches terribly loud in his ears. It flaps its wings once, twice, before twisting midair and letting him go.

They both fall, but Eskel catches him.

By the silence that follows after an earth-shaking crunch, he knows the witcher's won. Victory is not immediately on his mind, though. The way his sight spins and the sun paints a halo behind Eskel's hair, Jaskier dumbly thinks, oh—I've quite literally fallen in love.

“See?” he says instead, breathless with terror at almost having died, “I’m perfectly fine.”

Eskel raises a thick brow at him. And he's smiling too, the bard thinks. Could just be the scar making it look like a lopsided smile, but he wants to believe that he's made the witcher smile again with his foolish sense of humor.

“Are you alright? The tail,” Jaskier frets once his vision settles. Some of these monsters have poisoned stingers on the end of their tails. Are wyverns one of them?

But Eskel waves him down before he can consider the worst. “Relax. I cast Quen in time.”

“That’s a, uh, magic shield, right?”

Surprise colors Eskel's features. So it seems he's right. A point of pride on Jaskier's belt for remembering witcher signs.

Getting proof of a contract well done takes the witcher a good minute to collect. Wyvern skin is tough. The head would normally satisfy as proof, but it's too heavy to be lugging around town. He will have to make do with the wing tips. Should they question him, the remains aren't going anywhere.

“Come on, bard. Time to get our day's work done. And after that, we're going west.”

“'We'?” Something about the proclamation has his heart beating fast.

“'Course. I'm not letting you out of my sight now.”

He makes a show of bowing dramatically. “I wouldn’t want to be elsewhere.”

* * *

“You’re a friend of Geralt’s.”

Jaskier looks up from his notes.

Traveling with someone is always interesting—with a witcher even more so. So far he's learned that Eskel has far more routines than Geralt ever did, like counting his coin at the end of every week, and making sure he has two of every potion ready.

Jaskier quirks a half-smile. “I am. How did you figure? I never said his name.”

“Your song.” He points to the scribbled mess on his lap. “Or, I guess your work in progress. I see an expression he uses a lot, that he learned from me.”

“Oh?”

Eskel sits by him and nods, as if finally understanding Jaskier’s odd ease partnering with a witcher, and starts the story of where the expression in his handwriting originated from.

It’s funny at first, imagining a much younger, somehow more foolish Geralt together with this huge, frightening man who is not frightening at all to talk to. Eskel speaks so softly, so tenderhearted about the old memory—two boys, witchers-to-be, practically joined at the hip, making crude jokes. So he reciprocates with a tale of where he comes from, as destiny deigned to put them in each other’s paths.

As it happens, a lot of their first stories aren’t even their own, but Geralt’s.

And Eskel has many more over his. He’s more than happy to share them over camp.

Some of it leaves Jaskier’s throat aching. This is someone who clearly cares about his big grumpy friend. It's someone he can understand.

Then Eskel claps a bare hand on his back, his thumb and forefinger a hot press just under his nape, and oh, he’s more than a little foolishly in love actually, as his head is emptied of all reason at the small touch.

“Am I to become your travel bard,” Jaskier quips with an airy giggle. “I’m excellent entertainment at parties.”

“Not for long. It’s almost winter. Soon I’ll have to head north to meet my brothers.”

His heart sinks. “Oh.”

Eskel squeezes his shoulder with careful strength. “You better keep out of trouble while I’m gone, you hear?”

“Of course. I don’t go looking for trouble.”

“No, trouble just finds you.”

Well, if ‘trouble’ is a scarred, smirking witcher, he sure hopes that to be true.

* * *

They meet again when the trees are just beginning to color with spring blooms.

There is also a griffin tearing through the town's cattle, but that’s besides the point. Easily dealt with. Which is good, seeing as Jaskier had been near the scene and probably next on the menu. No one had told him about the griffin, so really. He's just as surprised to find Eskel as he is about the beast.

“You alright, bard?”

“I am now.”

Matter resolved, Jaskier walks in step next to Eskel. The town opens before them, welcoming the witcher not with smiles, but grudging gratitude.

“You sure? Trouble didn’t come knocking while I was gone?”

“Only a man with a lover’s grudge come to kick my ass out of a wonderfully luxurious establishment. Didn’t even get to enjoy the hot bath I paid for, which is such a terrible waste of hot water.”

A deep hum comes out of the witcher. “A lover’s grudge?”

“Just a past dalliance that won’t forget me.”

Eskel stops and shifts on his feet, like he wants to say something but he doesn’t know how to start.

Oh, witchers and their awkward conversation skills.

“You know what, I’m starving. I think a good, hearty meal is owed between us. What do you say we go collect your reward and we break fast at the alderman’s recommendation?”

“We don’t have to get the coin right now. I could go for some food.”

“First tavern we see then. Come on.”

Right as he says it, he wraps his arm around Eskel’s, and maybe he’s just being too obvious, too hopeful, but Eskel doesn’t shrug him off. They make their way to a large and welcoming tavern, him talking his head off about the barn smell that permeates the whole town and ignoring the dark looks people give them down the street, as Eskel listens, not a word coming from his mouth. It worries Jaskier a minute that he’s becoming more annoyance than the teasing meddler he wants to be. But Eskel is just scratching his chin, looking down and letting Jaskier lead.

When it becomes clear that Eskel doesn’t have any rented lodgings yet, Jaskier offers his own. “I’m sure the innkeeper won’t mind us bunking if we pay for two, at the end of our stay.”

Eskel doesn't say no. He also doesn't say yes. It takes them finally being settled in a table of their own, full of fruits, cheese and bread, neither of them taking the first bite to eat, for Jaskier to nervously ask, “What is it?”

“Nothing,” comes the too-quick response.

“If I overstepped in some way, please tell me.”

“It’s nothing like that, I—uh.” Eskel shakes his head, his expression scrunched up unpleasantly.

“Whatever it is, I won’t be offended.”

He's already writing a million apologies in his head for any of his imagined offenses, that he's not quite prepared for what Eskel says instead.

“You are...different from what I expected.”

Jaskier blinks. “How so?”

“I don’t know. You’re just. Human. You’re normal.” He makes a point of gesturing at the table, the people keeping their distance. “I don’t get why you do all this for me.”

It's slow-creeping, but once the pieces align, Jaskier starts to understand what he means. That confusion, he’s known it with Geralt. Why do you stick with me? What does a witcher have to offer a human that isn’t the service of a silver sword? What does a human want with a mutant when there are plenty of other ordinary, uncomplicated folk in the world to have for company?

“Because you’re a good man,” he tells the witcher gently. “Because you saved my life and I want to repay you in kind. Most reasonably of all, because we’re friends, and friends take care of each other.”

Of course there’s more to it than that, but if a friend is all Eskel wants, then a friend he shall be.

The rumble of the tavern fills the air as Eskel stares at him a little wide-eyed. Jaskier gives him a slight smile. As a close, he pushes the platter of cheese forward with an encouraging, “now eat your fill, my friend.”

Once Eskel returns his smile, he thinks that, well, that everything will turn out alright.

And they’re happy eating their food when Geralt shows up for the griffin that’s already dead.

At his distinct silhouette, Eskel stands up. “White Wolf.”

“Eskel,” Geralt calls back gravely.

They clasp arms and pat each other’s shoulders in sync. It might not seem like much to outsiders, but what a rare sight to behold—two witchers, two mirrored grins on both their faces.

Eskel is the first to part from the hug with a chiding, “You didn’t come for winter.”

“I know. I had a lot going on. Saw your handiwork hooked to your horse’s saddle.” Then he looks down, and spots Eskel's table company. “Jaskier?”

“Geralt.”

Their held eye-contact feels longer than it is. Looking away, Jaskier half expects the whole tavern to be staring at them, but as it turns out, no one cares to pay the witchers and their odd bard any attention now that the monster's been dealt with. It's just him, imagining his heart hanging out of his sleeve for everyone to judge.

And maybe Eskel senses something's up between them, because he leaves them with the excuse to collect his coin.

“I haven’t seen you in a while,” Jaskier says after Geralt takes Eskel's abandoned seat. “Have you really been so busy that you couldn’t let your friends know you were alive?”

Geralt's silence is its own answer—a little shame, a little remorse. He remembers how Eskel had said that as time went on, Geralt just, lost touch. There had been something heavy in Eskel’s eyes when he said it, and Jaskier had felt it in his soul. Now he understands why. Him and Eskel, they'd both gone through the same impossible task of loving someone who doesn’t believe he can be loved.

By gods, he still loves Geralt, but Geralt's heart is a rusty cage, and neither of them can coax the old bird that lives in it anymore. Soft words and gentle promises have run their course.

“So,” the witcher starts, “you and Eskel? Didn't know you knew each other.”

“Maybe if you’d met either of us during winter you would have heard.” The phrasing's rough, but there's no resentment in his voice. He would have liked to know that Geralt had been safe in his wintering home, with Eskel.

“Yeah. I’m...surprised.” Jaskier raises his brow at him. Which just earns a quick shake of Geralt’s head. “He doesn’t make friends easily.”

“Neither do you, and yet look at us.”

“Look at us,” he echoes, staring at the empty plates.

“We missed a lot of opportunities together, didn’t we?” It doesn't make the truth any easier to swallow, but acknowledging the what-could-have-beens has always made him feel better afterward. Like closing a book, and getting ready to open a new one. He hopes Geralt knows that there's no bridges destroyed between them. Only those missed moments.

He still very much cares for Geralt, and he knows that Geralt does as well. They just have to come to terms with what's over—and what might come next.

“I won’t lie to you,” Jaskier adds more seriously. “I don’t want to miss any opportunities with him.”

The 'him' in question is unmistakable. Geralt nods. He looks down, one end of his mouth drawing up to dimple his cheek.

He says, like an olive branch offering, “His favorite flower is yarrow. Not because they’re pretty, but because they’re useful in the most surprising ways.”

* * * 

They spend the day catching up, all three of them, before Geralt is on the road again, taking his own path. Jaskier sees how it brightens Eskel’s spirits to have seen him off, and cheers up twofold. 

“I’ve known him practically my whole life,” Eskel tells him.

“I’ve known him half of mine.”

“So you understand.”

“That he’s a prat? Oh yes. Good at heart, backwards about verbalizing it. Cheeky when he wants to be. Oh by the way, here.”

From out of his little travel bag, Jaskier pulls a swathe of yarrows.

“Saw some at market street,” he explains, presenting them. “Thought you might find use in them for your potions.”

Eskel turns to him, his bright witcher eyes bouncing between him and the yarrows. Jaskier feels his heart climb up his throat, wondering what runs through Eskel's mind that makes him pause for so long.

Then Eskel takes them with one hand and with the other, he touches Jaskier’s face. It's big, warm, calloused against his skin. And sudden.

“‘Cheeky when he wants to be’, right?”

Jaskier stutters to say, “Well, yes, I mean, but this isn’t about him—”

He forgets how to speak after Eskel kisses him. It’s the lightest peck on the corner of his lips, so light that once he draws back, he wonders if he's not still dreaming back in their rented room.

“Thank you. I know just what to use them for.”

The yarrow gets tucked away with the other herbs in Eskel's saddlebag. A few glasses clink together as he moves things around so they don’t get crushed. And then, as Jaskier stands there, stupefied and slack-jawed, Eskel mounts his steed, a soot-black beauty that neighs softly at Jaskier’s face.

“Where are you headed for now?”

“Nowhere. Anywhere.” Wherever you’ll go, he thinks to himself. Wherever you'll have me.

Eskel grins wide at him, and it's the most beautiful sight, his smile, with all his teeth gleaming.

“That sounds like trouble.”

[wren-ravenheart]

You Tried So Loud To Love Me

@witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo

Prompt: Hanahaki Disease Relationships:  Jaskier/Valdo Marx Rating: T Content Warnings: Minor blood Summary: Jaskier absolutely could not stand Valdo Marx for even a second. He was pretentious, too pretty for his own good, and had a terrible habit of writing sonnets and songs about the color of Jaskier's eyes and the swoop of his hair that he was absolutely certain were some sort of masterfully crafted insult to his person and reputation.

Tucked under a cut again for Length, though this one is over just over 2k words.

Cross-posted to Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31171259

~

There were exactly three things in life that Jaskier was absolutely certain of. Things that he could continue to count on even when the rest of his life was attempting to fall to pieces around him.

That Belleteyn is the best holiday.

That Toussaint is Hot and Pretentious.

And that Valdo Marx is an asshole.

Even when his pockets were empty, his lute strings snapped, or he suddenly found himself caught up in a mild court scandal that he assuredly had no part in, he could always rely on those few things. It was easy to keep moving forward when one was propelled by Pettiness and Lust. Even if he could never give an exact answer as to why he hated Valdo so much when pressed. Really now, you wouldn’t ask why the grass was green or the sun warm, so why would anyone ask Jaskier why he couldn’t stand that fluffy little upstart?

