#Except the last one that's just self-indulgent mush feelings

[justanotherghostwriter]

Of The Water and the Sunshine: A Fanmix

I guess this is my contribution to Zutara Month: making a fanmix for the wonderful “Arranged marriage Zuko of the Water Tribe” AU @lizanthium thought up somewhere in her beautiful brain. Under the cut so I can add things as they come to me, because by no means am I done here.

Homesick – Sleeping at Last

Call it survival Call it the freedom of wills; Where breath is borrowed Our compass needle stands still Cry wolf, cry mercy Cry the name of the one you were raised to believe; Cry hard, cry yourself to sleep, cry a storm of tears If it helps you breathe

Comes and Goes In Waves (2013 Remake) – Greg Laswell

This one's for believing If only for its sake Come on friends get up now Love is to be made

Hope – Tim Fain and Sleeping At Last

There is hope in our eyes When we truly see each other Like the light of countless stars We are not afraid of the dark 'Cause there is hope in our hearts And every single beat, we feel it To the ends of the earth Our echo carries on

Linked specifically to this pic. Bright and Early – Sleeping At Last

But why couldn't I have been safe from the start? Soundly asleep The warmth of blankets Makes me nervous I'd rather catch a cold Like sparks in matches Blink, you'll miss it The future's up in smoke

Linked to the first panel of this pic.

Walls – Gracie Schram

I’m stepping out from behind my shadow Bringing to the light what was unknown All my friendly fears Have kept me company for so long I’ve kept this distance, dear But I’m feeling like it’s all wrong Times I’ve been hidden, things I’ve been forbidden   Once step closer, one step in After all I’m learning to let my walls fall

Grow As We Go – Ben Platt

You won't be the only one I am unfinished, I've got so much left to learn I don't know how this river runs But I'd like the company through every twist and turn Who said it's true That the growing only happens on your own? They don't know me and you You don't ever have to leave If to change is what you need You can change right next to me When you're high, I'll take the lows You can ebb and I can flow And we'll take it slow And grow as we go

 Fallen – Gert Taberner

Tell me things you've never said out loud Just try and go there if you can Show me the parts of you you're not that proud of I want to know, I'm just a man I'll have you know that I have good and bad days Come on now love, don't be naive Lay out our cards and you'll see all my mistakes Well, I don't mind while you're with me When have I fallen? Am I crawling on my knees? Here I'm calling In the hope that you'll see me

 Lay You Down – Matt Corby

And, oh, it's holding me down To let you inside, now It's calling out, it's calling me And I follow the hour And I will love your way And I love your way To let you inside, now And all along the way I'll find you, I'll find you

 Song to the Siren – Rose Betts

Well, I'm as puzzled as a newborn child I'm as riddled as the tide Should I stand amid the breakers Or should I lie with death my bride? Hear me sing Swim to me Swim to me, let me enfold you Here I am, here I am Waiting to hold you

 Safe and Sound – The Civil Wars and Taylor Swift

Don't you dare look out your window, darling everything's on fire The war outside our door keeps raging on Hold onto this lullaby even when the music’s gone

Set to around the time of this pic, when they’re in the Fire Nation and being back around his father and sister is making Zuko much more nervous (and protective of Katara).

Currents – Sleeping at Last

In this sea of change, understanding is our shore I disappear with no control The current is strong, my arms are weak But you are the branch within my reach

The Rip – The Brinks

And the only thing that I was told Always say the way you're feeling If the sea of hope is calm Just surrender to your being I'm all around you And if the dark is blinding I'm all around you We'll run forever with the lightning

 Gravity – Vienna Teng

So don't turn away now I am turning in revolution. These are the scars that silence carved on me. Hey love, I am a constant satellite of your blazing sun. My love, I obey your law of gravity. This is the fate you've carved on me

For ~Meta Reasons TM~ I link this specifically to this pic.

First Day of My Life – Bright Eyes

Yours was the first face that I saw I think I was blind before I met you And I don't know where I am, I don't know where I've been But I know where I want to go And so I thought I'd let you know Yeah, these things take forever, I especially am slow But I realized that I need you And I wondered if I could come home

Joy – Iron and Wine

Deep inside the heart of this troubled man There's an itty bitty boy tugging hard at your hand Born bitter as a lemon but you must understand That you've been bringing me joy And I'll only lie when you don't want the truth I'm only frightened ‘cause you finally gave me something to lose And it's as loud as a thunderclap and you hear it, too But you've been bringing me joy

Linked specifically to this pic.

Light – Sleeping at Last

I'll give you everything I have I'll teach you everything I know I promise I'll do better I will always hold you close But I will learn to let you go I promise I'll do better

Love and Some Verses – Iron and Wine

Love to say this to your face: “I’ll love you only.” Love and some verses you hear Say what you can't say Love to say this in your ear "I'll love you that way."

Not linked to a specific pic (yet?) but the first two lines absolutely have the vibes of Katara kissing Zuko’s scar. I don’t make the rules.

Words – Gregory Alan Isakov

So I’ll send you my words From the corners of my room And though I write them by the light of day Please read them by the light of the moon

Absolutely linked directly to this pic.

Salt and the Sea – Gregory Alan Isakov

And the words you could say That would always keep me near Is stay…stay I belong with the salt and the sea and the stones Save them all for me.

I'm On My Way – Rich Price

If I lift my head From the bed of stars, the ocean wide If I call your name out Would you carry me on inside If I close my eyes Let me put my face in the hot sand Could you raise your voice up Feeling that hope Together with mine, yeah But I'm on my way Yes I'm on my way

If I Die, I Love You - Jason Lancaster

And there has always been something about coming home How every mile closer wherever he'd roam He could hear all the sounds in his ears making sense And feel as the weight from his heart started lifting

Ocean Song – Ben Howard

Oh I'm going to the ocean no, no ,no Answer some of these questions that have been dragging me down All this time Over mountains, mountains of black and white, white Til I know, know what I've found here Til I know, know what I've found here Oh darling won't you wait for me? Darling won't you be there standing there at the shore? Cause I'll be coming home, coming home soon Coming home, darling I'll be coming home to you

An unnecessary side note: the father in this narrative is Iroh, because Ozai wouldn’t be that kind nor that poetically vague. Linked specifically to this pic.

Promise – Ben Howard

And meet me there Bundles of flowers We'll wade through the hours of cold Winter shall howl at the walls Tearing down doors of time Shelter as we go And promise me this You'll wait for me only Scared of the lonely arms Surface, far below these birds And maybe, just maybe, I'll come home

Linked specifically to this pic.

 Little Wonders – Rob Thomas

Let it go Let it roll right off your shoulder Don't you know The hardest part is over Let it in Let your clarity define you In the end We will only just remember how it feels

We’re Still Here – Sleeping at Last

Through the static, Through the ashes We were brave. Through the perils Of endless narrow escapes, We’re still here. We’re still here.

 What Would I Do Without You - Drew Holcomb and the Neighbors

So you got the morning, I got midnight You are patient, I'm always on time Oh, what would I do without you? You got your sunshine, I got rain clouds You got hope, I got my doubts So, what would I do without you?

Because I have thought far too much about this song in the context of this AU, have my thoughts: verse 1, verse 3, “chorus” 2 and lines 2 of verses 5 and 6 are from Zuko’s POV. Verse 2, “chorus” 1, verse 4 and the first lines of verses 5 and 6 are Katara’s POV.

Life – Sleeping at Last

She drew her first breath I learned what love meant And my heart reconciled all the darkness and light inside my chest As her hands held tight And her eyes met mine I saw the future unfold in silver and gold And I'm already proud Beautiful like your mother You are grace You are light The better version of our past From the start of life

Specifically linked to this pic.

 Daughter – Sleeping at Last

If only you knew The sunlight shines a little brighter The weight of the world's a little lighter The stars lean in a little closer All because of you

Specifically linked to this pic.

 BONUS: Surround You – Echosmith

Wherever you are Whenever you need me Just crawl in my arms Oh and I'll hold you beside me I want my love to surround you

Not a song particularly linked to this AU or even ZK with any real meta, but I love this song and I like thinking about it and the bottom panel of this pic together so. (This pic still makes me the most feral of all okay.)

#Honest Trailers: OP sees how many Sleeping at Last Songs they can fit into a single fan mix #SWT Zuko #Every one of these songs has Pretentious English Student levels of analysis behind it BTW #Except the last one that's just self-indulgent mush feelings #I started this last night #and then at like 1am Tumblr ate my draft #So I started again and when I posted it Tumblr posted an unupdated version of the post with half the songs missing #when I tried to edit it Tumblr ate the post #and then my laptop blue screened #and this was at 2:15ish am 4 hours before work so I went to sleep #and now I have Deep Fear I forgot a very obvious song that was on the original #YOLO #I've had a Zutara AU in the works for more than a year now that was spawned entirely by Life #But I won't get to it any time soon so this version of Little Kya can have it with pleasure for now #Bright and Early for Zuko really hurts me I just need to put that out there #Some of these are just like [pastes entire song down]

[marlena-immortale]

NSFW Alphabet (Thomas)

a = aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

A puddle. Thomas would be a puddle after sex. All fucked out and not able to form a complete sentence. He’d just wanna cuddle up to you and stay in your arms forever. You’d have to reassure him that you'll be right back when you go get a cloth to clean him up. And he’d be on top of you, so fucking clingy, the rest of the night. 

b = body part (their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His favorite part of his own body is his hands. He is so proud to be able to make you feel good with his long slender fingers. And he knows you have a thing for them so he makes sure to play with them and move them around when he catches you staring. You can’t blame him either because they are just so beautiful and you want them all over you all the time. His favorite body part of yours is your hips. His favorite thing is to grip on to them while you bounce up and down on his cock. Not guiding you or moving you, just letting you fuck yourself on him while using his hands on your hips as his only tether to reality while you fuck his brains out. 

c = cum (anything to do with cum basically… i’m a disgusting person)

He would spill sooo much cum when you finally let him let go of all his pent up release. There would be thick white ropes dripping all over his chest and stomach after you jerk him off. 

d = dirty secret (pretty self-explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

This boy’s got plenty of dirty secrets, that he’s a little bit ashamed of, that he’ll slowly reveal, knowing that you’d never judge him for anything he’s into or wants to try. One thing that took him a while to let himself indulge in with you is his desire to be totally at your mercy and completely submit to you. He wants to be tied up, blindfolded, and told he’s your pretty little bitch. But once he does tell you, it’s become his second nature to get on his knees and bow his head everytime you give him a certain look. 

e = experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

He doesn’t have very much experience but don't worry, he gets off on you teaching him. You’d have to show how to properly make someone feel good and guide his tentative hands where you want them and tell him exactly what you want him to do and call him a good boy when he does it right. 

f = favourite position (this goes without saying.)

