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John, 

You’ve fallen asleep on your back, which means you are snoring. I haven’t yet prodded you to roll over, because your hand is on my knee, which is lovely. The Gob is asleep on your tummy, very charming for a goblin. You both look wonderfully peaceful. It’s enough to make me wish I could plug into your dreams somehow and meet you there. Funny how you’re here and somewhere else at once. Or perhaps you’re here and also nowhere. Either way, your hand is on my knee, and it’s lovely. 

Sherlock

~

John, 

It’s raining hard as anything, and you’re asleep on your side with only your bum touching me, and the Gob is down the bottom of the bed by my feet, and I’ve got to keep still or else she’ll bite my toes, but she’s like a rumbly little hot water bottle, so I don’t mind, and all I can think about is the absolutely luxurious bowl of porridge I’m going to make you in the morning. And perhaps a pot of cocoa. 

Sherlock

PS you might think this note needed more than 2 sentences, but I disagree

~

John, 

Last sleep to APPLE PICKING DAY!

Sherlock

~

John, 

I didn’t mean to be busy with that piece all day. I got a bit lost in it. Sorry. I really did mean to spend most of today with you, and I’m so annoyed with myself that I got distracted like that. Thank you for a lovely bedtime anyway. You’re always so patient with me. 

Sherlock 

___________

@tabby-quartz asked for ‘BBC SH or YMT, anything with naps or sleep schedules?’ Thank you so much for the prompt and for your patience while this little ficlet cooked!!

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“Some might suggest that this is in conflict with my dignity as a king,” said Thorin mildly, as Bilbo settled more comfortably on Thorin’s shoulders and held an imperious hand out for his apple basket. 

“I suppose some might,” Bilbo sniffed luxuriously and plucked a beautifully ripe apple from an overhead branch. “But then you might respond by asking if your dignity can bake those pies you so enjoy.” He tucked the apple primly into his basket. 

Thorin stroked Bilbo’s ankle, “I suppose it is too much to ask for dignity and pie.”

“I’d be happy to reverse our positions, if I could lift you, umral. Ooh I think I’ve just felt a drop. Did you feel that?” 

Thorin smiled at the endearment, “Mm, I felt nothing, but I have a very excellent umbrella.”

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“‘Pon my word, Watson!” said my friend Sherlock Holmes one drizzly September evening. I was stretched out in my chair with my feet at the fire and a novel splayed on my knee. Holmes scraped at his violin, not unpleasantly, “Just what is it about the nonsense I’ve been playing that has such a tremendous effect on you?”

“My dear Holmes?”

“You have undone your collar,” My friend turned to me with the air of a magician about to pull a stream of silk scarves out of my ear. 

I smiled, “I hope I am not indecent for the sitting room?”

“Forgiveably familiar, I’m sure,” my friend said with a twinkle. “More to the point.”

“Indeed?”

“Your pulse is exposed, Doctor. My playing seems to have quite the extraordinary effect on it.” 

“Your observation truly is minute,” said I with a lift of the eyebrow, though my smile did not lessen. 

Holmes perched himself on my knee, one arm about my neck, “How do you account for such a thing?” 

I rested one hand on his waist and put my chin onto his shoulder and rather thrilled when he rested his head against mine, “You wandered through that little thing of Tchaikovsky’s, and it made me think of our last outing to the Lyceum. We had that lovely box.” 

My friend flushed up prettily, “Ah. I might have known.” 

_______________

Moony @a-candle-for-sherlock asked for ACD Holmes ‘relief’ or ‘heartbeats’ and I wrote something kinda horny? I hope that is okay because it was a lot of fun!

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“How did you come to take an interest in such a large vegetable, umral?” Thorin smoothed the last handful of mulch with his trowel and sat back on his heels to wipe away a trickle of sweat from his brow.

“Oh there’s a little everyday glory to growing something bigger than yourself, isn’t there!” Bilbo offered Thorin his handkerchief, but held it out of reach til Thorin had tugged off his dirty gardening gloves. “And anyway, think of the food!” Bilbo shut his eyes rapturously and pressed one hand to his heart, “Pumpkin mash, roast pumpkin, pumpkin soup, pumpkin pudding, pumpkin cake, pumpkin pie, pumpkin pickles, pumpkin ale, pumpkin punch! Oh Thorin, pumpkin ice cream!” Bilbo was in such a state at the idea that he was compelled to brace himself against the pumpkin and sip from the glass of cordial he’d brought out for Thorin’s refreshment. 