It was assuredly not because the rival bard did indeed stand two inches taller than him and was criminally handsome. Nor was it because he had a perpetual perfect smile on his face that refused to budge even when Jaskier threw his best insults at him. And it most assuredly was not because the thrice-damned bastard had written not one but Two Sonnets entirely about Jaskier’s eyes and hair and he absolutely could read the undertones of mocking that clearly lay within. No, it was clearly none of those things that irked Jaskier to his very core.

What kept his petty hate-fueled animosity going was the absolutely nonsensical crush he had on the bastard. A crush he had worked hard to snuff out with wine, women, and a few other bards who weren’t nearly as annoying as Valdo. A crush that clearly had not gone away with time. A crush that was currently trying to hurtle it’s slimy little self all the way into actual, ugh… Love.

Which made it even more frustrating than usual that Valdo was suddenly not his normal bubbly self, greeting Jaskier warmly and loudly as he strode into their mutually favorite tavern in the middle of Oxenfurt. He looked tired, and quiet, and barely glanced at Jaskier before shifting his gaze back into the pint of ale in front of him. Not wine? By Melitele, what was wrong with him?

“Well, well, look who the alley cat dragged in. Ale will go straight to your gut, Valdo. I’ll steal back the title of prettiest bard before you know it.” He sniped as he leaned against the table’s edge and smiled with too many teeth.

Valdo cut his eyes up and then back down. “Good day, Jaskier.”

The smile dropped from Jaskier’s face and he narrowed his eyes. “Good day? That’s it? Valdo, are you ill? I did take the title back already, didn’t I? That must be it! I’ve never seen you like this. Ah, it must be such a burn to know you’ve finally been bested by a true bard and exposed for the talentless hack that you are.” As he spoke, he gestured grandly with his hands. Valdo only winced once at the mention of being ill and firmly kept his gaze on his mug.

“Everyone already knew you’re the attractive one between us, Jaskier. No need to rub it in.”

Jaskier ceased his obnoxious flailing and took an actual seat at the table with him. He crossed his arms on the table in front of him and leaned in, lowering his voice to avoid being overheard. “Okay now you’re actually worrying me. I was expecting snide sonnets on my unruly mop and ‘lustful gaze’. Jabs, put-downs...anything but this. You are actually sick, aren’t you?”

Valdo slammed back the rest of his ale and stood up abruptly. Jaskier’s mouth dropped open in shock as he was glared openly at by his once-rival turned unnatural crush. “Leave off, Jaskier. Go bother the brothel workers.” And with that final gritted out jab, he stomped out of the tavern.

Jaskier was still staring in shock at the empty spot before him when the barmaid strolled by.

“You’ll catch flies, you leave your mouth open like that, boy.”

He clicked his mouth shut and quickly made his own way out and back to his lodgings.

This just wouldn’t do. What was Valdo’s game? Was he finally making good on all of Jaskier’s assholish attempts to make them public nemeses? Maybe Valdo could read minds; realized the strange feelings the bard had begun to have towards him and decided he was thoroughly disgusted by him.

Jaskier let himself slink into the beginnings of a depression and decided he’d just have to try and shake that off and find out what was going on with his Fri… Rival.

He followed Valdo whenever he could, ambushing him after lectures and hunting him down in pubs. He startled him so fiercely one of these times that the other bard broke down into what sounded like a very painful coughing fit, enough that caused him to pull out a handkerchief to cough into until his lungs settled from the surprise. He found this odd, and then odder still when as he went to ask after his well-being, Valdo abruptly shoved the handkerchief away and growled at him. Growled! Like some angry dog! And left Jaskier once again staring after him as he stomped away, agog.

A month later, Jaskier’s persistence had turned into straight up concern. Valdo was less angry with his antics and instead seemed constantly tired. There were bags under his lovely brown eyes and his hair had turned greasy and less kempt. He consulted these odd symptoms with a friend studying medicine and she mentioned it sounded like some sort of wasting disease. Jaskier was only familiar with a few of them, but none of them sounded like a pleasant time.

So, while still firmly trying to convince his brain that Valdo was still an absolute Arse and absolutely did not deserve his time or affection, Jaskier made soup. Warm pot nestled in the crook of his arm, he marched up to Valdo’s residence and knocked firmly on the door. No one answered. He knocked again. Deep coughs followed by the sounds of mild choking came from within and Jaskier decided basic decorum was right out the window. He pried open the door and rushed inside, looking for the source of the distress.

And there was Valdo; laid out on a lounge chair looking even worse than usual and slowly lowering a cloth from his mouth. There were flecks of blood on his lips and it appeared as if he couldn’t draw a full breath. Jaskier plunked the soup pot right on the floor and went directly to Valdo’s side.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were so ill?” He asked softly, dropping all the pretense of being a rampant jerk.

Valdo just looked at him sadly, too tired to muster up his recent attempts at dismissal. “I did not want you to know, Jaskier. You’re like the sun. So warm and happy. I could not bring myself to have you worry so I pushed you away.”

Jaskier’s eyes went a little wide and he reached out to take Valdo’s hand. It was so cold in his own, and he could make out the fine bones in his fingers. A wasting disease indeed. He rubbed his thumb over the other’s knuckles and shook his head slightly in dismay.

“I’ve been a right arse to you for years. Look at us. Idiots to the bitter end.” He murmured wistfully. “Is… is there anything I can do to help? To ease anything at all? I, uh… I made you soup. I thought it might be… nice?”

Now it was Valdo’s turn to look surprised. He squeezed the hand in his and looked over at the pot on the floor. “You made me soup? You’ve never made me anything.”

“Okay yes. Fine. That is true. I’m a complete and total jerk. My feet should not be gracing your illustrious doorstep, my knees not fit for your carpet. I’m sorry, okay? You’re talented. So talented. I’m at a loss without your poetry to bounce my own works off of.”

At this confession, Valdo cracked a little smile. “Maybe there is hope for you and I after all, dear Jaskier… You see, I ha-” A painful coughing fit cut him off abruptly, the force of it causing Valdo to nearly curl in on himself, clutching the cloth to his mouth as his body attempted to forcefully remove whatever was clearly killing him. Jaskier kept his hand firmly in Valdo’s as he tried to rub the other’s back in comfort. The touch seemed to help in some small way, and the hacking died off. Valdo slumped backwards panting, the hand with the cloth falling into his lap.

There, amidst the spattering of blood, lay small bright yellow flowers. Jaskier gasped loudly and shook his head.

“No, it’s a myth. It’s not real.”

Valdo attempted to clear his throat as he bunched the cloth with the flowers up and tried to hide it from view. “You of.. Of all people… .should know the… power of a story… where they come from...the truths hidden in the tales….We’re storytellers.. It’s.. poetic in it’s own way…”

“It’s a tragedy born of the old stories, is what it is. Wasting away from unrequited love? It’s madness. No one actually dies of a broken heart.”

“I’m not heartbroken, Jaskier. I’m simply in love with someone who is my sun and sky… and who absolutely cannot stand me. It will make the most glorious tragedy. I have already begun to write it.” Valdo smiled brightly as he caught his breath better and shifted to sit more comfortably. He squeezed his hand once more before letting it drop. “With any luck, I will finish it before I can no longer write.”

Jaskier stared into the middle distance over Valdo’s shoulder, taking it all in. It all seemed too outlandish to be real. Things that happened in tragedies and stories never actually happened in real life. Soulmates weren’t real. Kisses didn’t break curses. And people didn’t suffocate slowly on flowers for being rejected. But as he slowly shifted his gaze back to the pale, but still softly smiling, face of the absolute nuisance that was Valdo Marx, at lot of things clicked into place for him.

He had never hidden pithy put-downs into his sonnets. He had never crafted masterful insults through his songs. He had honestly and truly sung from the heart and he had called him his Sun. Valdo had been unashamedly, unabashedly, in love with him from the start. He was coughing up small yellow flowers… Buttercups...and had slipped back into waxing poetic over it all. Lord, the fool was fully gone on him. And he had been nothing but the most righteous arse over it all, so very full of himself and sure that the other was somehow mocking him and jealous of his talent.

Turns out it was Jaskier himself who was the pompous wastrul and talentless hack. He shuffled forward on his knees until he was flush against the lounge. Valdo looked over at him and lifted an eyebrow in question. A beautiful eyebrow set in a beautiful face that Jaskier was tired of pretending he wasn’t also long gone on as well. What was it that the storybooks always said saved the day, woke the princess, broke the curse? Ah… yes…

Jaskier set both hands on the cushion of the lounge and angled himself just right to gently lean forward and press his lips right against Valdo’s own. The man below him went very very still. His lips were soft, but the lack of any response twisted something uncomfortable in his gut and he slowly broke the kiss and moved away, eyes cast downwards.

“I’m sorry, I-”

“Jaskier, what-?”

They spoke at once. Jaskier looked up and noticed color on Valdo’s cheeks, his mouth slightly open and his eyes nearly comically wide in shock. He swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat.

“I’ve been a right arse to you, but I love you, Valdo Marx. And I do not wish to see you suffer a moment longer. It will kill me too.”

Valdo’s eyes fluttered shut and he let out a deep exhale. Jaskier panicked for a brief second, wondering if he had actually killed him, before he sucked in a very long and full breath and opened his eyes again. They shined with unshed tears and Jaskier had a moment to admire the sight and the warm feeling at finally giving in before he was being tackled to the ground in a crushing hug and warm tiny kisses were being pressed to whatever skin the other could find.

A laugh erupted from them, and Valdo’s kisses shifted from surprised, affectionate pecks, to soft and tender kisses meant to explore the other’s skin. Jaskier shifted slightly under him and set a hand to his chin, drawing him back to his own lips to continue the kissing. Valdo hummed happily and nearly melted into what he hoped was now his new Beau. The university community was going to have a field day with this.

Jaskier rolled them over and slowly moved his head away. Valdo attempted to chase after one more kiss, making him chuckle. “As much as I am enjoying making out on the floor like we’re back in year one… are you sure? Are you alright? You were coughing up most of your lung a minute ago.”

Valdo smiled up at him and reached up to run his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. “Yes, my love, I am quite well now. You’ve restored me and I suffer no longer. Now the story I write shall have a happy ending. A proper fairy tale after all.”

“Well, if you insist. Though I would be grateful to continue this discussion somewhere that is not the floor.”

Valdo’s laugh was bright and filled him with warmth as they both got to their feet and he began to tug Jaskier in the direction of a more private space. “Anything for the prettiest bard in Oxenfurt.”

And wasn’t Jaskier pleasantly surprised when Valdo took it upon himself to demonstrate just how much better he now felt, repeatedly and with vigor. As it turned out, stories always had more truth to them than he had ever expected, for this cursed ailment was most assuredly soothed with a Kiss.

~End~

[pressedinthepages]

Clean

@witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo

also thanks to friends in the Cake Shop for the encouragement, and to @sometimesiwrite for the nudges in the right direction :D

Prompt: *Bathtub*

Relationship: Lambert/Essi

Rating: Teen

Content Warnings: fluff, non-sexual nudity, brief thirsty thoughts, first kiss

Summary: Lambert is in desperate need of a bath, and Essi is more than happy to lend a helping hand.

“Gods above, Lambert, you smell like you just crawled out of the depths of hell.”

Lambert shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Not hell. Just a nest of nekkers. Not exactly known for their sweet, floral scents.”

Essi sighed and set her lute down at the foot of her bed. Lambert’s bed lay across the room, yet his was untouched. “Here,” she said, striding to the corner that kept a small wooden tub tucked away, “let me get one of the girls downstairs to fill this for you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Lambert scowled as he untied the knot keeping his gambeson closed, “I’m used to the shit monster smell.”

“Just because you’re used to it doesn’t mean that you need to wallow in it all night. C’mon, your poor nostrils must be burning.” Essi spoke quickly and clearly as she turned the tub on its side to roll into the middle of the room.

Lambert took a deep breath (yes, through his mouth, shut up) and stubbornly crossed his arms. “Cool it, bard. We don’t need to waste the coin when I can just rinse off in a river when we get back on the trail tomorrow.”

Essi let the tub slam down onto the floor and matched Lambert in posture, her own arms crossed and her head cocked as she observed him through her very bright eyes. “It’s not a waste of coin, Lambert. We have plenty, you’re just being an ass.”

“This is not a new phenomenon-”

“Dammit, Lambert! Let me do this one thing for you. Please.”

Lambert paused, casting a scrutinizing eye towards Essi. Gods, she was almost shimmering, passion brewing from her very being. And yes, while Lambert may have been one of the most stubborn bastards to have ever walked on the Continent, he was also tired. And Essi seemed sincere, not wanting to do this for him for her own benefit, but actually just...for his.