He loves it when you’re on top riding him, setting the pace and pinning him down to the bed. He likes to feel your weight on top of him, grounding him. Or, if he’s the one getting fucked, he likes you pounding into you in missionary so he can stare at your pretty face while he lays back and takes all the pleasure you’re willing to give him. 

g = goofy (are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)

Most of the time, he’s too far gone to be cheeky but when you’re just getting started teasing or if you both are wanting something more vanilla for the night, he can be very cute and goofy, always messing around and making little jokes every once in a while. 

h = hair (how well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

He’s got cute little blond curls all over that you just can’t help but run your fingers through any chance you get. 

i = intimacy (how are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

Thomas is very intimate but still very submissive. He loves to have you closely pressed against him at all times to feel your love for him in your breaths against his skin and little kisses left on his face and neck and warm skin pressed against him. 

j = jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He is constantly jacking off whenever he gets any alone time. Unless of course you punish him by not letting him touch himself because he's a good boy and he knows how to follow your commands even when he doesn’t want to. He knows that his domme knows best. 

k = kink (one or more of their kinks)

Obviously he loves your d/s dynamic as well as bondage and pegging. But, something else he really enjoys is a little bit of pain. And not just as punishment, he likes the pain especially during sex. It drives him wild when you bite down hard on his neck or thighs, sometimes even drawing a little blood, or when you scratch your nails hard down his back, or when you fuck into him just a little too hard to overwhelm him a bit. 

l = location (favourite places to do the do)

He’d be down to fuck just about anywhere and any time you want. He loves to be pushed into the nearest lockable room. Or, maybe even a little mild public play with you softly running your fingertips along the exposed skin of his thighs or his chest or his palm and sensitive inner wrist. Or with you planting wet kisses on his neck while he shudders in your embrace, secretly hoping someone sees. 

m = motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Literally anything you do. Seeing you lick a drop of ice cream that fell onto your hand; he’s instantly hard. You bend over to pick something up and a little more of your skin is showing

or reach up and your shirt rides up; he’s instantly hard. You innocently brush past him while walking, he’s instantly hard. This boy is obsessed with you and his body definitely makes that clear for you even if he tries to hide it. 

n = no (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He doesn’t like to take charge but you don’t seem to have a problem with that. You love to have him under your control. 

o = oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

Always such a good boy, he’ll stay down there for as long as you like him to. And, he absolutely thrives off of being crushed between your thighs and you sitting on his face, grinding yourself on his pretty mouth and nose and using him just to reach your own orgasm. 

p = pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Fuck him hard and fast till his mind is turned to mush and he’ll be happy. In those rare times when he’s on top, bouncing up and down on your strap, he’ll be completely pliable in your hands guiding his hips on top of yours while his head rests on your chest letting out moans and whimpers and incoherent words that sound vaguely like your name.  

q = quickie (their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

Again, he’d be down ot fuck anywhere and any time and you know exactly how to make him cum so quickly. He’d be so blushy and subby afterwards too, all flustered and warm when someone tries to talk to him. He’d need you by his side the rest of the outing, clinging onto you all smiley and happy while everyone else gives you knowing looks. 

r = risk (are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

He’s definitely game to experiment whenever you want to try something new and puts all his trust in you no matter what. Not to mention, Thomas is such an exhibitionist and doing things in public is his favorite risk to take. 

s = stamina (how many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

Poor baby can never last very long when he has a pretty woman touching him. He’ll be ready to burst so quickly once you get your hands on him. 

t = toy (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

His favorite toy is of course your strap and the many ...ahem… attachments you have just for him. You prefer the big pink one that takes plenty of prep to fit inside him. He also loves your more painful toys too, as much as he begs and pleads for you to stop, he knows he has a safeword to use if he ever wants to and he secretly loves the punishment anyway. 

u = unfair (how much they like to tease)

He would never last if he tried to tease you. You, on the other hand, love to tease him. Seeing him get all desperate and whiny is absolute heaven. You’d give him soft little touches and kisses all over his body except where he wants them most. He’d be so desperate you’d have to pin his hands down so he doesn’t touch himself in the meantime. 

v = volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make)

Thomas is so fucking loud. Such a whiny little bitch. You’d have to make sure to stuff or cover his mouth when you’re in a place where you could get caught. When you’re in private though, he would nuzzle his face in your neck and his little whimpers would reverberate through you. 

w = wild card (get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

Thomas loves when you check in on him during a scene. He knows it’s just to make sure he’s still ok, but it just feels so intimate and sweet to him. You always take a second and lean down to brush the hair out of his face and wipe his stray tears away and place little kisses on his cheeks and nose and ask how he’s feeling or if he wants to continue. It always brings a smile to his face, even in the middle of a punishment. 

x = x-ray (let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

His cock is quite large. Very long but not super thick. It would feel so good inside you and would look so pretty all red and leaky, dripping all over his stomach. It would get all twitchy at the slightest touch or the feel of your breath over it. 

y = yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

His sex drive is so high. This boy’s gotta get off every day, sometimes multiple times a day. Whenever you’re not fucking him, he’s getting himself off. He’s ready to go at just about any moment. 

z = zzz (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Aw, poor boy is so tired afterwards. After his last orgasm of the night, he’s already half asleep and by the time you’re done cleaning him up, he’s snoring sweetly in your arms.

#maneskin #maneskin smut #thomas raggi #thomas raggi smut #thomas raggi x reader #thomas raggi headcanon #thomas raggi headcanons #thomas raggi hc #maneskin x reader #maneskin fanfic #thomas raggi fanfic #måneskin #måneskin smut #måneskin fanfic #måneskin x reader #maneskin headcanon #maneskin headcanons #maneskin hc

[fascination-street-writing]

The Sea Isn’t Green, and I Love This Dream | Risotto Nero x Reader

Subtitled “Keep Smoking - I Still Love You”

If you were to look at him with those eyes of yours and smile in earnest, all for him, he would surely fall in love with you all over again. As if he ever stopped loving you in the first place.

- 2020 Holiday Gift - A Continuation of Sober to Death -

Content Warnings: Incidental Stalking, Unhealthy Smoking Habits, Past Relationships, Unhealthy Relationship Dynamics, Angst, Regret, & Referenced Child Abuse

It is the summer of 1998. Risotto has not left his apartment in days, for he has found no reason to; there have been no new contracts, no paperwork in need of filing, and no immediate issues with the newest recruit. But today, he will venture out under the brazen sun and purchase groceries for the upcoming week. If not for the matter of his own sustenance, it will at least keep Prosciutto off his back. As if it is any of the blonde man’s business whether his Capo is eating adequately or not.

As he coasts through the aisles, searching for pre-packaged dried pasta, jarred sauce, and some kind of fresh vegetable – because Prosciutto said so –, he feels the condescending, fearful stares of patrons without needing to acknowledge them. If it is not for his stature, then certainly the peculiar coloring of his eyes. However, the ogling no longer bothers him, simply because he does not let it; after all, he is no longer the boy who once lived in Palermo.

There is a sale on pre-sliced bread. Yet, even after the discount, the name-brand loaf is still more expensive than the off-brand. He settles for the latter. It all tastes the same to him, anyways. And if he can save a thousand lire, then it is all the better. Prosciutto, he supposes, would disagree and insist that the off-brand bread is cheaper for a reason. Risotto is reminded of exactly why he does not live with the man anymore. But he still makes a conscious effort to buy fresh produce.

Basket filled, Risotto heads towards the check-out line. He knows that he has neglected to grab a bag of oranges, as denoted by the crumpled list in his hand, and he does not intend to return for them. The carton of berries and fresh figs he found along the way will be enough. Though, he does loathe forgetfulness.

The line, as he discovers and much to his dismay, is backed up. The brevity of the situation is simply that the grocery store has been understaffed as of late. Something about gang-violence and an attempted robbery – nothing that concerns him or his men. A person in his line of work fears little. Or at least, that is the theory. His thoughts linger to the new recruit, whom Prosciutto has taken under his guidance. He has always had more patience than Risotto regarding such matters.

The young Capo has lost track of exactly how long he has stood in line. Denoted by the telling grumbles of an older man behind him and the pleading of his wife to calm down, Risotto knows that it has been a while, and unreasonably so. Glancing down at his basket, a questionable consideration comes to his impatient mind: it would not be difficult to slip away, shroud himself with his Stand, and leave the grocery store with his would-be stolen goods.

It is certainly nothing to lose sleep over. In the end, however, he decides against it. Perhaps to salvage his honor and dignity, otherwise challenged by the temptation of petty thievery. Or perhaps because the line has finally moved, and it is too late to back out now. There are only two customers ahead of him now. In moments such as this, he likes to pretend that he is normal – that he might be shopping for a family that waits for him in a home somewhere in the suburbs of Napoli.

But these times have passed, and although only a man of twenty-five, he is complacent with the life as a ceaseless bachelor. A hitman does not make for a good husband, nor a father. In retrospect, Risotto hardly believes that he would want to become either. At least, not anymore.

“Merda,” the woman at the front of the line groans. She sets down the wad of cash in her hand. “I’m ₤15,000 short. Can you just put the oil back? And the sardines.”

The grocery clerk is decent at masking his annoyance with a tight smile and curt nod. It is a commendable skill, though there is room for improvement, Risotto thinks. “God, I’m so sorry. I just moved here for a new job, and my money still hasn’t transferred over to my new bank account. I should’ve taken more cash out to begin with.”

The next woman reaches into her purse and produces a neatly folded stack of lira. She taps the shoulder of the first woman, who turns. In this moment, Risotto believes he has been pummeled through the stomach. There is no other explanation to the tightening of his chest, and the heavy beating of his heart.

There you stand, as beautiful as ever, despite your apparent vexation at your own foolishness. The money quickly passes from the kind woman’s palm to that of the cashier. “Grazie, signora,” you tell her.

At first, Risotto feels nothing, as if he cannot process that which he sees before him. And then, regret – pure and unadulterated. He does not hear what the woman says to you, because the thrum of his mind has made him deaf to everything except for the ringing of his ears. You have not noticed him, unlike every other customer in the establishment, and he would like to keep it that way. You accept the bag of groceries from the cashier, but Risotto does not stick around to see it. He has already pushed past the perturbed husband and wife behind him, with every intention of finding a new line to stand in. He does not care how tedious it will be to make it out of the store. He does not care if the tub of gelato in his basket melts, or if the berries turn to mush.

Risotto will do anything to spare the fleeting glance of the only woman whom he ever loved. And if that means waiting another twenty minutes, then by god, he will wait.

He wonders, as he sits in his office with a blazing cigarette dangling from his lips, if you still smoke. In truth, he has always known that you only ever did it to impress him. He wishes you would not have indulged in this solidary habit – in fact, he wishes you had not done a lot of things, like becoming his closest friend and adolescent savior. His first kiss, or his first lament in the pitfall of countless others.

Clouds cling to the ceiling, seeping into the walls and furniture. If his landlord were not so intimidated by Risotto, then surely the parsimonious man might evict him for ruining the apartment with the stench of cigarettes and the occasional blood stain on the carpet. He supposes that he ought to at least open the window. Just beyond his reach atop the desk is his computer. If he wants to, he can find out every miniscule detail of your adult life and more that has collected over the past seven years, since the moment he left you a young, broken woman who did not mourn him. Every bank transaction, gas receipt, and occasional splurge for an object attributed to various degrees of pleasure – where you are working, where you live, and why you have come back to haunt him.

It is none of his concern, and he does not have the right to pry; not after the hurt he has done unto you, back when you were still two lovers who were, well, in love. He hopes you have found some semblance of happiness, and he will not impede on whatever that may be. But, like an incurable ailment, confliction strikes him. Indeed, he told himself that it is not his guile to cause you further grief. And yet, Risotto yearns for you all over again.