Weird.

“Fine,” Lambert groused through gritted teeth, “but you make sure that they make it hot enough. If I’m taking a bath, I want the damned full experience.”

Essi nodded with finality and let a gentle smile turn the corners of her lips. “Would you like for me to see if one of them would come help? I can go and give you some privacy, if you’d like-”

Lambert sputtered as he watched Essi slide her shoes on. “N-no. Don’t do that.”

Essi shrugged, “Alright. You said you wanted the ‘full experience’ which, for men, usually involves a woman’s hand.”

“Women don’t typically take kindly to Witchers in their tubs,” Essi scowled at Lambert’s words. “Besides, I just need to get clean. I don’t need all the fancy stuff.”

Essi peered over at him with an odd look on her face. Lambert couldn’t really place it. Not pity, not amusement, nor abashedness. Just...odd. “Whatever you say, Lambert. Would you still like some time for yourself? I really don’t mind stepping ou-”

“Stay. I don’t wanna kick you out. Besides, it’s cold out. You should keep by the fire.” Lambert...wasn’t really sure where all that came from, but he could tell that it wasn’t the answer that Essi was expecting either.

Essi looked over her shoulder to him as she set her hand on the doorknob. “Alright, Lambert. I’ll see what I can round up for you.”

Lambert could hear her feet bounce down the steps towards the tavern below. He sighed to himself and continued on with removing the outer layers of his armor. The gambeson was first to hit the floor, left to the side so that he could properly clean it later. Yeah, he thought as he raised his arms above his head and caught a whiff of himself, maybe I did need that bath.

He slipped off his gloves next, flexing his newly freed fingers a bit as he threw the gloves to the floor. The boots were toed off at the door and his potions belt was set next to them. He was just contemplating the ties on his trousers when he heard approaching footsteps with a familiar cadence.

Essi knocked before she entered, as she always did whenever the two of them traveled together. Lambert never really understood it, but he also appreciated it nonetheless. The Path was not made with privacy in mind, so he cherished every little bit that he could get. He called her in and she kept the door propped open behind her.

“The innkeeper’s daughter will be up in a few moments with the water, she’s got it heating up now.” Lambert kinda lost himself in the high pink planes of her cheeks and the glow behind her crystalline eyes before the words registered in his brain.

Lambert nodded and stepped back so that Essi could set an armful of towels down on her bed and rifle through her pack. She emerged with a handful of little glass bottles and a soft scrap cloth. He quirked a brow and tried to look over just what she had snuck in here. “What’s all of that?”

Essi chuckled and glanced back over to him. “What does it look like? You said ‘full experience,’ so I brought it!”

Lambert shook his head and smirked, “I also said you didn’t need to worry about all of that. Besides, I don’t do all of the smelly soaps, it’s too much for my no-”

“Yes, I know. That’s why I chose these. Here,” Essi uncorked a small bottle and held it at arm’s length, “try this one.”

Lambert stepped forward and leaned down, just barely sniffing the contents of the bottle, fully prepared for an assault on his senses. He furrowed his brow and inhaled deeper, only just barely catching a trace of earthy spices on the tail end of the air. “That’s...not too bad. Where did you find this?”

Essi smiled wide and turned back to the other glasses on her bed. “You know, I don’t spend all of my time with Witchers. I have a friend back in Oxenfurt who is an alchemist, and they like to make soaps and such. I asked if they had anything that might not be too aggressive for your nose, and they didn’t. But they did have a few ideas, so they finished up this batch by the last time I stopped in. I’ve been trying to figure out the best way to give them to you, and now seemed like a good enough time as any, and-”

Lambert shook his head and held out his hand, palm up. Essi stopped rambling and carefully set the assortment of bottles into his grasp. “Essi. I...I can’t pay you back for this, not right now. I can’t just drop coin on this kind of stuff-”

“You don’t have to pay me back, Lambert. It’s a gift. One that you very much deserve.”

Lambert felt something weird rising up in his chest and tug behind his stomach. “I-hmpf. Thank you, Essi. It...it means a lot that you would think of something like this for me.”

Essi reached out and placed her hand gently on Lambert’s arm. “Of course. You’ll have to tell me what you think of them, and I can pass the message back to my friend for their next batch.”

Lambert ran his thumb back and forth over the smooth glass in his hand. He could feel the warmth of Essi’s skin radiate from her palm and through his linen shirt, and he wanted so desperately to be able to find the words to thank her properly. “Essi, I-”

A knock on the door startled them both and Lambert cursed himself for getting so caught up that he didn’t even hear the poor girl climbing the stairs. He pulled open the door and stepped aside for her to clamber into the room with a large pot. She upended it into the tub, letting steaming water slosh around and immediately fill the air with the thickness.

“Anything else that I can help you with?” The young woman asked kindly, crossing her hands in front of her and looking up at Lambert. He shook his head and let her out of the room, closing and bolting the door behind her.

Essi smoothed her hands down her trousers as she looked Lambert up and down. He felt her gaze rover over his skin and felt a not-unwelcome prickle at the back of his neck. “Well, are you gonna bathe, or were you wanting to just get in like that and call your laundry done?”

Lambert actually let out a bark of laughter at that one, his heart warming when he heard Essi laughing a bit herself. “No, not gonna waste this hot water on my laundry. You mind if I go ahead then?”

Essi shook her head and took the bottles back out of his hand. “Go on, it’s not like I’ve never seen a naked man.”

Lambert felt the ghost of her fingers across his palm before he reached up behind his neck to grab onto the collar of his undershirt and lift it over his head. He wrinkled his nose as he chucked it to the side, apparently now making a pile for his laundry too. While Lambert wasn’t exactly ashamed of his body, he knew that it could be...distressing for humans. Scars and burns decorated his skin and, while he was leaner than his other Wolves, he still had muscles that shifted and danced as he moved that were never really paid attention to by others. He turned away for Essi and untied his trousers before pushing them down his thighs, and while he may have caught her heart beating a bit quicker than before, it was probably just his mind.

Lambert kicked away the trousers to rest with his shirt and carefully covered his manhood with his hand before he turned back around. As he faced Essi once more, he watched in real time as her eyes drank in his body, lines crawling up and down and around, making his head swim with the sudden feeling of being seen. Not necessarily just looked at, but something more, something deeper. Something he didn’t have a name for.

Essi blinked a few times and swallowed thickly before meeting Lambert’s eyes from beneath the curl of her bangs. “Well...hmm. You uh, you should go ahead and hop in before it gets too cold.”

Lambert caught the flush of her cheeks and how her fingers sort of fidgeted at her sides, drawing his attention away from her eyes. Lambert tried to balance carefully as he stepped into the tub, one arm still occupied with keeping himself covered from Essi’s piercing gaze. Lambert’s foot broke the surface of the bath and he felt the heat crawl up beneath his skin as he fully stepped in. The water would have been scalding to a human, but to Lambert? Oh, hot fucking water was pure bliss.

He shuffled a bit as he sat down into the tub, finally finding a position with his head leaning back on the rim and his knees bent and poking above the surface of the water. He sighed as his muscles relaxed into the heat, and he closed his eyes and just let his mind quiet for a few moments. Though, he could hear Essi fiddling with something, her hands as restless as her mind, it seemed.

“Essi?”

“Hmm?” Lambert smiled a bit and peeked open one eye when he heard her voice, clearly a bit caught off guard. Her hum had been a little higher than normal, and a bit too quick.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but I could use a hand with washing my hair-”

“Oh!” Essi jumped up and clambered for the array of bottles that she had spread back out on the bed. “I don’t mind at all, if you’re sure…”

Lambert hummed his assent and closed his eyes once more, listening to Essi patter about the room for a moment before coming to rest behind him. He heard a stool be set down and the gentle shifting of fabric as she sat atop it. “Right then,” she murmured, keeping her voice low and soft, “should I use that one soap I showed you, or a different one?”

Lambert shrugged as he sat up, his body warm and loose from the bath. “Maybe do that one for my hair, and I can try a different one for the rest of me?”

Lambert ducked under the water and ran his hands through his hair, rubbing down his face and along his jaw as he resurfaced. He felt the rivers of water trail down his spine and heard the telltale pacing of Essi’s heart fluttering in her chest.

He smirked as he chanced a glance over his shoulder to her. “Gonna just stare at my back all day?”

Essi, to her credit, hesitated for only half a heartbeat, just enough for Lambert to know that he had, in fact, caught her doing just that. She then huffed good-naturedly and reached out for his shoulders. “Well, if I could reach you, that would be ideal.”

Lambert hummed as he leaned and felt her hands guide him by the shoulders back to resting at the edge of the bath. He heard her take a deep breath, one that he knew was to steel the nerves. He found himself wanting to do the same, but for his own.

“Comfortable?” Essi murmured, her hands still resting lightly on the junction between Lambert’s neck and shoulders.

“Mhm,” Lambert nodded and let his eyes close. He could feel the pulse of Essi’s blood swirl beneath her fingertips, and the huffs of her breath ghost over his skin. The warm water soothed his muscles and led him down into a pseudo-meditative state, still aware of the world around him, but able to focus in on little bits of sensation as he wished.

He felt Essi’s hands leave him as she reached for one of the bottles at her side. As she pulled out the stopper, Lambert caught another whiff of the same scent from earlier. That dark, musty, earthy scent, raindrops pillowed on moss. It was accompanied now by honey and verbena, the light air wafting down from the thick golden tendrils of Essi’s hair.

Essi poured a dollop of soap into her hand and set the bottle back onto the floor before lathering her hands together. “Alright, I’ll start with your hair. Still good?”

“Yeah, fine,” Lambert hummed as he felt her fingers drag up along his scalp. He just barely held back a moan from escaping his throat as she lightly scratched back and forth through his hair, working the soap into soft, fragrant bubbles that trailed down over his forehead.

Essi began to hum, low and quiet, just barely a sound trailing from her lips. It lilted and bounced along the air with no clear direction, no endgame. Just...to be. She watched Lambert’s shoulders relax, the line of his spine dipping down further into the water and the dark hairs on his chest catching suds as they fell from the damp ends of his hair.

Once his hair was properly scrubbed, the scruff that it was, Essi let her hands follow the trail of suds down his neck to his shoulders, massaging tight and tired muscles as she went. Lambert did not succeed in holding back the groan that creaked from his throat as he crumpled slightly.

“Want to pick another one of the soaps, or should I pick for you?” Essi murmured, still smoothing her hands gently back and forth along the line of his shoulders, squeezing the muscles beneath with every pass.

Lambert hummed and shifted in the bath, the water sloshing around as he adjusted his hips. “You can pick. I trust you.”

Essi smiled as she turned to the little collection of bottles by her foot, grabbing a little bottle scented with lemongrass and sage, dabbing a small pool into the palm of her hand and working up a lather, spreading it along his arms and onto the top of his chest. She paused when she realized she wasn’t certain just how much more she could cover without… well, crossing some lines they’d never really discussed. They were friends, had become quite close in their travels. Essi knew that Lambert trusted her, just as she did in return. But some things just...hadn’t been addressed between them.

Essi scooted around so she was face to face with Lambert and washed down the line of his arm, working the suds and watching his chest rise and fall with long, deep breaths. “Alright...legs next?”

Lambert peeked open an eye, glancing around as if he were worried they’d be caught doing something inappropriate. He cleared his throat and closed his eye once more. “Y-yeah. Yeah sure. Fine.”

“Are you sure? I could not if you’d rather—”

Lambert limply waved his hand, “Nah, you’re fine. Go for it.”

Essi nodded and got to work, spreading the lather up and down his legs, massaging his feet and calves, working up to the tender muscles just above his knees.

“Oi!” He jerked away suddenly and Essi withdrew, worrying she’d accidentally hit on a tender scar or an injury from earlier. To her relief and amusement, Lambert smirked, “Tickles.”

“Sorry,” Essi snickered, “want me to move elsewhere?”

“Nah, you’re fine. Just uh-just don’t be too light there or else you may wind up with my foot to your face. Not on purpose mind you, but-”

“Alright, alright,” Essi laughed, kneading her thumbs more deeply into the skin of his thigh. Lambert’s head thunked back against the rim of the tub.

“Gods, woman. You’re going to be the death of me, you know that?” Lambert sighed as he wiped his hand down along the line of his jaw.

Essi shook her head with a snicker, “Oh please Lambert. Don’t even start with m-”

“You and I both know that I would absolutely not be in a warm bath with a very pretty woman washing me just the way I like if not for you weaseling your way into my Path.” Lambert once again wasn’t sure where that came from, but Gods know it was true. Every little bit.

Essi’s cheeks went bright red, “Nonsense, Lambert. I never weasel anywhere, and certainly not onto the path. But I’ll take the credit all the same for being pretty and stubborn.”

Lambert hummed and waved his hand around dramatically. “Bah, semantics. You know how I hate when you get caught up in word play-”

Essi scoffed with a great smile on her face, “Oh, don’t you dare lie to me! You love my word play, you and that sharp mind of yours. Admit it, you’d be bored to death otherwise.”

“Someone’s taking a lot of credit this evening. Never mind the nest of fuckin’ ogroids I just destroyed so an entire village could resettle.” Lambert opened his eyes and sat up, letting his leg fall back into the water. He braced his hands on either side of the tub and-oh fuck, Essi was now much closer than anticipated.

Lambert watched her throat bob as she licked her lips and swallowed, her eyes darting quickly down to his mouth and back up once more. They sat frozen like that for a moment, a hair’s breadth away from pushing into uncharted territory.

Essi cleared her throat and looked up at the suds threatening to drip down into Lambert’s eyes. “Perhaps you should rinse, then I can make sure that everything’s clean?”

“Uh… yeah-yeah, sure.” Lambert plunged his head under the water and was grateful for a moments’ grace from whatever the fuck that was. He emerged and pinched the water clear from his nose, scrubbing at his hair and blinking profusely—he hated going under water.

Essi watched him scrub away the last remaining drops of water from his beard and fucking shit why-

“Here,” she said, reaching out (Essi, keep it together. What exactly do you think you’re doing here-) “Let me scrub your chest one last time. Just to be sure.”

“Ah, it’s okay, you really don’t have to-”

“Do you not want me t-”

“No! No, I mean if you want… I just don’t want you to feel like you have to if-”

“I don’t mind!”

“It is… nice. I mean, your hands are—” Fuckingshitfuck “—you’re good at this,” Lambert gestured broadly, hoping to alleviate the feeling of having his entire foot in his mouth. Lambert shifted forward so that Essi wouldn’t have to bend and reach quite so far, painfully aware of her hand slightly outstretched and reaching for him.

Essi smiled and shook her head. “Thanks, I think. You’re quite good with semantics, though you seem to be running in circles tonight.”

Lambert huffed good-naturedly as he felt Essi’s hands, still warm and soapy, smooth over the broad plane of his chest. Essi hummed appreciatively as she worked the soap into Lambert’s skin, working circles into the hair dusted across the toned muscle. A smile pulled at her lips, her cheeks rosy with the still-hot water and the kind atmosphere that she simply radiated.

“What is it, songbird?” Lambert couldn’t help the little smile that graced his own face while Essi kept her eyes trained steadily on her own hands on his chest.

“I-well. I’ve always loved a man with some good hair on his chest.”

Lambert’s heart quickened from it’s normally slow pace as he felt Essi’s hand still on his chest, and he looked up into her soft blue eyes. She leaned in, just barely a tilt of her head, the always troublesome curl of golden hair falling down into her eye. Lambert reached up, his hand dripping with water, and gently pushed the curl back behind her ear, his fingers glancing over the impossibly soft skin of her cheek.

Essi closed her eyes and let herself hope, just for a moment, that she knew where this was going. She heard Lambert sigh and she blinked up, finding him closing the distance between her with a quiet, “Oh, what the hell.”

Their lips met with Essi’s hands still on Lambert’s chest and his hands in her hair. It was nothing more than a simple peck at first, a sweet push into unknown waters. But that didn’t last long, for she felt Lambert’s hands tighten in her hair and pull her close, licking insistently at the seam of her mouth.

She granted him access with a gasp, working her tongue with his and running her fingers down and around his chest, her fingers teasing the water line. Lambert tasted of woodsmoke and spice and cherries and Essi’s head swam as he kissed her intensely. Gods, Lambert kissed her like she imagined soldiers coming home from the war kissed their wives: methodical, thorough, devouring her soul with teeth and tongue and his hands grasping onto her so tightly that it could’ve hurt if he hadn’t keened lowly into her mouth.

Lambert shifted back, breaking apart from Essi for a gasp of air. She followed him though, pressing their lips back together and clambering into the bathtub, settling in his lap. He laughed into her mouth and settled his hands on her waist, “Essi, what the fuck? You’re gonna get all we-”

“Oh shut up and kiss me again.” Essi ran her fingers through Lambert’s hair as she leaned down, kissing up his jaw and meeting his lips once more.

Oh, this is gonna be fun.

[hopeswriting]

FANDOM: Katekyo Hitman Reborn!

EVENT: Flufftober 2020

PROMPT: “Oh No, They’re Hot”

AUTHOR: @hopeswriting​

RATING: G

PAIRING: Adult!Colonnello/Adult!Skull

SUMMARY:

Colonnello officially meets Skull for the first time, and he finds him way more hot than a could-be, easy, bully target.

TAG WARNING: Swearing, Sexual Innuendos, Implied/Referenced Bullying

WORDS: 1603

*

How hard could it be to be a punctual human being?

Surely not that hard, seeing as Colonnello was one all his life.

You’d think he would have mastered the art of waiting by then, but if this Skull guy doesn’t show up in the next five minutes, he’ll just leave without looking back.

Or maybe he’ll stay until he shows up, so he can give him a piece of his mind, depending on how long he can make his drink last.

Colonnello rolls his eyes, bumps his head against the wall.

This whole “meeting the Arcobaleno one-on-one as your now teammates” is ridiculous. What is he, a new student at school trying to win the favor of the popular kids?

Colonnello was always among the popular kids, thank you very much. He can’t believe Lal would support this idea, but no matter now.

He just needs to meet the Cloud to be done with it all for good.

Colonnello hears it long before he can see it.

A black and purple motorbike rounds the street corner in a very sharp turn, an equally black and purple driver riding it.

He speeds past the cars in no time, driving around them but keeping so close it’s a wonder they don’t make contact, the sound of the engine revving and the tires against the concrete drowning everything else.

He speeds right past Colonnello, then makes an abrupt u-turn, his motorcycle tipping sideways so low Colonnello doesn’t comprehend how he doesn’t fall, switches lanes, and smoothly parks right in front of him on the sidewalk.

Is this guy… trying to show off to him?

Because it’s working alright.

Colonnello laughs breathlessly, goosebumps up his arms. A chill runs down his spine, adrenaline running through him from just watching.

Oh, he absolutely needs to earn himself a ride.

Skull casually walks up to him, not seeming to care about all the eyes on him. “Hi, I’m Skull. Sorry, I’m not too late, am I?”

Colonnello glances at his watch. Thirty five seconds before five minutes.

This fucker.

“Hi, I’m Colonnello. You are late. I thought we both agreed on the meeting time?”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry. I got stuck in traffic.”

Colonnello subtly narrows his eyes. He just can see Skull grinning despite his helmet, and he sure as hell heard it.

This little shit.

“So. You met all the others already?”

“Yeah.”

“Right.” Skull puts his hands in his pockets, fidgets uncomfortably. “Well, I’m sure you heard all kind of things about me from them, but, you know, I wouldn’t exactly call them Skull specialists.” He shrugs, raises his hand to his head. It bumps against his helmet. “Oh right, my helmet. Hold a second.”

Colonnello’s drink goes down the wrong pipe. He doubles over in a coughing fit, his drink slipping from his hand entirely.

“Woah man, what the hell?”

What the hell?

This guy is hot.

“Are you alright?”

Colonnello pushes his helping hand away, still coughing a little.

Skull’s purple eyes watch him with amusement, highlighted by his purple smokey eye, with heavy mascara on his eyelashes that somehow only draws the gaze more to his eyes.

He nips at the piercing on his bottom lip, linked with the one on his earlobe by a silver chain. Plump lips smeared with purple lipstick spread in a smug smile, emphasizing the teardrop tattoo under his left eye.

His purple hair points in every direction in a stylish mess of a haircut, a fringe falling above his left eye.

And really, it’s a lot of purple, but holy shit the guy is gorgeous.

How did that not come up even once during Lal’s briefings?

“I’m fine, I just swallowed wrong.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

Colonnello straightens himself up, shakes his hand from the drink that spilled on him. He licks off the last of it, and oh, he knows that look in Skull’s eyes.

Good. Now they’re even.

“Sorry about that by the way,” Skull says. “These kind of accidents just keep happening around me, and I really just can’t figure out why.”

“Yeah,” Colonnello says, trying to play it off as casually as he can, “can’t imagine why either. I really don’t see anything that could provoke these kind of reactions.”

“Sure.”

“Listen, I’m a really smooth guy, alright?”

“I guess I’ll just have to take your words for it.”

“Fuck off.”

Skull snickers, something purposefully meant to rile him up further. Colonnello doesn’t take the bait, and bites the inside of his cheek to not laugh too.

Shit. Are they flirting? Colonnello can’t have that.

He has a reputation, and standards, and this guy... could very easily meet them, actually.

But he wears leather jumpsuits, chose purple as his defining color, and going on with the design on his helmet, octopuses of all things could get involved at some point.

And unfortunately Colonnello knows for certain it’s not just the symbol of the Carcassa famiglia.

“Oh shit, Immortal Skull?”

They both turn to the pair of teenagers, wide-eyed at the sight of Skull. Skull’s face lights up. He waves his hand excitedly, and poses for them to take a picture.

Colonnello raises his eyebrow.

Right. Stuntman shows, death defying stunts, famous guy.

He snorts. “Isn’t that cute? You have fans.”

Skull’s smile dims, and disappears entirely once the teenagers are on their way. “As a matter of fact, I do. It kind of comes together with being famous.”

“Yeah,” Colonnello scoffs, “famous for riding bikes.”

Skull doesn’t wince, not quite, but Colonnello catches his face twitching. He puts his free hand in his pocket, hunches his shoulders.

His voice is carefully neutral. “Yeah, for riding bikes. With hundreds upon hundreds of hours of training behind the handle, but no big deal right? Listen, can you...” he sighs deeply, meets his eye again “... just not? We literally just met? Or at least don’t come for the literal greatest passion of my life right off the bat, maybe? I don’t know man, just cut me some slack.”

“Sorry.”

Skull blinks. Colonnello blinks.

Well, that came out embarrassingly easily. And it did sound an awful lot sincere, if Skull’s more open face and posture is anything to go by.

Fucking hell, what is he doing? Playing nice? Is he actually trying to get on Skull’s good side?

“Thank you, I really appreciate it.” Colonnello watches the last of Skull’s hesitance disappears in his eyes, a smile slowly pulling at his lips until he grins at him again. “So, should we wrap this up? Or maybe we could keep meeting each other for a bit?”

Colonnello peers above his shoulder, at the sleek black and unfortunately purple motorbike.

Now, how much does he really want this ride?

“Sure,” he says, walking past him. He puts a leg over the bike, and sits comfortably on the back seat.

Maybe if he’s really good, Skull will let him drive it.

“Excuse you,” Skull splutters, “do you think I just let anyone ride my baby?”

“Excuse you,” Colonnello shots back, “take another good look at me and maybe you’ll realize I’m not anyone.”

“Right, you’re doing me a favor, is that it?” Skull crosses his arms on his chest, in what Colonnello supposes should have been an intimidating move. “I mean, you’re really hot alright, but I meet plenty of hot people on a daily basis. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Take another really good look at me, and maybe you’ll realize I’m a category of my own among hot people.”

Skull laughs, very clearly despite himself, the hard-to-get act nowhere to be seen. He chews on his lip a bit, but Colonnello knows he already won the argument.

“You just doesn’t have any will, do you?”

“Oh, hush.” Skull rolls his eyes, shoves him playfully. “Maybe I’m just weak for pretty people.”

Colonnello mournfully watches him puts his ugly helmet back on, and rethink his life choices. Really, this goddamned Curse just might have affected his tastes too.

“You know, I did hear things. And I must say I don’t understand.”

Skull throws his hands up in the air. “I know right? You’d think I would have gotten laid with, I don’t know, at least three of them by now. Well, minus Luce of course.” Colonnello gets whiplash. What even—? “No offense to you. I know you have a thing going on with Lal.”

“No, let’s stay focused. That’s where your priorities lie?”

Skull shrugs, takes his place in the driver seat. “I mean, in exchange of all this shit I didn’t sign up for? I think it would have been the barest fucking minimum.”

Colonnello bursts out laughing, because really, what else is there to do?

Not that he doesn’t strongly share the sentiment. He met the others too, and does vividly remember what they look like.

Skull revs the engine, and hell yeah, here they go.

Colonnello wraps his arms loosely around his waist, leans a bit too comfortably maybe against his back, rests his chin on his shoulder.

“Tell you what.”

Skull catches his eye in the rear view mirror. “I’m listening.”