All this time spent living in a world wherein he does not exist to you, how often did thoughts of him cross your mind? Did you think of his ghastly red eyes whenever you have welcomed a new paramour into your bed, and compare the sizes of their hands to his? Did you think of him each time you drove that hand-me-down junker of your father’s, avoiding the backseat like the plague until the engine finally died and you had no choice but to purchase a new car? How long did it take you to scrub out the stains from the upholstery and your skin?

As it were, keeping the distance between you two is effortless. But unearthing unhealed wounds, all in some venture of self-retribution to heal them right, is just as inviting. There is simply too much that might go wrong again – the risks, far too great. Dissociation has served him well enough thus far. Surely, he can keep it up, this manneristic habit of his. It is funny, he finds; that as teenagers, you had once promised that you would always be there for him. It was an undeserving luxury, and one that he often took for granted. Now, though he recognizes in his heart that he still needs you, he wants you gone. For his sake or yours, he knows not.  

But it would be nice to be held by you, one last time.

Breaking self-promises, like stepping on broken glass just to hear the crack, is an addiction. You are an addiction, and it was only a matter of time before Risotto had found himself in your company more often than he ought to. In any instance, he avoids your radar, and remarkably so. And yet, the tenacity of your existence drives him mad, and he finds himself asking – perchance under the steady trickle of water in the shower or as he lies in bed at night – if you are truly there, or nothing more than an apparition brought forth from his guilty conscious. That, though now he sees you comparing dress fabrics at the boutique across the street, it is conceivably not truly you but rather another woman – a stranger – with the same color hair.

Alas, you exist in both dreams and materiality.

Each moment that he stumbles upon you, from a respectable distance, he notices something irrevocably new: scuffed Mary Janes exchanged for pointed and polished kitten heels, and pleated skirts swapped for hand-tailored dress pants, creased to suggest your sophistication. As for him, he still wears torn jeans when in public. Unless of course, he is working – then it is a pair of striped pants reminiscent of a caricatured prison inmate’s uniform.

He notices, too, the greater attention taken to your hairstyling and makeup. Maturity is becoming of you, but he always thought you were pretty, even before you had learned how to properly apply eyeshadow and lip gloss. Your clumpy mascara never vied to drive him away. In fact, he rather liked it, but only because it was unapologetically you.

He does not mean to follow you to a café after you leave the boutique, arms cradling several shopping bags amongst your purse and a chic leather briefcase. Invisible to the human eye, Risotto falls in step at your side, so close that he can smell your perfume. It is no longer the olfactory copycat of whatever Versace musk you had always begged your mother to buy for you from the drugstore just down the street from your childhood home. Whatever it is now is unfamiliar, albeit comforting.

The café is quiet at this point in the afternoon. The baristas chatter amongst themselves at the counter, and the ambience music humming through the wall speakers is not unpleasant, although not entirely enjoyable, either. Unbeknownst to you, Risotto takes the seat across from you at the corner booth nearest to the window. It must be a coveted spot, he deduces, for the lighting here is impeccable. Mindful of the blackened coffee atop the table, you open your suitcase and produce a neatly pressed stack of photographs, clothing sketches, and glamour shots.

He observes all of it, and only then does he realize that the new career you spoke of to the grocery store clerk is one in the field of fashion design. And what better city in all of Italia to pursue such a thing than Napoli? He wishes he could have been there to witness the bloom of your success, first-hand – and more, he yearns to exist alone at your side for every last day that you both should live.

All of this at nothing more than your expense. Truly, something impermissibly unforgiveable, if he knew that his baggage – if his very being – is enough to hold you back from everything you deserve. It is why he left. At least now, he can see that his grievous mistake was not for naught.

Your coffee has gone cold. Too focused on correcting shading issues in your blueprints and selecting models for an upcoming show, you have neglected it. Did you even need the coffee, or was it just a show of your poise? How would you react, Risotto wonders, if he were to bring you a fresh cup and allow you to see him? Would you thank him – hug him even? Or scream, kick him away, and throw the scalding hot beverage in his face. He should pray for the former, though the latter would be the easiest to cope with. Because, if you were to look at him with those eyes of yours and smile in earnest, all for him, he would surely fall in love with you all over again. As if he ever stopped loving you in the first place.

He imagines what it must be like to be a part of your new life. He wants nothing more than to reach across the table, to place his shaken palm over the manicured hand clasped around the red felt-tip pen, and ask how your day has been. And the day before. And the day before even then. You might drop the pen too, only to lace your fingers with his and grin. “It’s been great, Ris,” you would say. “Really great, but even better now.”

Instead, you scribble notes in the margins with that same hand and tap your foot to the steady beat of music. How wonderful it must be for those who are capable of picking up where they once left off a lifetime ago. If, after all this time, you are so inclined to adore him again, then you must be the most winsome little fool in the world – but his, nonetheless.

Risotto cannot recall when last he received a contract from the Don, assigned explicitly to the silver-haired man. And so, rather than cooping himself away in the confines of his apartment, smoking until his stomach lurches and he might faint, he roams the city, pegging to the chance that he might find you. The fresh air – as fresh as the air in Napoli can possibly be – is good for him, anyways.

This afternoon, he finds you leaving the post office whilst balancing a packed cardboard box with outstretched arms. You are dressed down, just as he supposes that most normal people do on their days off. Curiosity baits him, like a bobble in the ocean; he shrouds himself and follows you up the cobblestone street ramp, past a row of municipal buildings, down the winding path behind one of many shopping plazas, and directly into the living room of your apartment. He never meant to get this far.

The smooth voice of Mina Mazzini echoes from the turntable atop a wrought-iron accent table placed beside an oak bookshelf containing more decorative figurines and houseplants than actual books. Certainly, your taste in music has not changed. Neither has your preference for caramel-scented candles. For a moment – ever so fleeting – he is a teenage boy again, standing just before bedroom window with his knuckles poised to rapt against the glass. He never told you, for he hid it well behind a stony expression, just how nervous he always felt before visiting you.

More than anything else in his adolescent life, he had feared that one day, you would turn him away. He scarcely cared when his mother verbalized her disgust and chastisement of the boy, or if his father struck him with the belt of his work jeans. Because, in the end, the abuse always gave him a reason to see you. You were his optimistic little silver lining,

Although your sense in interior design is far more elegant than your parents ever fancied, Risotto feels like he is finally home again. It must be the music and the candle – or perhaps it is just the grace of your presence in the setting of domesticity. You set the box on the coffee table and disappear into the kitchen, only to reappear with a stainless-steel knife. He understands his unwarranted intrusion, but just as he makes his way towards the door to leave, your cellphone rings.

“Ciao, Mamma!” you say as you switch to speakerphone. There is only static until your mother speaks to you.

She still sounds the same, though the strain of age weighs heavily on her tone. Suddenly, Risotto is throwing rocks at your window in the nighttime, avoiding the parched tithonias of your father’s garden with his battered sneakers. But this time, it is not you who beckons him in – it is your mother and her infectious altruism that he coveted because she cherished him more than his own mother ever did. She leads him to the dining room table, where you and your father wait, and presents to him a plate of pasta con le sarde.

“Ciao, bambina. Did you get that package I sent yet?”

No questions asked, unless only to inquire if he would like more to drink, or perhaps a second serving; your mother always made extra just in case he needed to get away from home for the night, or if his parents forgot to feed him. He misses his family – his real one, which he thwarted away for trifling revenge. The mere thought of it all sends pangs through his chest, and he thinks he has forgotten how to breathe properly. His mind veers into nothingness, but he knows that everything hurts.

“Mhm! It came today, actually. I’m opening it now.”

Petrified, he watches from across the room as you slice through the packing tape and begin sorting through the box’s contents – assorted bobbles and trinkets of your childhood that were unintentionally left behind after you had moved to Napoli. A few CDs, family photographs, and a work of ceramics-class pottery that had not survived its journey from Palermo. You do not seem bothered by it. Instead, you sweep away the fragmented pieces into a neat pile.

At the very bottom of the box is a scrapbook, ragged from the years of diligent pondering. Several of its pages have stuck together from excess globs of crafting glue. Risotto remembers your endearing hobby, and how embarrassed you had always been to show him your collection. And so, he never asked to see them, though not because he lacked the interest. It must be true that a person is shaped by their early experiences – you spent your youth collaging models with pretty clothes from the pages of magazines; now, you are a considerably successful fashion designer, given your age. Meanwhile, Risotto murdered a man at eighteen – and now, seven years later, he is Passione’s lead hitman. At least he is good at his job, too.

“Uh oh, that didn’t sound good. Don’t tell me that vase broke. I knew I should’ve wrapped it.”

Your dear mother: forgetful and heedless on occasion, though honest by it. You peel the scrapbook open and perch it on your lap, mindful of the delicate spine. Loose bits of glitter trickle from the pages and stick to your pants. Next falls a photograph, separated from the family ones, and wedged away for safe keeping. It is a still-shot of you and Risotto.

“Don’t worry about it! I can just glue it back together.”

However, to be honest, the vase is beyond repair; you have lied to your mother to soothe her guilt. Risotto’s attention has been taken by the photograph on the floor. There, you both sit on the floral-patterned couch that used to adorn your parents’ living room. You lean on his shoulder, beaming to the camera, as he stares ahead, stagnant. Truly, he wanted to smile and to throw his arm around you. He refrained; he did not want to look weak in front of your mother, who had taken the photograph that day.

Because his father never let him forget the vulnerability of emotions.

“Well, that’s good to hear. Listen, dolce, I’ve got to go. Tuo padre needs help in the workshop. But I’ll call you later. Ti amo, ti amo!”

In this moment, he lets his guard down, albeit inadvertently so. Metallica dissipates, and for the first time in what feels like forever – or at least, far too many years worth counting – Risotto Nero surmises that he might cry. As opposed to when you were both still young, it will be easier to run away now: no confrontation, and none of that selfish heartbreak. The gap between him and the door may be closed in two strides. In two strides, he will leave you again, for evermore. And even when he is gone, he will keep telling himself that this is for the best.

“Ti amo, Mamma.”

You reach down for the photograph. You had not meant to let it fall, though you suppose there is little use of it now, if not to keep it as a memento of your own perpetual loss. You dust it off and shake away the green and gold specks of glitter that adhere to the lamination. When the floorboards creak, you look up and meet the pleading gaze of the man whom you think you hate, and whom you think you love. You are good at pretending to do either. And thus, as you both wait in brooding quietude, you know not whether to call the police or to hurry into his arms. You are still, frozen in time – frozen in life.

As for Risotto, he longs for cicadas and katydids to break the terse silence that looms between you two.

Or maybe, just a cigarette.

| 3724 Words |

#risotto nero x reader #risotto x reader #risotto nero #jjba reader insert #jjba x reader

[naturepointstheway]

“beanies and cameras” (Life is Strange, quick fluff fic)

Some fluffy, mushy indulgence in a Life is Strange fic? Hell yes, and I’m not sorry. Let’s write this “mushy nonsense” (as Chloe would say) before I procrastinate it so far that it’s like Christmas Day before I write it ;) Inspired strongly by learning what happened to Chloe and Max in the second season of LiS (only through the playthroughs on the interwebs though, but that didn’t make me any less excited and emotional!)

Summary: It is the morning of New Year’s 2020, and for once, Chloe is up early with Max, watching the early dawn light. 

Chloe has never been one to respect benches and tables, and this morning was no different as Max walks in to the kitchen, yawning, to find Chloe sitting on the bench, legs tapping against the cupboard under the bench, nursing a steaming mug of coffee in her hands. Max has seen Chloe framed in golden hour’s light many, many times, and it still takes her breath away to see how the fragile winter sunlight catches in her blonde hair and softens the outline of her face. 

“Did you make coffee for me, at least?” Max asks as she walks into the kitchen to give Chloe a morning kiss.

“The kettle’s just boiled, help yourself.” Chloe jerks her head at the kettle next to her, putting down her mug, bending to wrap her arms around Max’s shoulders. “Happy New Year, Max. A new decade, a new us, right?” 

Max always marvelled at how warm Chloe was when she held her close, no matter how cold it was outside or inside. 

“Happy New Year back at ya,” Max murmurs, closing her eyes to sink into Chloe’s embrace. “Hope you’re ready to get mushy. I dare you to out-mush me.” 

Chloe pulls back, arms still draped over Max’s shoulders, grinning down at her in the morning light. “If you make that a double dare, I’ll take it.” 

Max laughs gently, pressing up against the bench, arms still wrapped around her girlfriend’s waist, Chloe’s legs resting against her sides. “I double dare you to out-mush me, and no take-backs.” 

Chloe pulls a face, but her eyes sparkle even as she pretends to shudder. “Ugh. Okay, dare taken.” 

“I can see some things never change though,” Max nods at the bench Chloe’s sitting on, “Like your total disregard for surfaces people prepare and eat food from. Dude, you’re like twenty-five, not fourteen anymore! Shouldn’t you be--”

"Nope, I’m not gonna stop till I turn thirty.” 

Max rolls her eyes, but she can’t stop the smile in her eyes as she reaches up to tuck a strand of Chloe’s hair behind her ear, fingers lingering in soft blonde strands. She lets her hand rest briefly against the side of Chloe’s face.  

“At least you’ve stopped saying hella every other sentence.” 

“Excuse me, I was a teenager, give my limited teen-self’s vocab a break. I kinda miss your wowsers though.” 

“So cringe-worthy, don’t remind me of that, Chloe.”

“Didn’t make it any less adorable.” 

“And you’re still wearing that same beanie since you were nineteen.” 

“Sixteen, actually,” Chloe corrects her, “And it’s still doing its job now, why would I throw it away if it still works?” 

“Hey, you look adorable with that beanie, not knocking it.” 

“You better not, Max. And you still have your old camera bag.” 

Max grins. “Hey, it still works, right, like the camera itself?” 

“I swear, that camera is immortal. I don’t even remember how long my dad had it for. Probably even before either of us were born.” 

“Still works like a charm. Film’s getting more expensive though. Maybe I should try my hand at digital for once. At least I can see if a shot is shit or not, all without wasting precious film.” 

Chloe’s fingers idly scratched Max’s shoulders, the latter feeling little goosebumps rise on her arms at the pleasant touch. 

“Hey, I’m sure we can find something sweet somewhere, you’re the camera whisperer after all.” 

“Not as many selfies, either. Maybe I just don’t feel such a need anymore, now that I have you with me.” 

“Hey, we still take selfies!” 

“At least you’re in them now--they don’t feel as lonely anymore. And you know me--Max Caulfield never misses an opportunity to take a picture with Chloe Price. Ever.” 

“And you better not forget it,” Chloe comments, Max stepping back as she finally gets off the bench. “Ever.”

“We’re always going to be together, right?” 

“Duh, Supermax, of course we are. We’re always Max and Chloe, remember?” Chloe reaches over to her coffee, cupping it in her hands as she takes another drink. “Except for when...you know...” 

Max winces, looks down at her feet, knowing she shouldn’t still feel guilty about the five years of radio silence, but still...

“I’m--”

“Nope. Stop feeling guilty, already, Max, that’s all in the past, right? 2020 is the decade of leaving that guilt behind. We’re gonna more than make up for it, not we already haven’t.” 

“How’d you know--” 

“Because no matter what, even at twenty-four, you’ve still got a bit of that old Max from before you left for Seattle. Though I’m glad you got rid of that ponytail.” 

Max can’t help a laugh, a hand reaching up to her short hair, tucking some of it behind her ears. “Yeah, that ponytail was gone like six weeks into Seattle, believe me.” 

“Poor Seattle still had to endure six weeks of your ponytail. That’s just horrific, Max, how could you.” 

“Oh shut up,” Max grumbles playfully, now moving to a cupboard to take out a cup, grabbing the kettle to prep some coffee for herself. “You still look amazing with long hair, not that you didn’t with your hairstyle back when you were nineteen.” 

“Yeah, I prefer long hair anyway.” Chloe shrugs, takes a long, final swig from her cup. “That hairstyle has too many bad memories attached anyway, so...” 

Max breaks away for a moment from her coffee-making to take one of Chloe’s hands, interlacing their fingers, squeezing tight. 

“I don’t know if I can get too mushy about the last ten years, Max. I mean...” 

“I liked Seattle, but to be honest, I never felt completely whole without you, if that makes sense? It sounds so cliche, but...” 

“Nah, not at all. Rachel filled that gap for a while, but...” Chloe takes Max’s other hand in hers. “Only when we reunited did I really feel whole again. I really missed you, Max, you have no fucking idea. And seeing your beautiful freckled face again alone literally healed half my soul again. I felt like a total kid again just seeing your gorgeous...Maxiness.” 

Max gives Chloe a playful nudge. “Ah, we’re already getting mushy. Mushy Chloe is best Chloe.” 

“That’s because you’re a goop.” 

“Go on, Chloe, admit you like being a goop.” 

“Never.” 

“I double dare you to admit it.” 

Chloe lets go of Max’s hands, folds her arms with a defiant shake of her head. “Not that easy.” 

“Double dog dare you.’ 

“Hell no.” 

“By the time this decade’s out, you’ll be ready to admit you like being all mushy and goopy. Calling it now.” 

Chloe raises an eyebrow, seeming to grow taller as she looks down at Max with her piercing blue eyes. 

“By the time this decade’s out, I’ll still deny I like getting mushy with you.” Chloe unfolds her arms, reaches out to tuck Max’s hair behind her ears, letting her hands drift from cupping Max’s face to resting on either side of her neck, palms warm against Max’s skin. 

“We’ll have to see then, won’t we?” Max comments, hands now resting again on Chloe’s hips, closing her eyes as she leans up for a tender, lingering morning kiss, a small smile on her lips as Chloe’s kisses wander from her lips to trace down the curve of her neck. She feels Chloe’s lips still at the base of her neck, breath tickling Max’s skin, sending little shivers of pleasure through her. 

“Any plans for the decade ahead?” Max whispers, eyes still closed as she presses herself up against Chloe, feeling how warm she is even in the chilly winter morning. “Maybe I’ll be a world-reknown photographer.” 

“You mean you will be,” Chloe murmurs, hands moving to hold Max even closer. “Stop being so goddamn humble, I keep telling ya.” 

“I know, I know.” 

“Maybe I’ll be ready to go back and find a university to finally get a degree.” 

“Science degree?” Max murmurs as she leans her head on Chloe’s shoulder, not daring to open her eyes, wanting to stay in this moment forever. 

“Duh, Max, of course it’ll be a science. Maybe I’ll learn to love chemistry again.” 

“Ugh. The only chemistry I like is ours.” 

“Hey, even girlfriend chemistry involves chemistry. It’s just...biochemistry...chemistry.” 

“Still not converted, sorry,” Max smiles into Chloe’s shoulder, gives her a quick little kiss through the cloth of her pyjamas. “Love you anyway.” 

“We’re gonna kick ass and take down names this decade, Max, and no one’s gonna stop us, come high hell or heaven.” 

“Damn right you are.” 

We’ll always be together, and I’m always going to be okay with that. We’ll always be Max and Chloe. Forever. 

#Life is Strange #quick little fanfic #Max Caulfield #Chloe Price #Pricefield

[veridium]

To read the previous episode, click here.

While the journey to Montsimmard has proven more perilous than originally expected, the allies soon find themselves at their destination. However, soon both the Inquisitor and her Ambassador realixe the bandits were merely a warm-up for what laid ahead for them, as Theia runs into an unexpected old friend who proves key in outsmarting the Game. This strains Lady Montilyet’s reliance on Court machinations.

The stop for healers happened an hour and a half after the attack. It was a small village nestled in the western end of the mountain range, and luckily the armor the troops were outfitted in meant the arrows did not hit deep. After about another hour of cleaning and bandaging, they had re-embarked.

Unexpectedly, sparring between  the Ladies Montilyet and Trevelyan subsided after the bandit attack. Once Theia’s temper had calmed, and the fun of having the upper hand waned, both women had turned their mental attention to the evening ahead with their respective responsibilities.

They finally arrived at the checkpoint 2/3 of the way in their journey, to stretch and change into their finer clothes. All of the women wore beautiful gowns, opulent and sophisticated, except of course for the Seeker who opted for formal armor. Solas, outfitted in formal attire, proved to have an expression of self-indulgence as he continued walking on their path towards the estate. It was a pleasant surprise for Theia.

The ride was smooth for the rest of the way as they found the stone road, and when they approached the Estate the Inquisitor noticed the mining camps off in the horizon, lit by torch fire and encampments. It was a sizeable operation, Josephine was right. Having that kind of backing would be a considerable boost to their equipment and armory numbers. But at what cost? Surely, a noble would not invoke an appearance by the Inquisitor herself without having the audacity to ask for more. Time would tell.

They pulled into the front façade of the Estate’s main hall, which was humming and brimming with goings-on. Theia noticed the Orlesian taste abound in the architecture: white columns with blue accents, windows tall and ornamentally designed. Undoubtedly, the company would match the décor in personality. When the carriages came to a stop, she watched as an attendant opened the door for her, and she accepted the outstretched hand whilst keeping the cloak over her.

When she was out, she saw her allies grouped together in front of the other carriage, and she quickly joined them.

“We’ve made it. Now, time to play,” Theia said begrudgingly, quickly scanning their surroundings. Madame Vivienne and Lady Josephine were already in their respective personas, effortlessly making sense of the whole thing.

“Calm down, my dear, you’re at a soiree in Monstimmard, not the Approach,” Vivienne comforted, grandiosely walking up the front steps ahead of them.

“That does not mean there will not be more than enough venomous stings to avoid,” Solas commented as he, too went up the stairs and braced himself for the looks of “what is that, an Elf?” and “May I have another chalice of wine?” all evening.

“Solas is right, and quite frankly, if I have to use my sword I will think this evening actually worth my time,” Cassandra, now proceeding up and away, leaving the two remaining ladies to have one last sparring match before the evening really began.

Theia bit her lip nervously and turned to Josephine. “I am sure you cannot wait to go in there and tell them all your story of heroism from today,” she said, feeling out the skirt of her blue silken gown.

“Inquisitor, if I sought out to besmirch your name, I would be doing as much damage to myself as to you. It would be like a warrior degrading the capability of his horse before marching out unto the front line,” Josephine tactfully responded, adjusting the skirt of her dress just so. Theia noticed and, eyeing the beauty of her tonight, couldn’t help but smile softly.

“That is so kind of you, to compare me to a war horse.”

“You have the stubbornness of one, I thought it only fitting.” At that, Josephine’s smug face gave way to a self-satisfied giggle under her breath. Theia gazed at her in discrete wonderment as she did so, remarking at how she glowed more than the metallic gold color of her gown ever could.