“If you impress me really hard right now—”

“What, with my driving skills you mean? Is that supposed to be a challenge?”

“—and make me spend a really nice time with you,” Colonnello continues, ignoring him, “I just might do an exception for you to the “not on the first night” rule.”

Skull chuckles low in his throat, crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He lowers his visor.

“This better be a promise, because I’ll hold you to that.”

*

The anime watchers only might not know that, because the anime did him so dirty, but Skull is straight up handsome.

I, for one, at the very least, find him very pretty, really handsome, and yes, straight up gorgeous. And it’s a hill I will die on, and I won’t hear any criticism on that.

Also I enjoyed myself writing this so much. Could you tell? Because this is my khr otp as of now, and I wish they’d be hundreds more fics about them for me to read.

Rarepair hell is, well, hell lmao.

Thank you for reading! Any and all review are appreciated ^^.

[that-scouse-wizard]

Day 13 of the April Prompts by @stupendousbookworm

Prompt: Write about a random ship between two canon characters that isn’t relevant but they’re just so cute.

A/N: Let me present you lot with a rarepair. Tulip x Rowan or as I call them, Khannasu. Hope you guys enjoy!

Word count: 1245

‘Come on Karasu, you’ve mocked Argus Filch to his face, you’ve out-pranked Nymphadora Tonks, you’ve taken on a bloody cursed vault for crying out loud! This is a simple yes or no question, just ask her!’ Tulip thought, trying to egg herself on, to no avail. Though she held a quill to a piece of parchment, she had scarcely managed to do more than a slight dot, and nothing else. 

The subject of her current predicament being the one person she wanted to ask to the Celestial Ball, Rowan Khanna.

Currently, the Hufflepuff was on another table at the other end of the library, completely focused on a piece of homework that likely wasn’t due for weeks. Rowan took just a second to adjust her glasses, Tulip smiled, Rowan looked cute when she did that.

A soft croak broke her out of her musing, courtesy of pet toad Dennis, “Of course I’m bloody nervous!” She hissed as quietly as she could, briefly glancing across the library to see if it had caught Rowan’s attention. Breathing a sigh of relief to see that she hadn’t.

Madam Pince on the other hand…

“Miss Karasu.” The librarian spoke up sternly, approaching Tulip. The Ravenclaw wordlessly locked eyes with her, a sense of dread formed in the pit of Tulip’s stomach. She had a feeling she knew what was coming, “Pets are not permitted in the library, and you are clearly not doing anything worthwhile. So either send him away and get some work done quietly or both of you can vacate the library.”

Pince seemed a lot grumpier than usual, definitely not in a mood to argue. Frankly, neither was Tulip, perhaps it would be easier to think of a way to ask Rowan out when Tulip wasn’t so blatantly staring at her…

She sighed in defeat as she exited the library, gathering her things (and Dennis). The uncertainty of it was the most off-putting aspect of this whole situation. She knew Filch had no real power, she knew she could out-prank Tonks and she knew the boggarts that guarded the Vault of Fear could be banished with a Ridikulus spell. Asking out Rowan Khanna? Without knowing if her feelings were requited? That meant facing a much greater chance of failure. One that she didn’t know if she was willing to take.

Initially, the two of them had worked alongside David Willows in breaking the curse of the Vault of Fear as acquaintances exchanging information that they knew. The most she had given Rowan up to that point was a “Good job, Bookworm.” after she had distracted Pince so they could access the vault. 

When the frog choir auditions came around, Dennis had disappeared for a good few hours, he had worried her sick. That is until Rowan, still with her hair damp from taking a bath, had returned Dennis to her. Her pet informed her of Rowan’s apparently good singing voice.

In spite of Rowan’s shyness about performing, she had done so for Tulip. Honestly, to say she was good was an understatement, Rowan had the voice of an angel. It had taken some convincing, namely Rowan bonding with Dennis but at last she had agreed to be his partner in the frog choir. Rowan had secured one of the two spots quite handily. After that, the duo began working together, ensuring a growing closeness, one that had led to Tulip realising she had a crush on Rowan.

Still, they were just so different.  

Rowan Khanna was calm, studious and rule abiding (not counting her delves into the Cursed Vaults alongside David Willows of course). Tulip… wasn’t that, at least not always, what was the chance that Rowan would even consider her offer?

“Karasu!” Came a voice she hadn’t expected to hear, snapping her from her thoughts, it belonged to none other than Merula Snyde. 

“What do you want Merula?” Tulip asked, crossing her arms as her brow furrowed. They hadn’t been on speaking terms for a while given their history.

Merula scoffed a little at Tulip’s tone, “I’m looking for Khanna. I need her for something and you and her seem to be awfully friendly nowadays.”

Tulip’s eyebrow cocked at that, “What do you want with her?” She asked suspiciously.

“Why do you care?” Merula retorted. Tulip scowled, causing Merula to roll her eyes at her, “If you must know, I need her for the Celestial Ball.”

“You’re asking her out?” Tulip said, sounding shocked.

Merula’s jaw dropped in surprise, “What? No!” She responded, equally as shocked by Tulip’s question, “I need her to help me ask D-, someone out.” She said quickly catching herself.

Tulip looked at her sceptically, though feeling relieved as well, at least Merula wasn’t asking Rowan out. Tulip smirked as she got an idea, if Merula needed to be near Rowan but had no plans on going out with her... yes that would work. She could even have a bit of fun with her old friend too.

“Okay then, tell me who you’re asking out and I’ll tell you where Rowan is.” Tulip demanded with a cheeky grin.

Merula glared at her in disbelief, “It’s... David.” She admitted after a pause. Just the slightest blush lighting up her cheeks.

“David Willows?” The Ravenclaw asked, she had a suspicion the two had feelings for each other since they had gone out on a date previously but the fact that it actually seemed to be coming true was a surprise. She got a nod in response. 

“David Willows, the one you fought like cat and dog with in first year?” Another nod, “David Willows, the one you’ve been trying to one-up constantly?”

“Yes.” Merula admitted begrudgingly.

“David Willows the one you-”

“Tulip, I get it!” Merula interrupted, “Can you just tell me where Rowan is?” 

“If you do just one more thing.” Tulip said.

“What?” Merula growled.

Tulip’s response was to take out the quill and parchment from before, quickly scrawling a note on it. Before taking out a piece of twine (it never hurt to be prepared in case it was needed for a prank), wrapping it around Dennis to attach the note.

“The bookworm is in the library.” She said gesturing in its direction, “Give Dennis to her.” She continued, quickly shoving her loyal companion into the grasp of the self-proclaimed ‘Most Powerful Witch in Hogwarts’.

“Wait, why?” Merula tried to question, though Tulip was already briskly walking off, “What was that about?” She asked Dennis, only getting a croak out of him.

“... I have no idea what that means.” She sighed in resignation, well at least all she had to do was give him over. Though whatever Tulip wanted to tell Rowan would have to wait until Merula was finished with her.

-------

A few hours later

It was about dinner time in the Great Hall, the structure thronging with students. Though as Tulip was about tuck into her dinner, Dennis hopped up onto the table, now with a new scrap of paper attached to him.

Her eyes lit up at the sight, at the very least she had gotten a response. She scanned the length of the Hufflepuff table, her eyes soon landing on Rowan. Her fellow fourth year was watching her eagerly for a reaction. Another good sign.

Tulip took it the parchment, unfurling it. Seeing what Rowan had written, it felt like a great iron weight had been lifted off her chest.

My answer is yes.  

[noveltea-lolita]

Freyja’s Flower {NorFin}

AO3 link: Aph Rarepair Week 2020

This is for @aphrarepairweek2020! Major kudos to my best friend @fluffybunnyblue for helping me come up with the plot <3

Valkyries were female warriors of Odin. I’ve taken creative liberties and made one male.

TW: implies suicide at end

Day 1- Flowers

Tucked away in a small forest on the outskirts of an even smaller village in Norway, there is a cottage with a garden the townsfolk have taken to calling magical. They say the white petals of the sneezewort can bloom in any kind of weather; they say they have witnessed fringed pinks to grow to be forty inches tall; and they say they have heard the liljekonvall sing, and they do not say that to sound poetic- they truly believe they have heard the drooping white bulbs sing in the breeze.

What inanity, some in the town will say when their wives or daughters or son-in-laws whisper these fantastical rumors at the dinner table. Sneezeworts are made to thrive in the toughest of weather conditions; fringed pinks can grow to be quite tall; and you must have mistaken that singing for a bird. There, rational explanations! Now hush and eat your porridge.

Rational explanations, indeed, but those who are blinded by the majesties of this ancient land are never to venture into the garden behind the cottage, for they will never be able to find it. They will miss the path in the evergreen forest, or a mist will arise and they will wander around aimlessly before stumbling back to town, or a thunderous storm will crackle across the heavens and keep them far away from the outdoors. They will stay beside their roaring fires with their hunting dogs at their sides and pipes rolling between their fingers, and they will grumble,

“Singing flowers… this town is full of fools.”

But there are fools who believe in these inanities, and they will find an open path from their village to the forest that leads them to a quaint cottage deep within the evergreens. The first thing they will take in is the exquisite smell, no matter the season it smells of parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme, of roses, lavender, jasmine, and chocolate cosmos. It summons the fools forward, beneath the intricate white trellis with wisterias sewed through archway, and into a floral paradise.

Pinks, blues, whites, and yellows align a tiny path etched through the garden, allowing guests to carefully tread through the haven. If their fur laden boots brush against a petal or stem, a gentle wind will push them back to the middle of the path, but it goes unnoticed by the ones it guides. If it is able to grow in Norway, then it is here, in this garden. There are hyacinths in the shade, and freesias in the light; there are moonflowers awaiting the night, and sunflowers stretching their limbs toward Sunna. There are lilies floating across the small pond in the center of the garden, and purple heather swaying around the waters. Hydrangeas, and snowdrops, and lilacs. Stor nøkkeroses, and vivendels, and revebjelles. There is a still beauty in this garden, one every guest can attest to.

There is beauty, and magic, for if you looked- really looked- you would find little creatures bustling about the flowers. Tiny fey folk resting in the bulbs of the flowers, trolls keeping the stems of greenery straight and strong, and maybe even a few merfolk in the “small pond”. These little creatures keep away from the eyes of prying humans, they only ever make their presence known when small children tumble down the paths, so they may tell their mothers of the things they saw. But of all the fey and trolls in this garden, they are incapable of running it. They are not the ones who live in the cottage.

The garden’s guests will tell others the one who sells flowers and herbs is a young man who is too beautiful to even be a man. They say the violets in his garden are the same color as his eyes, and that he dresses humbly in furs and jerkin like the rest of them, but also adorns two rings with sparkling jewels atop. They say he is kind even if he doesn’t smile, they say he looks at his plants as if they were little children, and they say he lives alone. They say they know him.

They are mistaken, for if they truly knew him they would know he is, in fact, a witch. Not the ones humans have made up with their fears of the unknown- no, he is a real witch, one who works with nature, and the gods, and the trolls and fey. They would know he wears one ring in honor of his patron goddess Freyja, goddess of love, beauty, fertility, and battles who loves sparkling jewels, and he wears the second ring in honor of his beloved.

No one truly knows the witch in the cottage, but no one ever pries and the witch never utters a word unless it is about flowers or prices.

By the time the guests have left, either empty handed or with pockets full of seeds, they are happy and content to have found such a wondrous place in their lackluster town. They have spent their entire day in an enchanted garden, though they are not entirely sure what makes it enchanted or magical. They just know it is. When the stars arrive, they close their eyes and drift off to sleep and dream of singing flowers and a mysterious man with eyes of violet.

When they wake, there are more important things to do than visit the garden, but there are always others who find the path and wander inside. Always.

The witch’s garden is open every day, except for one day out of every month. The path is hidden to all so no one may stumble upon it. The night before, the witch waits. He sits in his garden with the fey and trolls, and looks to the night sky and awaits the one coming to him. No matter the weather, no matter the time, he waits, and tonight he waits with a clay pot in his bare hands.

Lukas Bondevik, the witch of the garden, hears the approaching wings in the otherwise silent night and tilts his head back to the black sky. He sees the figure soaring through the stars, a symphony of freedom echoing through the forest with every beat of the figure’s wings. A winged horse. Most would believe themselves drunk if they were to see such a thing, but Lukas could always see more than the average person, and that, believe it or not, had nothing to do with his witchery. He was simply an odd case.

The winged horse draws closer and closer until it drops to the garden, its white coat shimmering in the full moon light. The horse is a magnificent creature, truly a beast of legends, but it is not the horse that Lukas looks to, it is the winged rider.