“You look amazing tonight,” she let out of her mouth.

Josephine looked up as if she was expected to retort to something savvy, but the genuine comment caught her off guard. She, too smiled, and for a moment they shared authentic pleasure that was all-too-rare nowadays.

“As do you, My Lady. Now, shall we see what game is afoot?” she said, turning her shoulders toward the entryway. Theia nodded, and together – though a respectful distance apart and with the posture of geniality – they made their way into the would-be viper’s nest.

--

Their entrance and announcement proved to be just as much fanfare as they expected. The party was centered in the main gardens, a vast rectangular area bordered by parlor and dining rooms brightly lit by candle and fireplace light. The gardens themselves were lit using strings of lanterns hanging from the rooftops, and the fountains shimmered as they sent water flying in beautiful shapes. The place was well-populated tonight – as if by word of mouth, they were told some illustrious company was expected – and wine and food were in copious supply.

Masterfully, the Inquisitor managed to mingle her way through the crowds, awaiting for this Lord Ferndale to make himself known. They had been greeted by his wife, Lady Adalia, and his attache – who actually looked and acted like one – but no Lord Ferndale to be seen. The game was in play, and thus anything was bound to happen.

The night went on as all allies went about their separate ways. Cassandra, avoiding as much social interaction, especially after being introduced as a Princess of Nevarra. Solas, keeping to the sidelines as well, observing the court intrigue with keen eyes. Madame Vivienne, embracing old compatriots and fellow Game players, acting as if this entire party was truly for her. It might as well have been, the way people were lured into her existence.

A couple of nosy Noblemen, some gossiping noblewomen, and a few teenagers who had some bold moves of flirtations, nothing really out of the ordinary for the Inquisitor. Which is why when she was poked on the shoulder by a stranger, she turned around with the same “face” she gave all the rest. It was a woman in yet another Orlesian mask, smiling and dressed with an understated personality in contrast to the rest of the crowd.

“My dear Lady Inquisitor, I had hoped you would be here!” the woman said with a tone of familiarity.

“My Lady, I am flattered,” Theia responded, holding her chalice of wine to her lips.

“You do not recognize me? I thought surely you would,” the woman replied.

Theia eyed her curiously. “I am supposed to recognize a lot of people nowadays, My Lady. That does not mean I do not falter from time to time.”

“Oh, you must know. Here, come with me!” the woman took hold of Theia’s arm and began pulling her to one of the surrounding parlor rooms that had temporarily been empty of people. Theia didn’t know whether to yank away, pull out a weapon she did not have, or go along for the ride and see what happens. Before she could make up her mind, though, she was pulled into a corner and backed up against the wall. The lady took a breath and removed her mask.

Suddenly, it was like a flashback all the way through time, to the early days of the rebellion. Theia felt like that runaway, frantic young Mage once more, always ready for an attack. Only, now, they were a bit older and in the throng of an Estate Soiree.

“Olivia, is it really you? You cannot possibly be here!” Theia said, trying to keep her voice low.

Olivia smiled and nodded her head. “As real as anything! I have been brought here to entertain the wits of some mush-brained nobles. When I heard you of all people became the Inquisitor, I had to find a way for our paths to intersect. It is really you! You look beautiful!” she said warmly. The two women embraced with excitement. This was a circumstance they once believed would never happen in a thousand ages.

When they broke away from each other, Theia placed her hands on Olivia’s shoulders. “Tell me, how did you get to safety? Are you still casting?” she asked frantically. Fate had separated them early on in the days of the rebellion, but they both originated from the Ostwick circle. Both fled and sought protection in small numbers of fellow Mages for a time, before the increasing danger caused splintering.

Olivia smiled and took hold of one of Theia’s hands. “I am well. Come, walk with me, there is much I wish to tell and ask.”

The women were arm in arm as they perused the marble walkways along the perimeter of the gardens. Theia learned of Olivia’s journey to where she was now, how she went from being a healer to traveling with merchants and offering to harvest and sell herb medicines for a time. Then the Conclave explosion happened, and all Mages essentially became Apostates. She went on the run again briefly, before charming the ear of a Nobleman. Now, she was living comfortably in Montsimmard, though she gave up ambitiously pursuing magic to be more palatable for her company she kept.

“I cannot believe you! You were always so accomplished and determined in your studies,” Theia commented, watching the ground as they walked.

“I know, but in these times, dear, Mages must either rise into power or fall into discretion. You and I have chosen our paths,” Olivia patted Theia’s hand that rested on her hooked arm.

“Tell me then, who is your Noble patron? He must not be too insulted by magic.”

“I’m afraid I—“

Josephine’s decisive approach interrupted the private conversation.

“Lady Inquisitor,” Josephine bowed, “if I may have a word?”

“Lady Montilyet. Olivia, may I introduce you to the Chief Diplomat of the Inquisition, Lady Josephine Montilyet of Antiva. She has generously accompanied me to advise me in the dealings of Court dynamics. Subsequently, her job is never done.”

Theia smiled with pride as Olivia nodded her head. “My Lady, it is a pleasure to meet you. I hear the most charming stories of Skyhold.”

Josephine greeted her in return, “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lady Olivia. Am I to understand you two…know..each other?”

“Why, yes! Lady Theia and I…lived in the same place, for a long time. Basically roommates, in fact. She and I go way back,” Olivia said cheerfully, as if only such happy memories came from such complicated days.

Theia shook her head. “You were so noisy every night! Casting and experimenting. I barely got a wink of sleep for two years before you moved down the stairs!”

Olivia laughed demurely. “Of course! All the best happenings occur in the cover of night, dear.”

Josephine’s spine tingled at the sound of a term of endearment coming from this woman she had just now met, towards the woman she…well, she…dammit.

“I am sorry to have disturbed you catching up, My Lady, but I only seek a moment of your time,” Josephine turned to Theia, who then turned to Olivia and grinned.

“I will be but a moment, Olivia. We have so much more to talk about,” she said before she went off with her Ambassador to yet another intriguingly empty room.

When they came to a space of privacy, Josephine’s face turned to her quintessential one of concern and nerve. “Inquisitor, you were arm-and-arm the Lord Ferndale’s mistress. I did not know she was a Mage, but your friendship has made re-evaluation necessary.”

Theia blinked with confusion at having being inundated with so much new information in the past half hour. Perhaps it was time to lean off the wine. “Josephine, back up a minute. I thought you didn’t know who she was?”

“I know everyone, Inquisitor. And when I do not, Leliana does. Lord Ferndale is quite…fond, of Lady Olivia. She has a similar status to the one Madame Vivienne had with the Duke de Ghislain. He does not make any critical decision without her insight. The kind lady you knew once is now elbow-deep in cunning and stratagem at any one time.”

Theia took a breath and gaze out the window, towards the area where she left Lady Olivia alone.

“So, what do you suggest I do? I haven’t seen her in years, and she is the first person I have come across from my days in the Circle who is alive and well,” she said sentimentally.

“While cultivating her good favor would be most beneficial, not many people know she was a Circle Mage. They believe her to be have many talents, but not someone who used to be kept away for fear of her powers. Such a revelation could disrupt some delicate plans. You must redefine the nature of your relationship in the eyes of the Nobles so as to not call into question her background.”

“Okay…so…I either flirt with her, or I…flirt…with her?” Theia pieced it together, much as it made her stomach flip at the thought.

Josephine sighed with chagrin. “The Nobles hunger for two expressions most of all: betrayal, and lust. Since you cannot use the first, you must deal the second with conviction.”

“Alright, and if she does not play well? What then? Also, I’d be flirting with the Lord’s mistress, which logic says is the most ridiculous choice to make.”

“Affairs have different rules. He surely cannot expect her to remain faithful while married and gallavanting off to wherever his heart and…other, extremities, take him. If anything, you flattering her vanity will make him even more keen, since you will essentially be complimenting his taste in finery.”

Theia inhaled deeply and rubbed her forehead with her hand. This was a lot of pressure all at once, and she didn’t know whether or not she should even pay attention to the fact that the woman she had fallen for was now advising her to chase after another woman. All for the Inquisition, right? “Into the Darkness, Unafraid and a sexual mercenary.”

Meanwhile, Josephine was all-too comfortable in the gear she was in. Yes, Theia had nestled herself quite deeply into a soft spot, but, this was the Game. The adrenaline of it all helped her avoid the cold hard facts. She hoped she wouldn’t come to regret it, but with the gamble they were making, surely her work would bear fruit and be concluded as necessary machinations.

“Josephine, do me a favor when we get back to Skyhold, and burn all other invitations to these events that we have on the docket,” Theia said as they began their walk back into the pit.

Josephine couldn’t help but giggle slightly at the frustrated tone.

--

Once they had re-entered, Theia immediately found her way back to Olivia’s side. It wasn’t all that hard – once they had made eye contact, it was almost as if planted magnets in their skirts pulled them together. They went back to their activity, arm and arm, walking the estate halls. Eventually, they had wandered off into more secluded off-shoot of the garden walkways. Lady Olivia subconsciously displayed her familiarity with the grounds in doing so without admitting outright that Lord Ferndale was the man she called her patron.

Down some stairs, they came to a balcony view of the mountains, emblematic of the local mining industry. Olivia guided them to the balcony railing, where they both stood and looked out at the picturesque evening view. Now, removed from the maddening crowd, Olivia had more room to be herself.

“Theia, I must tell you the truth about why you are here. It has a great deal to do with me,” Olivia admitted, turning to face her. “You see, Lord Ferndale…he is my patron. When the Inquisition formed, and then with you as leader, I insisted that he help. I followed all of your stories like my life depended on it. Your embracing of the Mage Rebellion made my life – a lot of people’s lives – better. I could finally embrace some of my past instead of shuffling it away into obscurity.”

Theia couldn’t believe what she was hearing. All those discretions and innuendos, and here she was being brutally honest.

“Olivia, I…I am touched that you would do so much to help me, help the Inquisition. Am I to assume, then, the possible treaty for the mine is your doing?”

Olivia took a breath and looked out at the mountains once more.

“Lord Ferndale has vast holdings and equally vast fortune. He can spare some for a necessary cause. But, he was already leaning that way anyhow. I pushed for this so as to ensure it, and also see you. I would surely not travel all the way to Skyhold without letting on my sympathies, or my identity, outright.”

“But you said yourself that the Mages joining us made life easier for you.”

“Yes, but I do not have the stature that you or Madame de Fer enjoy. My bluntness is a risk I am not willing to take now. I have so much at stake.”

“Olivia,” Theia took hold of her hands comfortingly, “there is so much you can do in this life besides be a Nobleman’s pet. You can join us in Skyhold, we could always use another talented Mage. I remember how driven you were, and I refuse to believe that Olivia is gone.”

Olivia became emotional, even to the point of quiet tears brewing in her eyes. She looked down at their joined hands timidly. “Theia, you remember what it was like, on the run. The Templars chasing after us like they were hunting for sport. The people who would give us water and then call the dogs on us. I cannot even risk going back to that life, it has scarred me. I miss being fearless, I miss being reckless, but I can’t.”

Olivia turned away and went back to standing at the balcony railing, but Theia quickly put a hand on her shoulder and turned her back to facing her.