Armor adorns him, but it is not bulky like the ones worn by the soldiers of Denmark Lukas has seen when he ventures to market. This armor wraps around its wearers body like silk, apart from his shoulders which are, in fact, very bulky. Resting atop his forehead, beneath soft blond hair, is a circlet made of the same material as his armor with metal wings at the sides of it. A round shield is strapped to his forearm, and strapped to his back is a spear. Soft lavender eyes rest on Lukas, their hunger for battle quenched, as it always is whenever he visits his love.

Lukas’s heart will not cease its rapid beating, and he wants nothing more than to run to his beloved and pull him from his horse, but he will not. He will be patient, as always, and stay put until the other has dismounted. The armor is silent, it does not obnoxiously clang with every little movement made. Armored boots step against the ground, between the flowers, and the witch and warrior regard one another. The warrior drops his shield and unstraps his spear before he takes off across the flowers and flings himself against the witch, who put the pot down in order to hold his beloved.

His beloved smells of flowers, of liljekonvall- lily of the valley. He always smells of the drooping flower, and that is why it is Lukas’s favorite flower.

“I have missed you, my dear,” the warrior Timo whispers against his ear. “More than usual.”

Lukas can feel Timo’s tears against his neck- he always cries when they see each other after their time apart- and he tightens his hold. He does not have the strength or the courage to whisper how much he, too, missed the warrior, or how lonely he has been recently. Not even the trolls could chase away his bitter loneliness, it was too deep and thick, an ever consuming pool of black tattooed along his bones and stitched through his throat. All he can do right now is tighten his hold and hope Timo understands.

Timo lets go first and smiles, creating tiny dimples against his cheeks. It is blasphemous to think, but Lukas believes Timo to be more beautiful than Freyja when he smiles. Lukas’s knees shake and he silently tells himself to keep still less he wants Timo to poke fun at him. But Timo only takes his bare hands in his own and says,

“Have you missed me?”

So much so I thought I would lose my mind. “A bit.”

It is not the truth, but Timo’s smile widens anyway. “That makes me happy, I am happy now, Lukas!” The white wings stretched behind Timo give a small flutter, further proving his point. “I am very happy.”

Lukas’s lips twitched, and he doesn’t bother stopping their movement. It was inevitable. “I am aware, but it is unnecessary to tell me, I can see it on your face.”

“Ah, human ways are very strange.” Lukas’s smile fades. Timo is not human, he is far from it. If he didn’t have his wings, there was a possibility he could pass for one, but there is an otherworldliness to him. It shines in his eyes, and twitches with his movements, and may the gods forbid anyone see him fight. “But I love being here, I can smile as much as I want! Now shall we go inside, or walk the garden? I wish to hear about you, my dear, you and your witchery and your flowers. They haunt my dreams, do you know?”

But it didn’t matter how different Timo was from Lukas, for Freyja blessed the world with love so everyone may one day find it. And Lukas found it in a Valkyrie.

“Wait.” He picks up the pot at his feet and curses his slightly trembling fingers. “I wish to give you a present first.”

“A present!” Timo gasps. He comes even closer, lowering his head to exam the pot. “You are giving me a pot of dirt? Oh, how glorious! I will cherish it forever, though I was not aware humans gift one another dirt.”

Maybe Lukas would have laughed if he weren’t so nervous. “No, no, it is not dirt. It is… a new breed of flower I created with magic.” Timo’s brilliant eyes found his, and he was quite sure he fell into Hel for he swore his heart stopped. “It only blooms when someone gives it to the one they love, and that love must be mutual.”

The slight mischief in Timo’s eyes died as Lukas finished his vague explanation. He says nothing more as he stares at the pot- he does not ask what sort of magic was used, nor does he ask what the flower will look like once it blooms. The one who is usually brimming with questions and bubbly conversations is quiet. Still, and unnaturally so. Lukas holds his breath. He is not one to make gifts such as these. He will make his best tea, he will offer his softest furs, but never magic. It is sacred to him, and strange to others. But Timo is not “others”. He is Timo, Lukas’s one and only, and he wishes to share something new with him, something no one else has ever seen in his garden. And that is this.

Calloused hands rest atop his own and pull the pot closer. Together, they hold the pot and stare at the dirt. An indigo light begins to shine from within, glowing ever so softly. And then a small green sprout appears through the dirt. The indigo light guides it up, further, urging it on. The stem becomes longer until petals begin forming. They droop slightly, as they should, as the blue light spins colors together. When the light vanishes, sky blue and white whorl together along soft petals that face the dirt it came from, and the stem sways softly in the gentle wind. Their love created a flower, a gorgeous one that has never been seen by anyone else in this town, in this country, in this world.

But Timo does not comment on the flower. He raises his brilliant gaze and stares at Lukas across the blue-and-white flower with a peaceful look on his face. He is not smiling, but he seems content, calm. “When we Valkyries die, we either go to Odin’s Valhalla or Freyja’s Fólkvangr, but not I. I will come here and live among your flowers until Ragnarök is upon us. So when I die, when a month passes and I do not come in this form, plant our flower so I may find solace there.”

Lukas doesn’t know what to say. He usually doesn’t, but this time he can hardly breathe. The only thing he can do is lean over their flower and press his lips to Timo’s. They are as soft as petals, his breath is as sweet as nectar. Timo parts his lips and Lukas is undone. They break away in order to put their flower down, but they find each other again. Timo wraps his arms around Lukas’s waist and lifts him up effortlessly with strength hidden within his small body, and Lukas complies by wrapping his legs around armored hips and ignoring the tears staining his cheeks. They disappear inside the cottage, leaving behind the witch’s garden, the warrior’s winged horse and their flower.

An entire month passes, one entire moon cycle, and the guests who find the path take it. Mesmerized, they walk beneath the trellis and wisteria and are taken into the floral paradise, but they do not marvel at the beauty this time. They gawk at the still, pale body curled around a singular blue-and-white flower, naked apart from the rings on his fingers. The tears have long since dried on his cheeks, and the warmth has long since faded from his skin, for this happened during the night with only the fey, trolls, merfolk, and flowers as witnesses. It is a collective effort, but his body is buried in his garden, among his flowers and creatures of myth.

When Lukas Bondevik’s younger brother arrives a few days later to watch over his deceased’s garden, he finds two blue-and-white flowers dancing in the gentle breeze, side-by-side, with their roots tangled together beneath the surface.

[lightshadowverisimilitude]

For your MDZS meme, Imma ask you all the things. All of them. General 1 and 3, Ships 5 and 6, Characters 3, Story 3

All of the Things?? Alright, I’m down! Here’s the meme.

General

1- If you had to join a sect, which would it be? 

Okay, so here’s the thing with this. My first response is that I would be Lan sect all the way: they’re like in-verse Vulcans and I love Cloud Recesses so much. I would love the quiet and the peace. However; I think I would not be quiet so pleased with the Lan elders or the giant wall of rules? Ultimately, I think I would be more happy in the Jiang sect, though I would like to visit the Lan sect a lot. 

3 -  Manhua, donghua, novel, live-action, or audio drama?

Live action! Being fair, I have not made it all the way through the donghua yet, and I have yet to track down the manhua. CQL is just lovely in every way that I can come with to describe it, and I think I will be in love with it for a very, very long time. I will say, however, I really love the way action and cultivation is handled in the donghua so far. 

Ships

5 -  Platonic OTPs/BROTPs? Rarepairs? OT3+s?

Platonic Wei Wuxian + Jiang Yanli, BROTP Wei Wuxian + Wen Qing (these two are drift compatible, I love it). 

Rarepairs = you know me. I have a thing for making rarepairs work, and I actually really like trying my hand at unlikely pairings. I have a bunny for Lan Wangji/Nie Mingjue, and I actually like Lan Xichen/Nie Huaisang?? 

OT3+s = Please try to find one I do NOT like. 3zun is a happy place for me, and of course, I’ve currently Jiang Cheng/Lan Wangji/Wei Wuxian on the mind. 

6 -  Describe a ship in five words.

Wangxian- “You can’t read my mind?” 

Characters

3 -  Favorite character & why?

Lan Wangji, because he’s basically Spock. He is the kind of character that I am irresistibly drawn to; he’s like a human swan. Looks elegant and graceful on the surface, underneath, his legs are kicking furiously. 

Story

3 -  You can bring one character back to life, but you must pick someone else to die in their place. Would you do it? How would this affect the story?

Wait, do they have to die in the same way? Because if it’s just a one:one, I will save Jiang Yanli and Xue Yang can kindly die by the side of the road. Now we have a still-living Yanli, and my bb Xiao Xingchen lives a happy life with A-Qing. Song Lan catches up to them, and they go about their merry way. 

If they have to die in the same way. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHG. Okay. So....... gdit. Okay, I swap Jiang Yanli for Jiang Cheng. Shift his position just a little bit, he sees the sword aimed for Wei Wuxian’s back and acts automatically, pulling Wei Wuxian one way and pushing Jiang Yanli the other. He takes the sword directly through the heart, and dies with Jiang Yanli and Wei Wuxian holding him between them. 

Wei Wuxian does not die, held there by Jiang Yanli’s tears. He uses that miserable rage instead to take control of his army once again. The two warring flutes are very noticeable now, it’s obvious that there is someone interfering. Su She IS going to be discovered, and Jin Guangyao knows it. He makes the decision to expose his pawn himself, and kills him before he can spill any secrets (Su She knows this is coming. He wouldn’t have said a word, but he submits to death like a good loyal peon). 

The only problem remaining is that Jin Guangyao has connections to Su She, and he has to distance himself in a hurry. Laying all the blame on Su She’s curse-hole ridden corpse has the unfortunate side-effect of clearing Wei Wuxian’s name. We end up with a grieving, angry Wei Wuxian as Jiang sect leader, and a grieving, very much alive Jiang Yanli putting a very effective block on Jin Guangyao’s power.

[doyelikehaggis]

Rowing the Rarepair Rowboat: Enzo St. John x Maria DeLuca | Michael Quinn x Maggie James

Glancing up at the flashing neon sign above, Enzo doubts himself. Those damn travellers were so cryptic before they decided to spontaneously combust. The only thing they left behind was a note to him.

Find her. Roswell, New Mexico. Wild Pony.

For years, the thought of finding Maggie once he was finally free--because he was sure he would be, someday, somehow--was one of the only things that kept him going through it all. To thank her. To see that she got the life she deserved; a life full of love and happiness. A human life.

But a bar? She wanted to help people. He takes another quick look at the note, but sure enough, the sign reads the same name beneath the flashing image of a cowboy riding a horse.

Stuffing the slip of paper back into his jacket pocket, he shuts his car door and walks across the gravel to the entrance. He pulls the door open and steps inside.

The room's lit with soft lights, almost dim, just enough to feel welcoming. Chatter from the locals fills the air, a chuckle here or there from the tables. The quiet clatter of a pool cue hitting a ball over to his left, followed by a triumphant cheer and some lighthearted arguing.

He immediately decides that it's preferable over the Grill. Though perhaps that's because he's still unfamiliar here. Make a few enemies, specifically out of the bartender, and then it'll probably feel the same.

Not moving from the doorway, his eyes dart all across the room. They sweep from left to right, to right to left, taking in every face. None belonging to an elderly lady.

Disappointment sweeps through him briefly. Probably for the best, he thinks as the loud-mouthed rednecks at the pool table spout some distasteful language.

Ignoring them, he finally moves, making his way up to the back of the bar. Maybe the travellers sent him here to find one of her relatives, perhaps her child. Though he has no idea if he'd even recognize Maggie now, never mind a descendant of hers.

But when he reaches the bar and seeks out someone who'll be able to give him something to ease his frustrations, he stops dead. Proven wrong, it would seem, because he instantly recognizes the woman behind the bar, caught in the middle of a playful conversation with a rather tipsy man on a stool.

Except it's impossible. Not a feature has changed. She looks as young as the day he compelled her to forget him and walk out without ever looking back. Those dark eyes, so soft yet filled with life like a blazing match. The curve of her lips, that smile that filled his mind to replace the darkness everytime he closed his eyes.

It isn't possible. The only way...

His heart drops. He can't even stomach the thought. Compelling Maggie was meant to protect her, to keep her as far away from his world as possible. Unless she found another vampire more willing to turn her without knowing.

No. He refuses to believe that. But the proof is right there, undeniable. A relative, he tells himself. A daughter with an uncanny resemblance to her mother.

She notices him at last, her eyes flicking over to him. Straightening up and abandoning ber conversation in the process, she shoots him a warm, friendly smile that makes his throat close up.

"All right there?" she asks with a slight chuckle, eyeing him. "You look lost. Or like you've seen a ghost. Neither one uncommon here, surprisingly."

Enzo doesn't know what to say. He realizes she doesn't recognize him. Nothing in her expression or her eyes tells him she has the faintest idea who he is. Of course not, he chides himself. Because she's not Maggie.