“Olivia, I remember as well as you, but would you rather suppress yourself like an ornament than embrace all of who you are? This is a time of change, and we have the choice to embrace it or hide, waiting for our destinies to be decided by everyone else but us. Now is the time to step out of the dark, and take back what years of Templar brutality took from us, our agency, our goodness, our convictions.”

Olivia scoffed, eyes flickering between Theia’s eyes and lips as she spoke. “You make it sound so easy, as if everything is right in front of us, being held out to us for the taking.”

“I won’t lie to you and say it is. It has been hard, but, we have each other. Those bonds that had us at each other’s backs defending each other from Templars and bandits, those bonds are real,” Theia had lost track of her original goal in charming Olivia. Now, it was the authenticity of former rebels, caught in the midst of unforgiving change and the unknown.

Olivia was and had always been very fair and very sweet to look at. Her rich, brown hair tied up showed her soft, oval face off to the world. Her almond eyes and broad cheekbones used to light up rooms, especially when she herself would light up with her love of casting. Now, it was all powdered and prim, palatable to Nobility. Maker only knew just what else they had done to her to make her that way.

But, as Theia looked into her eyes, she had a glimpse of it: the endless amounts of stress, of anxiety, of opportunities taken and lost. It hurt her heart to know someone who was as close to an old friend as she had, was now accustomed to such harshness.

“Theia,” she said softly, weakly even. “I have missed you so. You were always the most fancied girl in the Circle. Everyone would have given all their coin just to…” her voice faced to a whisper as her mouth veered in closer to Theia’s.

Olivia’s lips then went for it, kissing her with a melancholy that she had never felt before in someone else’s embrace…well, save for one.

Theia’s flight or fight response kicked in, only curbed by the reminder that this was her goal, right? Seduce the Lady Olivia, get the good side of Lord Ferndale. But, as she felt Olivia pull her in, she felt dirty, cheap, and deceitful. Undoubtedly Olivia was trying to reclaim a piece of her past, and not act on long-stifled love. But, the feelings remained in her chest, and got worse as it went on. She did not kiss back, but she did not do anything to stop it. Her stomach sank so quickly it felt like it would fall through the floor.

Little did Theia know that along the upper level of the garden walkways, her ally Solas was sneaking a glimpse. Clearly, Theia had motivations and needs that night, and he wondered just what she was accomplishing. He was careful to watch while not bringing attention to himself, though he could not stop Lady Josephine from arriving at his side to see what got her attention. She had been looking for the Inquisitor and thought perhaps Solas had an idea. Well, he did, and it wasn’t the best.

As Josephine watched, her heart skipped a beat. Suddenly, watching it be real, the Game felt like it had bit her hand that had been feeding it. What a bitter and spiteful kind of play it was. In her rising anger and jealousy, she felt the voices of injustice loom in her mind: I told her to charm her, not this. Well, I did, but…I…did not think she would pull it off. Why am I bothered? I am not anyone who should feel possessive…but, how could she?

“Apparently the Inquisitor has taken quite well to the ins and outs of Court dramatics,” Solas remarked, making light conversation with someone who he had always politely regarded. He could also feel the waves of conflicted emotion reverberating from her body, telling him everything he needed to know about how she truly felt about this sight.

Josephine was quiet for a moment, her face stoic.

“She does, and I am aware. This is good for us,” she answered in a sad monotone.

“Good for all of us? I wonder, Lady Montilyet,” Solas replied with a softness as he nodded towards her, and quietly withdrew from her side. She kept watch, waiting for something. Waiting for the end, but it lingered.

Then, after a minute, Theia finally pulled away. Bracing on Olivia’s arms as she looked at her longing face. “Olivia, I can’t do this. I…I have other commitments, and I do not wish to lead you on when my intentions are not true,” there she went, unraveling the rouse, like the honorable and foolish person she was.

At that admonition, Olivia began to laugh bittersweetly. The reaction caught Theia off guard. Was there no end to it?

“My dear Theia, you presume much about the fragility of my sensibilities. I do not seek such foolish things. Rest assured, I do not feel slighted.”

“Oh…um, good. I was worried that…”

“You had stolen my heart? Rest assured, you have already done that with someone who is not me.”

Theia eyed her for a moment, preparing to rebuff, but she was cut off.

“Come, Theia, walk with me some more. I have brought you here for a reason, and that was not to secure meager treaties. Those are already well and done. Tell me of all the juicy details of being Lady Inquisitor,” Olivia now sounded back to being “herself,” as if this had all been a momentary lapse in emotion. As if she had taken one of her Orlesian masks off, and it was now squarely back on her face.

Theia turned with her and followed her, intuitively scanning the facades of the garden railings for faces or eyes. She looked where Josephine and Solas had once stood, but, much to her blissful ignorance, there was no one. At least, not anymore.

#oc stuff #fanfiction #Theia Trevelyan #inquisitor x josephine #Josephine Montilyet #NEXT CHAPTER

[oneletterwrites]

Subtly Gets You No Where

Longer title: Subtly and care get you no where when the person you’re trying to subtly and carefully woo thinks too negatively and won’t pick up your clues and it’s subtly driving you insane.

Pairing: Romantic Analogical (or platonic until the end)

Warnings: Some negative self talk, disappearing talk, very minimal. Some swears?

It seemed to start sometime after their first debate. Virgil would just be sitting around in his room or even venturing out to the commons in the odd moments he felt courageous enough to curl up on his extra cushioned rocking chair when he would be sought out. That itself annoyed him but he wouldn’t complain. It felt nice to be wanted.

He’s on his bed with his phone open to some simple word search app to keep his mind occupied. The voices in his head are quiet for once so he enjoys the silence without music while he can. His eyes scan the screen for the proper order of letters when there’s a knock on his door. He jerks at the sound but calms seeing who it is.

“Good afternoon Anxiety,” Logan greets him with whatever time of day it is, his hands clasped gently in front of him. Virgil wonders if it really is a ‘good’ afternoon. Then wonders what time it is because he’s sure he hasn’t been in bed all day. The clock on his wall that spins out of control is no help and his phone glitches over the time, so he believes Logan’s statement.

“Hey,” He greets simply not exactly sure why Logan is at his door. Logan clears his throat softly.

“I was wondering if you would be able to assist me for a moment,” He says. Like the times before, the conversation follows the same pattern. Virgil is sure the rest of the day will follow suit but he won’t hold his breath for it. He shrugs and manages to flop out of bed and follow the logical trait down to their room. They hold it open for him and he takes a spot he’s grown comfortable with on Logan’s floor.

“I wanted to know your opinion on something,” Logan tells him and Virgil snorts. It takes another question or two of prodding for him to open up, going off on worries and concerns and possible outcomes to the situation Logan has brought up. He has a notebook at the ready, taking notes or writing down things he notices Virgil isn’t sure. Somehow Logan always has something smart to shoot back at him.

This isn’t the first time. It scared him half to death the first time he had been searched for. Had he done something wrong? Is Logan mad? What is going on? The question turned his mind to mush until Logan had admitted to wanting to know what he thought. That brought down a whole new avalanche of questions that Virgil ignored in turn for getting the interaction over with as soon as possible.

It’s gotten better. Maybe. He doesn’t stutter and start his sentences over as much, and he can start talking sooner than the million specific questions Logan could ask to get the answers he wants. Virgil knows how to tangent and with the lack of judgement that Logan gives, it’s easy to just talk. It’s not bad when Logan tells him something new, when they talk over each other trying to get their own point across. Logan always seems satisfied with the end result.

It always surprises him when Logan knocks on his door or bothers him in the commons. He always suspects the last time will actually be the last time. He doesn’t expect Logan to show up. It’s nice he does though. It’s one of the few things he has that’s nice in the mind palace.

With the few and far between silence he receives in his own room and the once in a blue moon smile from Patton, there’s not much for him in the mind palace. There’s anger and fear and snide comments paired with snide looks. While his room doesn’t provide those things exactly, the barbed wire words don’t hold much more for him. A double edged sword and he’s getting cut either way.

“Thank you Anxiety for spending this time with me, it was very informative,” Logan stands from his desk and offers him a hand up. Virgil doesn’t take it, helping himself off the floor with a huff.

“You’re welcome I guess,” He says and sees himself out. He flops down to his bed face first. He talked a lot and the energy needed for such a thing is drained from entirely. Finding his headphones he plays something soft and low. It’s enough to keep voices from telling him he should have just stayed in his room.

–

“I have a more.. personal topic if you don’t mind for today,” Logan says, almost apprehensively. Virgil just blinks at him from his spot on the floor. He has claimed the spot for himself whenever Logan indulges in listening to him ramble. It’s less awkward than the bed and more comfortable than the other chair closer to the other that Logan offers every time. He can sprawl out and not feel cramped either.

Logan’s room is crisp and clean, everything in it’s spot and nothing out of place. Well, except for Virgil that is. His dark clothing doesn’t necessarily contradict the blues and whites but it sure doesn’t blend well enough. He pulls his legs to his chest.

Maybe this is bonding? Logan doesn’t talk to the others as much, tending to stick to himself or a book. Sure he and Patton need to talk out lifestyle stuff for Thomas sometimes, and the whole internal conflict of if he needs to grow up more put them on a bit of a schedule but that’s scheduled talks they have. This is Logan searching him out of his own volition. 

“I mean, I guess that’s okay.” He shrugs. He’s not sure what would happen if he said no. Logan would probably accept the response and move on to something else, but insidious thoughts have him thinking down a different path.

“Though not the main proponent to Thomas’s feelings, I wanted to know your opinion on love and-” Virgil snorts, lifting a hand to cover his mouth to hid the beginnings of a smile. That smile falls immediately seeing the perplexed look on the logical trait’s face.

“Is this topic not to your liking?” Logan asks plainly. Virgil rolls his eyes.

“Pleeeassee,” He levels Logan with a sneer that’s not as mean as it could be. Logan sits a little straighter in his desk chair.

“Relationships and romantic feelings, no matter how much I don’t understand, have been proven needed for a fulfilling lifestyle,” He says. Virgil snorts again.

“Relationships are bullshit alright? Love is ridiculous,” He shakes his head as the ideas flow into his mind.

“It makes you act stupid, you’re constantly worried about what you’re saying and doing,” He holds out his fingers as he brings up point after point. Logan is glancing at him then back to his notebook rapidly as he scrawls down what he deems important.

“Plus! Either way it’s going to end. You’ll either get broken up with or someone is going to die and leave you alone, and both of those options suck.” He finishes. Logan rubs at his chin thoughtfully.

“You don’t think there’s good in having that time together?” His voice is softer as he asks. Virgil scrunches up his face like someone asked him to eat garbage.

“Not really,” There’s something burning in the pit of his stomach at the flash of dejection that passes through Logan’s eyes. It sets him panicking. He pushes off the floor.

“I’m going to go take a nap,” He rushes out the words. Logan tilts his head.

“You just woke up an hour ago.”

“Time isn’t real,” Virgil lets himself out and shuts the door behind him quietly. He can hear Patton and Roman in the commons. He slinks past and into his room as quietly as he can, the only noise being the light click of the door when it shuts him in his darkened room.

He doesn’t fall onto his bed at first. He sits just at the base of it on the floor, curling up and replaying his words in his head. This has happened before but this time, it’s worse. He left really early, their somewhat conversation and debate barely even getting started when he felt the need to get out. Now that he’s out, he’s not sure it had been a good idea.

“Shit,” He mumbles and manages to curl up even more in himself. Why didn’t he just shut his big mouth and let Logan be right? Why didn’t he stay to hear what Logan would say? Why did he join him in the first place? Should have stayed in his room, should have never left, should have never, never, never.

He grits his teeth hard. Every time. Every time he thinks he’s doing okay, he ruins it. Him and Roman had the smallest of understandings after their Disney debacle, but none of it mattered the next time, they talked like it never happened. Patton didn’t take his side at all after Virgil tried to get them both to a happier place. Logan came to talk to him after their debates sure, when Virgil participated, but this? He’s sure it will never happen again. It’s all his fault.

–

Logan looks… desperate. He’s mouth is running a mile a minute about some curve thing that Virgil isn’t sure he’s actually helpful towards but Logan has a way of making him believe whatever he’s saying with his reasoning. His face scrunches up in disbelief anyway.

He just wanted to go away. To leave. To make everything easier on himself and Thomas and the others but it couldn’t be that could it. They had to come searching for him, to come barreling into the center of his room and demand to speak with him. Why couldn’t they just let him go?

“Anxiety please,” Thomas is begging him and it hurts. He did this, he hurt Thomas. He shakes his head and once more Logan is talking.

“You’re important, you help Thomas more than you realize,” He says hurriedly. He’s trying so hard and Virgil can tell. After he walked out Logan didn’t stop asking him to debates, but Virgil stopped really participating, which is almost worst than not going at all. Logan didn’t deserve his half assed replies, deserved better.

“You’re that feeling of tinglyness!” Patton throws out louder than he means too. Virgil jumps at the outburst then jumps at Logan screaming after. He puts a hand to his head, sick of it all. It’s not like they were the last straw to try and leave. He couldn’t blame them, they tried at least.

Roman just had to speak up though. Apologizing in his own special way. Maybe that’s what Virgil had been after. Some kind of acknowledgement from the one that had been ragging on him from the beginning. It fills that little bit of nagging in the back of his mind. Any sense of fulfillment is quickly ripped away by the panic in Logan’s voice, circling his graph with fever.

“Breathe, that’s good,” He coaches Thomas safely out of his room’s center and back to safety. There’s a calm settled over them. A calm he can actually relax in. Be comfortable in.

“It’s the vigilant people who work the hardest,” Logan points out. There’s a smile on his face that’s rare on it’s own, one that Virgil finds himself returning, even if only to his feet. He does take a quick glance up to Logan though who looks relaxed now that they’re back where they should be.

“No pressure,” Logan reassures him, soothing and calm. Virgil takes a deep breath.

“My name is Virgil,” He ends up shouting louder than he means too.

–

It’s awkward. Just a little. Ever since he told them his name, the others treat him differently. More kindly and with more involvement. It’s not something he’s used to, yet finds himself enjoying. He can talk movies with Roman, and bake with Patton, and have weird eye contact with Logan as he enters a room then decides the awkward isn’t worth his mental health and leaves.

It sends a pit of something awful spiraling into his stomach. Logan doesn’t say anything to him. Did he do something wrong? They haven’t had a debate in so long. Yes he stopped really participating, but Logan also stopped asking. He blames himself for that.

He’s sitting in his chair in the commons, playing on his phone when Logan enters. He jerks having not spotted him before and immediately begins to shift out of his spot as the logical trait settles into his easy chair. Virgil almost trips over himself in his effort to leave.

“You can stay if you like.” The voice calls to him. Logan’s voice sounds weird. Virgil shrinks in on himself as he turns to look at the other. Their awkward staring contest doesn’t last long. Logan pauses, giving him a skeptical look, when he shakes his head. Virgil gestures vaguely to his chair opposite Logan’s.

“You don’t mind?” He says it with more disbelief than he means. The surprised look Logan gives him after messes with that pit of awful in his stomach, but then Logan sighs and smiles to him, not taking Virgil’s doubt harshly.

“Not in the slightest. You’re one of the only people I can have a comfortable silence with,” Logan tells him honestly, head angling down to be lost in the pages of his book. Virgil stares in a stunned shock. He didn’t think after all this time they would be able to handle silence. A smile twitches onto his face as he takes back his chair, going back to his phone, and ignoring the pleased smile Logan has for himself. He chalks it up to something interesting in the story he’s reading.

He hides the smile that just won’t leave in his hand. He’s missed his moments with Logan. The silence is far more comfortable than he could ever imagine.

–

There’s a knock on his door, it jerks him upright, fumbling with his phone and accidentally throwing it half way across the room. He blinks at Logan dumbly from where they stand in the doorway. It takes at least two deep breathes for him to be able to talk.

“Hey?” He asks. Logan shifts from foot to foot, not saying anything. It does very little for Virgil’s own nerves.

“Can I help you?” He doesn’t hide the annoyance in his voice but part of him knows Logan won’t mind. Finally the logical trait snaps into action, clasping his hands and clearing his throat softly.

“May I speak to you for a moment?” He asks. Virgil shrugs and goes to get out of bed to follow Logan to his room as he’s used to but Logan steps inside and shuts the door.

“Uhh,” Virgil’s eyes go wide as Logan comes closer. He takes a seat on the edge of Virgil’s bed and rests his elbows on his knees in a contemplation pose. Virgil continues to stare at him because he’s not sure what to do.

“Virgil,” Logan says first. Reflexively Virgil’s face twists up, still very unused to hearing it said aloud. The twist sticks around as Logan doesn’t say anything after that. It does nothing for the anxiety that bubbles up inside him.

“Do you remember our small debate about relationships?” Is what he says and Virgil groans in annoyance. He detangles himself from his covers to sit criss-cross next to Logan.

“Wouldn’t call it much of a debate seeing I left ten minutes into it.”

“So you do, wonderful,” Logan ignores what he says and Virgil rolls his eyes. There’s a stiff awkwardness in Logan’s posture that has him on edge though. Part of him thinks it’s his room, but they aren’t in the center of it so it wouldn’t be that.

“It has come to my attention that-” Logan cuts himself off, but at least his words have stopped Virgil’s downward spiral of thoughts. He waits as patiently as possible but even as they discussed before, he’s not very patient.

“I would very much.. appreciate,” Logan stops again, grimacing to himself and trying to find the right words. Virgil raises his eyebrows in shock of Logan being lost for words. It makes him more nervous.

“The opportunity, to be.. Involved.. In a romantic relationship. With you. Specifically.” He finally finishes his thought only to look over at Virgil who couldn’t snap his fallen jaw shut if he tried. His entire body is dropped in confusion and staring at Logan if he has two heads. Maybe three.

“What.” Is all he manages to say. Logan clears his throat.

“I understand if you do not, of course,” Though he says so, there’s a small something sad in his eyes. Virgil’s fidgeting begins slowly but soon his whole body is rocking back and forth.

“I don’t know how to deal with that,” His voice is a little strained but he can’t care about that right now. Logan nods in understanding, like he always has.

“Like, are you serious? I’m a fucking mess, I don’t know how you expect to deal with me,” Virgil goes on and Logan snaps his head to look at him deadly serious.

“I do not deal with you,” He puts air quotes up at the word.

“I enjoy your company and find myself wanting to do more romantically inclined activities with you.” Logan’s confidence is back and has taken a turn towards the tone he uses when they debate. Slightly condescending but wanting to prove the point. That Virgil can handle.

“Romantically inclined. You want to go on dates and have dinner and hold hands?” Virgil snarks. Logan scoffs.

“If that is what you want in a relationship then I will happily provide. I understand the properties that go into a romantic partner and can see no other I would want to be with.” He says, turning to face Virgil more so. He’s moving his hands the way he does when he’s trying to convey his meaning exactly.

“Is this a game or something? Some puzzle or experiment?” Is maybe one of Virgil’s last ditch arguments but he’s seen Logan do dumb things just to see the outcome so it’s not outlandish. Logan either way leans back offended as ever.

“I would never toy with feelings in such a trivial manner. Surely you must know that.” Logan directs at him, the makings of a smirk on his face. Virgil rolls his eyes.

“And how do you know this is true feelings or some made up malarkey that you just-”

“I would have never come to say what I did if I had not been sure. I went to an expert before hand to make sure what I feel is real and when given a complete rundown and this conclusion, decided to do something about it,” Logan tells him succinctly. Virgil narrows his eyes.

“Is Patton the expert?”

“Patton is the expert yes.” Virgil snorts and lifts a hand to cover his face. Of course. Of course Logan would go to Patton, the all knowing feeling master, to figure out what is going on with him. When he finally looks up there’s a slight smile on Logan’s face. He returns it a little and shrugs.

“Like I said I understand if you do not feel the same, but I do enjoy your presence immensely, and would leap at the chance to be romantically involved.” Logan folds his hands but he’s calmer now. Virgil huffs, blowing the air up at his bangs.

“You would leap huh?” He asks in more of a challenge than anything. Logan takes a moment to process but grimaces when he does. He clears his throat.

“Well perhaps not leap specifically. Maybe something a little less…” Logan makes a pose that resembles a certain royal but his face all screwed up makes Virgil hide his face again. In the sudden silence there is comfort. He bites his lip in thought, questions burning in his brain but none so prominent as the one he finds the courage to ask.

“How.. long? Have you felt like this..” The question weighs heavy in his mouth. It makes him keep his eyes to the ground and away from the one who will answer. He jerks at the sudden touch to his hand but Logan takes it gently in his to caress it softly.

“I myself have come to this conclusion just earlier today,” Logan tells him evenly. 

“But according to Patton, months. Long enough for him to say I should do something about it.” He squeezes Virgil’s hand. Earlier today, meaning it’s why Virgil hadn’t been called for food when it’s normally ready, meaning Logan had been able to just follow through with a plan the moment he thought of it and not think of thirteen different terrible outcomes that could arise. Virgil swallows hard.

Logan waits patiently, so patiently like he always does, for him to answer. Virgil is the one to squeeze their hands now though he is not as soft as Logan. He squeezes tight as thoughts form and take shape. It’s not that he doesn’t like Logan, no he’s so nice to be around, a sense of comfort he doesn’t get with anyone else. He’s calming, and grounding, and so nice to be around.

“Maybe we could.. take it slow? Ish?” He says tentatively before he can think of all the terrible ways this can go wrong. The feel of the hand in his is pleasant, and if being romantically involved will get him more of that, more of the soft and nice smiles and Logan, he can’t think of a better alternative. Logan seems to beam at the idea. He nods along. Virgil takes a deep breath.

“Maybe we could.. start debating again?” He throws the suggestion out there, having missed the time together, the time not spent wondering if whatever he’s doing is wrong. Logan beams brighter at that suggestion.

“I would love to,” He smiles. The corner of Virgil’s mouth twitches up and he hides it in his hand. He’s got an idea for their topic of choice, then he can really grill Logan on how he expects this to work. Virgil is hoping for secure statements and plain reassurance that it will be okay. That it can last.

“Have you eaten?” Logan asks suddenly, a look of worry on his face. Virgil twists up his face, ready to brush past that statement when his stomach growls. He glares at a corner as Logan huffs.

“I knew it, you have been in bed all day. I am making food, please join me,” Logan stands and walks out, giving Virgil one more pointed stare before shutting his door. Virgil shakes his head, curling up in himself. Thoughts tell him whatever just happened isn’t real. The warmth of his hand where Logan touched tells him otherwise. Things seemed to go like that when the logical trait is involved. Logan has a way of making Virgil believe, and this would be something he really would want to believe.