"New in town, I take it?" she continues on anyway, apparently unbothered by his lack of response. "I know all of the local's faces; I should, considering I've lived here my whole life."

Something comes loose in his chest. Her whole life. Maggie wasn't from Roswell. There's a sinking feeling inside of him that he can't ignore no matter how he tries.

"Your whole life?" he hears himself ask faintly, forcing an interested smile onto his face. "Must really like this town."

The woman shrugs. "It's my home. But" --she leans both hands on the bar, grinning at him now with that same spark in her eyes-- "with an accent like that, I can see I was right in saying it's not yours."

Enzo huffs out a chuckle and nods. "You caught me. I've visited before, though. Couple times, long time ago."

Her eyebrows furrow the tiniest bit and her head tilts in curiosity as she stares at him. He can see her trying to recall him.

"Weird," she says after a beat. "I feel like there's no way I would forget someone like you..."

She trails off somewhat pointedly, expecting an introduction. He opens his mouth to give it despite his better judgment, but she beats him to it, holding a hand up to stop him.

"Wait, hold on, I'm psychic. Let me take a shot at this."

Her eyes are wide and excited, and he can barely bring himself to be fazed by the claim of being psychic. There's a snort from down the bar from the man she'd been talking to.

She rolls her eyes but otherwise ignores him, her attention fixated on Enzo. Keeping their gazes locked, her eyes narrow. It's taking everything in him not to give anything away. If she's really psychic, somehow, then that won't be a problem.

"I think that... your name is... Michael." As soon as the name falls from her lips, there's a guffaw from her friend and she groans. "Oh, tell me I'm wrong."

But Enzo's heart has stopped again. Michael was the name he had on his file when she was working at Augustine. Dr. Whitmore had taken him from the Air Force, while he was still under his alias of Captain Michael Quinn. It's what Maggie knew him as him until he confessed his real name a few months before she left.

"Just can't get me off your mind, can you, DeLuca?" her friend says, evidently enjoying himself a great deal. He turns to Enzo. "I'm Michael, by the way. The person that the lovely Maria here claims to despise, and yet..."

He waves a hand as if providing all the evidence he needs to make his point. Maybe that's it, Enzo thinks, and his mind catches the name this Michael uses. Maria. Not Maggie. Similar but not the same. Maria DeLuca, by the sounds of it. Not James.

Maria scoffs and aims the towel in her hand at Michael, who merely laughs and dodges the blow of it.

"Ignore him," she tells Enzo, turning back to him.

He laughs it off as well. "That's okay. Maria, was it?"

She nods, her lips pressing together in a smile again. "That's right, mysterious stranger whose name is definitely not Michael. Sorry about that. Sometimes I'm right, sometimes I'm wrong. It happens."

Part of him is tempted to tell her she's not wrong. After all, he was Michael for over ten years. Who's to say that means it isn't still part of his identity?

"Well, it is my middle name, so not entirely wrong," he decides to say. "I'm Lorenzo. People usually just call me Enzo."

Maria's face lights up, her smile brightening. "Middle name is good enough for me. And it's nice to meet you, Enzo. So, what can I get for you?"

"Er, just a bourbon, please."

He hesitates, then takes a seat on one of the stools. His eyes stay glued to her as she pours him a bourbon. How is this even possible?

Doppelgangers exist. He knows that far too well from his brief time in Mystic Falls, but that was a curse. Maggie was never in the middle of some two-thousand-year-old love affair involving vengeful travellers. As far as he's aware.

Maria sets the glass down in front of him. He thanks her and slides the money over before taking a long drink. At this rate, he's going to need a lot more than one glass.

"So, Enzo," Maria says, and pain spikes through his heart at hearing that same voice say his name again after all these years. "What brings you to our lovely but ultimately boring little town? Is it the aliens?"

He can't help but laugh at that. Once upon a time, it was in fact the aliens that brought him here.

"No, no, though I wouldn't mind seeing a few," he jokes, and is pleased when she laughs, too. He then sighs. "But I'm looking for someone. A woman I used to know. We... lost touch for a while."

Maria frowns. "Oh. Well, what's her name? Like I said, I know everyone in this town. If she's been here, I'll remember."

He stares at her for a moment. I'll remember. Something about the way she says it sends a shiver through him.

"Maggie James," he says before he can process he's doing it. "Her name's Maggie James."

For the briefest flicker of a moment after he says it, he admittedly expects recognition to flash across her face and for her to say that's her mother's name. Or an auntie. Someone in her family, something to explain this, because he can't think of a single logical explanation otherwise.

But her eyes stay blank and distant, still frowning. Then he notices that her frown has actually deepened. More thought than required for remembering a name of a stranger you met once or twice. And the blank look in her eyes is too blank, like they've glazed over, completely detached from reality.

Enzo's heartbeat quickens. Her expression twitches. It's a tiny movement, invisible to the human eye. But he catches it, and everything crashes down inside of him. It's the look of someone trying to unearth a memory buried beneath layers of compulsion. Just below the surface but forever unreachable.

Then she blinks, and it's as if she's thrust back into her body. She straightens up a little too quickly, her eyes wide and dazed. But alert. And lost.

"Nope," she says, and shakes her head, reverting back to her casual composure from before. "Sorry. Doesn't ring any bells."

He can hear the lie in her voice. Feel it from her. It did ring a bell, just one she couldn't quite hear. Muffled by his own doing. Or something else, he just wouldn't know what. It can't just be his compulsion. It doesn't explain why she'd still be this young, why she has a completely different identity and life. None of it makes sense.

"Don't worry about it," he tells her, plastering on another careful smile. "I'm sure I'll find her."

He doesn't know why, but it feels like the truth. Something tells him he won't have to look far. It's just more complicated now, is all. But when has he not loved a few complications here and there? They're what make things interesting.

[sagamemes]

disastrio’s 'the pin list’ text starters.   below and under the cut, you can find ~100 messages dug up from the pins of the cursed group chat of three international friends. slightly edited for roleplay purposes. spelling errors opted to keep in tact to maintain the Energy(tm). edit as you please. tw: nsfw, mention of abuse.

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   u should know by now i'm not as much a complete person as i am several sitcom tropes stacked in an anxiety blanket

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   things that should not be present in making spaghetti and meatballs: sparks   [ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   things that were present when i was making spaghetti and meatballs two minutes ago: sparks

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   give it a good deep fry and it'll make reddit front page

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   you piece of fuck

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i'm not making this up it's a real post

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i just really don't like the look of american hollywood boys apparently

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   quit trying to post porn [name]

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   what's deeper than emotional? are you going to /fuck/ the house?

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i genuinely don't know what i expected googling that thing but that was not it

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i legitimately don't know how you're expecting me to reply to this

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i'm setting up my bfu episode

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   u might finally be free of "[full name] fucks."

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   plural of jerry's is jerry'ses

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   you're sharing so there's a trail in case someone ( maybe yourself ) goes missing when ur backs are turned

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i have yet to whip out dicks young lady

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   lizard brayo

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   fuck the fuck off tunglr

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   what are Christmas goblins if not depression goblins with prettier aesthetics

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   we're just two bitches trying to watch [actor] and then go to bed

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   maybe complaining is what gets it off.

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   well yeah, it's hard to knock on a door that doesn't exist

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   murdered by demons is our go-to

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   we sound like the casting calls for the leads of the same gay cowboy movie

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   any blanket is a weighted blanket when u carry the weight of ur sins

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   We have some Amazing 🌈Bottoms🌈

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   [name] i am confiscating ur thumbstacks

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   YOUR HUBRIS BECAME YOUR DOWNFALL

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   what can i say i'm a sexual deviant and i can't be stopped

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   the stars neglected me. they haven't assigned me a fetish

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i'm pretty sure 'you are going to be the death of me' was like. the disclaimer of this entire squad

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   swipe right if you dare!

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   but it tracks for the pachycephalosaurus

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   I SWEAR TO JESUS FUCKING CHRIST

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   this chat is going to give me an aneurysm

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   "fully automated luxury gay space communism" is the best tag i've ever seen

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   why don't you have a stockpile of mothman memes

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i really do owe my life to the aesthetic

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   u coax the worst things out of my mouth and then [screenshot/save/pin] them to record my mistakes

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   ur not allowed to die its just the rules

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   you two are going to be the death of me

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   why are you paying for microsoft office in 2019

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   it's nearly [zodiac] season, bitches

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i see your "will make content for rarepairs" and i raise you "will make content for pairs literally no one has ever considered and probably for a good reason"

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i was DOOMED and thus so are all of u

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i am going to snap your fingernails vertically in half

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   own that garbage

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   oh fuck that suck

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   we were building a desert set which was less exciting and more construct-y but it did lead to the following conversation:   [ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   guy walking in: chickenwire, huh. what's gonna come out of that?   [ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   me: quicksand

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   viva la resistance motherfuckers

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   well the ass and the face are the most disturbing part

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   it was still very much about the shape of his teeth

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   a real whoosy boi

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   if i suffer y'all suffer that's the rules

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   also icb ur liveblogging your crime

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   granted i do still want the [body part(s)] to be attached to the person and not just laying around somewhere

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i'm gonna go with "have repressed all memories of this by tomorrow and even looking at this conversation for context isn't going to provide us with information"

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   ... Well if u ever commit a crime and need to change ur hair ur all set

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   oh god i'd completely forgotten about the teeth conversation

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   something about that ass Haunts me

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   [name]'s teeth are,,,,,,, h*t

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   ur not late, any time is a good time to hate capitalism

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   oh shit [name]s pulling out the big guns

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   listen as far as the things you could come back to go i think this is a good one

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   Amateur theatre energy is alarmingly similar to redneck ingenuity energy

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   threat acknowledged

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i take it back i don't want any more information

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   what do we say to the god of baby germs

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   and then Goth happened

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   turn everything into a photishooot

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   but u also would have got pictures of me depositing the tiger in the cow shed

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i feel like you constantly forget that i'm always full of Good Points

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   you want to punish urself by seeking unhealthy relationships. also the stars say u may want to have ur feet fucked

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   "white orc sex slave" is not a phrase i thought i'd hear today

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   yeah raw sexual energy

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   [name] perks up at the mention of lying to the fbi lmao

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   yall are dumb and i love u

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   HOW CRYPTID IS THE COWBOY IF U CAN TELL HE'S INDIFFERENT

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   [image file saying 'mothman respects your position but must express his dissent. also you're going to die.]

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   ...do i need to make the vampire joke

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   ur amazing and so good and so important and lowkey i'm crying abt how much i love u and u deserve every good thing i love u thanks for coming to my ted talk

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   look me in the eyes and tell me steve wouldn't crawl up thanos's butthole to save the world and get bucky back

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   [name] i am going to choke you

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   my brain was immediately with "she took the shirt off to wipe away the blood of someone, possibly someone she murdered, and then had to put the shirt back on

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i literally never know what i'm going to come back to when i open this chat

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i make no excuses for who i am as a person

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i am going to jump off the edge of the earth.   [ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   and that's not me saying flat earthers are right that's me saying i will flatten it myself and then jump off

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i'm trying to show sympathy you fuck

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   what can i say, i'm an escapist bitch

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   i never want to see dick and clown in the same sentence ever again

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   oh fuck off. i don't know what they've done but it's [name] so it's gonna be bad.

[ 𝚃𝙴𝚇𝚃 ]   icb we have a test run on new year's eve

[unrivaling]

— Dazai/Fukuzawa ♡ desperation for @bsd-rarepair-valentines-week day four.

[warning: the ending is ambiguous]

Fukuzawa’s connection to his people runs frighteningly deep. If they knew the true extent of it—well. He doubts any of them would truly run. They love the Agency too well for that. But they’d be wary, of what they did and how much he could see.

He stays out of their business. It’s theirs even if the overload of their emotions crashes against the shores of Fukuzawa’s mind. Yosano’s cold and childish anger, Kunikida’s desperate and almost painful need for perfection and routine, Tanizaki’s madness. Ranpo he knows inside out, doesn’t have to see the inside of his soul to read him like a book.

Dazai is something else entirely.

There’s no part of Dazai he can read or reach. That blithe smile and warm eyes disguise enough pain to level a small city, but the only reason he even knows how much Dazai hurts for his ability is the way he slumped in relief when he touched Fukuzawa briefly to allow him to identify and isolate the effects of No Longer Human on All Men Are Equal.

Only upon request. Dazai keeps his hands to himself otherwise, scrupulously. He allows himself to be touched and he needles Kunikida constantly, but he rarely crosses that invisible line he’s drawn around himself.

A self-made prison. Fukuzawa wants to break through those walls. But god knows what Mori has taught Dazai, and even if Dazai would like to pretend he’s unharmed and uncomplicated those bandages say otherwise.