#virgil sanders #logan sanders #analogical #sanders sides #not hetalia #drabble #i like them a lot okay #the title is bad but who cares #thomas sanders

[whoacanada]

NHL!Bitty, Part XII -  ‘A Stanley Cup Wedding’

The Schooners win game seven and dethrone the defending champion Falconers to claim Seattle’s first national title. 

Eric was definitely not expecting Jack to propose immediately after losing.

(A rework of the ‘Game 7 PVD vs SEA’ prompt that totally retcons some NHL!Bitty stuff, so timeline-wise: the Falconers took the cup Eric’s second year with the Schooners. The Schooners win the following season.)

NHL!Bitty Masterpost

Game Seven. Third period. Eric’s running on adrenaline, blue Gatorade, and rage.

Jack and the rest of the Falconers first line are racing to catch up, but Eric is ‘criminally fast’ (thank you ESPN for the lovely descriptor), and it’s almost too easy to whip the puck to Carter and wait for the siren.

Snowy can’t stop it. The Schooners will win in regulation. 

For a brief, terrifying moment, Eric sees Morin’s breakaway as the death knell of his relationship. He has flashes of Freshman year and he thinks ‘Jack is going to hate me’.

Eric closes his eyes and waits.

The siren blares and someone slams into his side, but he only has a moment to rally before he’s hit by a wall of sound that vibrates the ice beneath his skates and reverbs in his chest. The whole arena must be shaking because he’s never heard anything like this before.

Except that’s not quite true, because he was there last year in Providence, it’s just that the sound wasn’t directed at him.

It’s Seattle’s first championship.

Eric forces open his eyes and can’t see much beyond the mob of teammates that have surrounded him, but there’s someone else. A body in Falconer’s blue that’s mushed up against Eric and screaming as loudly as any of his teammates.

“Mon Petit Lapin est un Champion!” Jack shouts, right in his ear, before pressing a sloppy kiss against Eric’s cheek, the affectionate gesture hidden in the safety of the huddle.

So much for Jack being upset.

When the mob starts to break down Cricket notices Jack among their ranks and grabs his jersey to pull him away from Eric. 

“Zimmermann! Get back to your own team!” 

“Mon dieu, t'es beau,” Jack continues talking, refusing to break eye contact even as Bay shoves him back to wrap Eric in a hug of his own.

“Ouais, il est,” Bitty says back, though Jack can’t hear him, skating back to console the Falconers after the loss. “I am. Oh, my god, I am. We won.”

“We won!” Cricket echoes, and the team roars. 

They line up to shake hands and when Jack reaches Eric he says, “I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more than you.”

Eric doesn’t have time to respond before he’s being coaxed along and Tater slaps his hand so hard Eric thinks he might have broken something.

The next few minutes are a blur of screaming, sweaty hugs, candid photos, posed photos, interviews, and distantly he can see his parents with the Zimmermanns behind the glass, waving and waiting to be escorted to the ice. Behind them, Eric can just make out the small hoard of Samwell alums dressed in custom red ‘Bittlemann’ and ‘Zimbits’ jerseys, though Shitty appears to have shed most of his clothing at this point. 

Eric slips away from another reporter and, overwhelmed, can’t quite figure out what to do now. He wants his parents. He wants Jack. He wants to lift the fucking Stanley Cup.

They’re rolling out the carpet for the cup presentation and someone is tugging at his arm. Someone that stinks a lot like --

“Jack!” He spins and hugs his boyfriend before remembering there are cameras and pushing away quickly.

“It’s okay,” Jack assures him, pulling him back into a tight hold. “I’m gonna propose,” he huffs against Eric’s sweaty hair, “right here.”

“What? Now?” Eric asks, not sure if its the exhaustion or just generic shock. “I mean, are you going to come out?”

“Right now,” Jack nods, pulling back with a goofy grin. “But only if you want to.”

The music is deafening and out of the corner of his eye, Eric can see Cricket grinning like a loon before a swarm of reporters and several cameras. They’re bringing out the cup, and Eric doesn’t exactly care because Jack’s going to come out. And he just proposed that he is planning to propose?

Maybe he has a concussion. Maybe he’s not thinking clearly because is what universe does Jack lose the Stanley Cup, come out, and propose to Eric at the same time?

“But you lost,” Eric says gently, afraid Jack’s about to realize he’s made a mistake. 

“And you won,” Jack counters, just as gently, cupping Bitty’s face. “And you have no idea how proud I am. Six years ago you’d pass out if you got hit. Tonight you ran me into the boards twice!”

“Cause you were being an asshole, Sweetpea,” Eric defends, fighting the warmth rising in his cheeks.

“And it was great, but you know who helped you through that? I did,” Jack grins. “Checked you so many times you forgot you hated me. So, it’s a bit like I won too, you know? I got to see the man I love, the man I want to spend the rest of my life with, fearless.”

Oh. That’s. 

Eric grabs a handful of Jack’s jersey and pulls him down into a kiss, heedless of the flashing lights and screaming spectators. When they separate Jack’s expression is dazed.

“So you’ll marry me?” Jack cradles Eric’s sweaty face and peppers kisses across his cheek. “Please say yes. Make it official.”

Eric grins and tucks his face against Jack’s neck, “Yes, I will marry you.”

They’d discussed it before, in the same half-measures and what-ifs that always circled conversations about their relationship and Jack’s eventual coming out. 

Somewhere between the playoffs and this moment, Jack must have made peace with his demons because he’s here now, declaring his love on the biggest stage he could possibly find. It’s only by the grace of the hockey gods that no reporters have managed to stick a microphone between them yet. 

Then Eric blinks, noticing Sorenson’s blond head in the crowd, and he has a bold, terrible, horrible, wonderful idea.

“Sorenson is ordained,” Eric says, just loud enough for Jack to hear. “Our family and friends are here. What about right now?” 

“Right now?” Jack stares at Eric and grins like he hasn’t just lost Game 7 of the finals. Like Eric isn’t about to hoist the cup. Like they didn’t just out themselves on national television.

“That’s crazy,” he breathes, pulling Eric into another kiss. “Let’s do it.”

Something bubbles up in Eric’s stomach. Butterflies? Adrenaline? Sheer joy? Perhaps all of the above?

Carter swings by with a stack of hats and shoves one on Eric’s head so the brim knocks against Jack’s nose. “Stop macking on your man and come lift the fucking cup!”

Jack laughs and shoves the cap out of his face. “Carter, we’re getting married. Right now. Grab Sorenson.”

Morin freezes. “No shit? Can I be his best man?”

“Sure, just get Andrew before it’s too late. We have to kiss when Bits lifts the cup.”

Morin retreats and Jack takes Eric’s face in his hands again. 

“You sure this is what you want, Bits?” Jack asks, brow furrowed slightly. “I’m all for it, but if we wait for everyone to get over here we’ll be swarmed. We have to do this right now.”

Eric pulls Jack’s hands down into his own and smiles up at his fiancé (fiancé!). “I’m okay with that if you are.”

Sorenson skates over with Bay and Morin, interrupting the moment. “What’s this about you getting married?”

“You’re still ordained, right? We want you to marry us.” Eric explains. “Like right now.”

Sorenson looks at Morin. “Is this legit?”

“Why would we lie about this?” Bay shoves Sorenson’s shoulder. “C’mon, you in or out?”

“What, now? I mean, yeah, I can, but shit, Bittle, you’re putting me on the spot, you have vows? Rings?” Eric shakes his head and Jack must mirror the action because Andrew just groans and rips off his hat. “Fuck guys, fine. I’ve never done a gay wedding, but okay.”

He motions for them to scoot closer. “Uh, dearly beloved --”

Eric sees an NBC reporter hovering nearby and snaps his fingers to interrupt. “No time, skip to the end.”

“Bridezilla over here -- do you, Eric Bittle, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband to have and to hold in sickness and in health yadda yadda yadda?”

“I do,” Eric says, taking Jack’s hand and squeezing tight.

“And do you, Jack Zimmermann, take Eric Bittle to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

“Definitely,” Jack breathes, smiling so hard Eric thinks his chapped lips might split. 

“Then by the power vested in me by the Universal Life Church, you fuckers are married.” Andrew waves his arms half-heartedly. “But not totally. You still need paperwork, and Morin and Bay are your witnesses.”

“Sick!” Bay high-fives Morin.

Eric tugs the sleeve of Jack’s jersey. “Hey, we still need to kiss.”

“Not yet,” Jack warns. “We should both be touching the cup when we share our first kiss as a married couple.”

A few short years ago, Eric would have laughed outright at Jack’s superstitions. But now? 

“Lord Stanley will bless the union, and the league will fear our power,” Eric jokes, only half-kidding when Jack’s smile turns just a little self-indulgent. 

“Bittle!” Someone yells, and Jack shoos him away.

“Go be with your team!”

“I think I’d rather be with my husband,” Eric says, and Jack flushes pink before Eric looses sight again, Carter dragging him bodily back to the reporters and the cup. He blinks and he’s standing beside his captain while the world narrows to the trophy held above his head.

“Congratulations, kid,” Cricket grins, handing the cup to Eric. “You’ve earned this.”

Eric grips the metal tight and feels the weight of it for the first time. Not just the 35 pounds of silver and nickel, but the weight of a legacy far bigger than any one player. 

He stops fighting the urge to be presentable, lifts the cup high and screams, forcing every painful moment in his entire life out into one throat-shredding cry. 

For every church lady who looked down her nose at him and talked to Mama about ‘camps’, for every relative who described his love of figure skating as ‘faggy’, for the classmates who wouldn’t sit next to him and the junior varsity football players that actually tried to kill him . . .

For every person that every tried to make him think he was less than. 

Fuck you.

His cheeks are wet, the crowd is going nuts, and his parents are crying. 

Bob has an arm around his father’s shoulder and Coach is crying.

He needs to pass the cup on, but he’s not ready yet. He scans quickly for Jack’s name from the previous year, and when he finds it he brings the cup to his lips, pressing firmly enough he’s sure ‘ZIMMERMANN’ can be read plain-as-day on his lips.

‘Thank you for giving me this,’ Eric thinks, blocking out everything else for just a moment. ‘And thank you for giving us Jack.’ 

He blinks against the lights and finds Jack in the crowd, beaming beside his parents. 

It’s time. 

Eric makes a b-line to his family (His family!) and stops short of Jack. 

“Hey,” he says, suddenly hoarse with the realization that this is his husband. He’s married (kinda), he’s holding the Stanley Cup in front of everyone he’s ever cared about, and Jack Zimmermann’s ass will forever belong to Eric Richard Bittle.

“Hey, Bits,” Jack replies, barely audibly over Shitty, Lardo, Ransom, and Holster chanting ‘Bittle, Bittle, Bittle.’ Eric motions up with his chin and Jack reaches up to cover Eric’s fingers with his own until the cup’s weight is split between them. 

By now word has spread and every camera in the arena is trained on them, but he tunes out the crowd, his teammates, the reporters, his friends, his parents and his in-laws, and he leans in to capture Jack’s lips.

It’s not their first kiss, but it might as well be.

#NHL!Bitty #zimbits #check please #omgcp #jack zimmermann #eric bittle #NHL Bitty #my stuff #part twelve #fic #guys this is like my favorite one so far #just so you know <3