He’ll wait for Dazai to make the first move, if it ever comes. But he knows the way Dazai’s eyes trail after him is a sign of desperate desire.

Dazai wants to be touched. The only question is whether his desire is greater than his fear.

When No Longer Human settled against Fukuzawa’s skin for the first time, it felt like being covered by a blanket of snow. A cold layer that concealed warmth. And Dazai’s eyes had gone wide for a split second, like he hadn’t expected just how large All Men Are Equal would be, like it was something he could dare to lean against.

Later he’d asked Yosano and Kunikida what they’d felt. They both shook their heads.

It only worked in a single direction, then. His control over their abilities wouldn’t go anywhere, but his ability to direct them and feel them — that was missing.

He could work with that.

For all of Dazai’s insistence on slacking off and playing pranks on Kunikida, he is oddly good at his job when he wants to be. He unhesitatingly offers to accompany Fukuzawa to a meeting with a couple of lawyers from a firm one of their clients is working against.

“I dabbled in law here and there,” Dazai says, with the sort of innocence that reeks of fraud.

Fukuzawa doesn’t call him out on it. Instead they make their way to the small restaurant where they’d agreed to meet, and Dazai sits down next to him with a careful ten inches of space, even though he has to curl in on himself to manage it. Fukuzawa wonders how Dazai would take it if he placed a hand on Dazai’s thigh.

Somewhere else in the city Kunikida is annoyed, trying to fight bureaucratic ignorance with his notebook and pen. Somewhere else in the city Yosano is smiling, watching a man she loves lose at darts.

Fukuzawa blinks, gathers himself. His control is usually better than this; something must be thinning it. “Dazai-kun?”

“Yes?” Dazai says absently. He’s staring off into space, eyes unfocused.

“Can you feel another ability user anywhere?”

Dazai closes his eyes. He’s terribly young, Fukuzawa notes suddenly. Barely nineteen, but he looks older and colder than that. “I can’t feel anything,” Dazai says finally. “But then, I usually can’t. If it’s anyone, it’s that young lady in the corner who’s been eyeing us for several minutes.”

Fukuzawa doesn’t ask why Dazai closed his eyes, then. “Something is thinning my control over my ability,” he says neutrally.

“A ploy to distract you during the meeting,” Dazai replies cheerfully. “I can help.”

“Don’t kill anyone,” Fukuzawa says automatically. He usually saves that line for Yosano.

Dazai laughs. Wiggles his fingers, out of the line of sight of the ability user. Fukuzawa thinks, oh. Okay then. He knits their fingers together, and once more feels the snowy down of No Longer Human settle over him.

He wonders, as he often does, who named Dazai’s ability. What a terrible curse to bestow on someone who wouldn’t have been more than a child at the time.

Dazai’s fingertips are scarred. He clings to Fukuzawa’s hand like a child. Like no one has ever touched him before and no one ever will again and he still believes he must not be greedy. It’s unlike the rest of the Dazai he knows. It slots in perfectly.

They expect Fukuzawa to be distracted, easily maneuvered, and Fukuzawa feigns it best as he can. And Dazai is a charming distraction when Fukuzawa needs him to be.

The meeting goes well.

Dazai’s practically skipping as they come out of it. They’re no longer touching but Dazai still looks so much lighter. “May I ask you something, Dazai-kun?”

“Of course,” Dazai says brightly.

“What does your ability feel like?” Fukuzawa asks. Hails a cab.

Dazai doesn’t answer until the doors are closing behind them. “It’s like being underwater,” he says, voice rigid and controlled. Quiet. “Or like being buried alive in a snowstorm. I can’t feel anything but cold. I can’t breathe.”

“And you can’t turn it off,” Fukuzawa notes sadly.

“No,” Dazai smiles. It’s a bad smile. “It’s not as bad when it’s being used. Even so—I can’t exactly ask people to give up power and security for this.”

Fukuzawa holds out his hand again, wordlessly. Dazai stares at it for a second and then shakes his head. “What would be the point?”

“Putting it down for a while…” Fukuzawa trails off.

“And then picking it back up,” Dazai says bitterly. “I used to ask to have it cut out of me—” stops, shakes his head, looks out of the window again. “Nevermind.”

Of all the people who should’ve been able to help, Fukuzawa was near the top. And there was still nothing he could do except touch Dazai, nothing except brief moments of relief in a lifetime of suffering.

The way Dazai had sounded when he said I used to ask to have it cut out of me—no wonder he kept trying to kill himself.

Was it even possible to carve an ability out of its user? If it had been, Fukuzawa was sure Mori would have found a way. And if even he couldn’t...then Fukuzawa doubted there was any hope for Dazai and No Longer Human.

What a deplorable thing, to ask someone to live in pain and without hope. To dangle salvation in front of their eyes and still snatch it away each time.

“Thank you for your work today,” Fukuzawa says, as they get out of the cab.

Dazai inclines his head. “Of course.”

“You were good,” Fukuzawa finishes, and hopes it’s enough while knowing it won’t be. He doesn’t know what else to say. Dazai doesn’t seem to expect him to know either.

[midoriyasbones]

for your consideration: kidge in the winter

magic in the air

written for @alcego and @fujimoribaby

pidge/keith

1621 words (fic is below the cut)

includes: wintertime, sledding, first kiss, and me crying softly in the background as i think about how magical this fucking moment is

support the fic on ao3!

i’m taking rarepair prompts!

“Are you sure this is- is a good idea?” Pidge puffed out. Her feet were getting cold. Snow must’ve leaked in through some crack because the tip of her toes were wet. Truly the worst feeling ever. 

And it was nearly dusk too, so they were doing this with fleeting light, guided mostly by Keith’s own memory.

Pidge was by no means an unfit person, but there was something about trudging up a steep hill fighting a foot of snow that had her wondering if she should’ve brought her inhaler. And this wasn’t that powdery shit either. It was the wet, thick kind that made snowballs that would bruise. Usually she rejoiced in its presence as it meant she could make igloos out of the piles dispensed by snowplows. Snowmen were nice and all, but they were total bums and unable to provide a shelter. Today though, Pidge was cursing every snowflake that flitted along in the gusts that made the fringes of her scarf ripple. 

Keith of course, was having no issues walking up the hill while carrying his metal disc. “I did this with Shiro all the time, it’s fine.” 

“Your definition of ‘fine’ doesn’t really align with the Merriam Webster.” Pidge grumbled before pulling her scarf back up over her mouth. It was too cold to continue this banter. She’d rather have the scent of laundry detergent and wool in her nose than frostbitten lips.

“Who?” Keith asked, turning back to give her a confused look. 

Pidge rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help laughing a little. God damnit, how was this man so obliviously adorable? It wasn’t that he was stupid, just that he was focused almost solely on what really intrigued him. She loved the way he lit up when somebody even offhandedly mentioned one of his interests. It was like somebody was shifting a kaleidoscope and she could finally fully see all the brilliant violet facets of his eyes.  

The inside of her scarf was steamy against her lips, but the top edge was sprinkled in snowflakes. The result that every breath in was a weird combination of frigid steam. It was the kind of sensation you only experienced in winter. There were a lot of those now that she thought about it. She’d liked winter just fine before (no allergies, yay), but it wasn’t until she started dating Keith that she came to truly appreciate winter for the magical time it was.

First of all, only in winter were there so many opportunities to make an excuse to be as physically close to her boyfriend. Keith wasn’t exactly a cuddly kind of guy, which Pidge didn’t mind actually. They took it slow, didn’t even hold hands until 3 months in. It was 4 months for a hug, and now they were nine months in and he hadn’t kissed her yet. She truly didn’t mind, and gladly helped him as he slowly adjusted to being able to touch her in intimate ways (non sexual, duh). He was so cautious about it, always asking questions. ‘Does my arm go here?’ ‘Is this okay for you?’ ‘Is this normal?’. It was cute, really cute, and Pidge felt so honored that he trusted her to be that person to guide him through this. 

The cold was really helping, because she could cuddle up to him naturally, complaining about looking for warmth and he’d just wrap her up. They’d even slowly progressed to napping together. Between Keith’s naturally high body temperature, the warmth of the fire, and the cozy blankets, it was honestly a dream. And then there was ice skating. Keith was so wobbly on his skates. He clung to Pidge desperately as she slowly taught him how to move over the ice. Eventually, he was able to skate with minimal support. She’d never held his hand for that long before and it was such a simple thing, but it had her floating on clouds all the way home. 

Another thing winter created that Pidge was eternally grateful for was just snow in general, even though right now it was her mortal enemy, a foe that must be vanquished beneath her heavy boots. Snow led to really magical moments, times that you felt eager to soak up because they were only here once a year. They were spending so much more time together the past few weeks. They’d made a snowman and some snow lions. Keith even made a snow hippo. He was so artistic, it was cool to see how that talent transcribed over different mediums. They’d had snowball fights with their friends, made forts, and so much more. Pidge knew she’d cherish these moments in her heart forever. 

The final thing Pidge was glad for was just the magic winter created. Like the scarf thing, there were so many unique things about winter. There were Christmas and holiday markets and festivals. Everybody seemed so much more happy and everything was so festively decorated. The holidays may be hyped so much more than any other time of the year, but honestly, Pidge could see why. She guessed winter was just so much more magical when you had someone to share it with.  

Finally, after god knows how long, they reached the top of the hill. Pidge immediately flopped into the snow, gasping for air and looking up at the dark sky. Snowflakes fell around her, cooling her face and catching in her eyelashes. 

“Don’t be so dramatic.” Keith laughed, offering her a hand to help her stand up. “It wasn’t that bad.” 

She groaned, getting to her feet and dusting off her coat. “Okay, maybe it wasn’t for you, but that was my first time going up this hill in winter. I’m not exactly primed for it.”

Keith set the sled down in the snow. The metal contrasted with its new glittery white background. Pidge could tell it must have been freshly polished or greased. Even without the sun, it gleamed brilliantly. 

“It’ll be worth it,” Keith said, adjusting himself on the sled and motioning for her to get on. 

Pidge glanced down the hill, just wanting to see how far they’d come and judge for herself if it’d really be worth it. That’s when she realized just how far up they were. Not only was it tall, but it was steep too. The snow did nothing to hide the sharp decline and Pidge sucked in a breath. 

“C’mon,” Keith said, “I’ll hold onto you, it’ll be okay.”

Pidge took a deep breath and nodded. She settled down between his legs, sitting criss cross applesauce and reaching for the handles. Instantly she felt arms around her waist and warm breath in her hair. 

She took another look down and swallowed as Keith began to move them forward with his legs. 

“Are you sure this is safe?” She asked nervously, grip tightening on the handles. 

“I’ve done it tons of times, and I’m not dead, yet.” Keith snickered, and before she could argue pressed a kiss to the back of her head. Just from that little touch Pidge forgot the snow in her boots and the frozen metal beneath her gloved hands when he did that. Everything seemed to melt as her chest fluttered. In that little blip of time, she existed only in the emotions she felt for Keith, and what a wonderful existence it was. 

And then she had to return to reality. 

“Just shut up and trust me!” Keith yelled as he pushed off with absolutely zero warning. 

Suddenly Pidge’s stomach and heart just up and left her body as they hurtled down the hill at maximum velocity. The air tore at her scarf and snatched up her hair as they whizzed by. It took her a few seconds to realize she was screaming and Keith was whooping. It was hard to hear over her own heart palpitations, you know? 

Keith leaned them left and right, zig zagging down the hill, and somewhere along the way Pidge managed to pick up their stomach again. This was actually kind of fun once you accepted death was inevitable no matter what. She caught herself laughing when they went over little bumps and soared briefly through the air. She wondered if this was what it was like to have wings. 

All too soon, they skidded to a halt at the bottom right in front of a street lamp. Keith rotated the sled so they sent up a spray of snow that covered the base of the metal pole when they came to a stop. Pidge felt like she was still on that hill, body in whiplash. She staggered out of the sled, giggling breathlessly and pulling Keith with her. With a little yelp they fell to the ground and she was beneath him, her arms around his neck.

There was crystalized flakes in his long, dark hair. Little strands of it had become wet and stuck together. His cheeks were rosy and lips spread in an exhilarated grin, the one she tried to get him to make as often as she could. His laughter was warm against her face, making up for the cold fingers that pushed a curl of her hair out of the way and the damp glove that held her cheek. 

And then suddenly it happened. There was just this feeling, this pulse, and before Pidge knew it, she was kissing him. Or maybe he was kissing her. Maybe they’d kissed each other at the same time. 

Illuminated by the warm glow of the lamp, serenaded by their own heartbeats, and framed in the softly falling snow, this was just another one of those magical moments that came not in winter, but once in a lifetime.