“That is rather tremendous pressure on my appetite,” said Thorin, somewhat gravely as he was enjoying himself far more than would be advisable to let on. “Though I suppose the biggest is destined for the fair and some Sackville Baggins comeuppance?”

Bilbo wisely did not hear the last bit, “Oh my love, I have every faith in your appetite.” 

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“This is quite seriously cursed,” Lem, the tattoo artist looked up from the Dark Mark on Draco’s arm, their expression shadowed with concern. 

“Imagine my surprise,” drawled Draco, rubbing his right palm against the knee of his robes. 

“So you can’t do anything,” said Harry dully, his heart sinking. 

“I don’t say that,” Lem flashed him a little grin and bent over Draco’s arm again to stroke his Dark Mark with one finger. Draco flinched so hard that he nearly bolted out of the chair, and Lem drew back in alarm, “Whoa, you all right?”

“Perfectly,” said Draco, his tone icy. “If I could just ask you not to do that again.”

“Sorry, no offence intended. Hands to myself for the moment, then,” Lem drew back and tossed their head to flick their fringe out of their eyes. “Right, okay. So normally in the case of regrettable tattoos, I would use a little spell I invented to siphon off the ink. It’s something like Tergeo, quick and painless and does no damage to the skin. But in your case, if I tried that-”

“The curse would kill me,” said Draco flatly. “As much as I love to rehash that, perhaps you could tell us what you’d suggest instead.”

“Well, I can’t remove the tattoo, but I can make it look like something else altogether.”

“How do you mean ‘something else altogether’?” Draco stuffed his free hand into his pocket. 

“Well, I can colour it in so that the image doesn’t look quite so. Erm.”

“Evil,” supplied Harry. 

“Thank you, darling,” said Draco crisply. “You took the words right out of my mouth.”

“Er evil, yeah,” Lem looked between them rather nervously. “Well you might turn the skull into an apple and turn the snake green.”

Draco frowned, “What’s a snake got to do with an apple? Don’t they eat rats and things?” 

Harry smiled, “It’s to do with a muggle thing. I’ll explain later; it’s er. Rather a long story.” 

“Not that,” said Draco, turning back to Lem. “What else?”

“We might turn the skull into a planet, and then we can sort of make the snake look like comets orbiting it or like rings.”

“Mm,” Draco squinted at his arm. “That’s a bit better. Any other ideas?”

“We might also make it look like a wyvern or a dragon.”

Draco looked at Harry. 

Harry kissed his cheek, “It’s your arm.” 

“A dragon will do, though it’s. Painfully on the nose.” 

Lem laughed, “Oh right, because your name is Draco. I didn’t even think of that.” 

Draco was too busy thinking to say something rude, “Could you make it a dragon catching a Snitch?”

“Sure, of course. No problem. I’ve even got a new technique for gold. It looks brilliant; you’ll love it!” 

“Maybe you could give the Snitch swotty little round spectacles?”

Lem was already taking out parchment and a quill to sketch the design, “Absolutely, whatever you like.” 

Draco turned to Harry and stage-whispered to him behind his hand, “You’re the Snitch.”

Harry laughed, “Yeah, thanks. I got it.” And he kissed Draco again. 

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“Good night, you lot. I’m for bed,” announced Draco, rising from Grimmauld Place’s kitchen table and making for his bedroom. 

The rest of the company exchanged bemused looks. 

“It’s only half past eight, Fangs,” called Ginny. 

“Yes, well, I have things to do in the morning,” Draco did not look back as he passed through the doorway. 

“I’ll bite,” said Harry after a moment and followed him. 

Harry found Draco’s bedroom door locked when he reached it and tapped on it to no response but a whispered swear word and a little quick scrabbling. “Draco?” Harry tapped again. “It’s only me.” 

“I’m already sound asleep,” Draco called back, sounding half annoyed and half on the verge of laughter. 

“You don’t want your hot chocolate, then?” 

After a brief, deliberating pause, Draco muttered alohamora, and the door popped open. 

Harry entered the room and shut the door behind him. 

“Where’s my hot chocolate?” demanded Draco, who was sitting cross-legged in the middle of his fourposter bed. 

“I haven’t made it yet,” said Harry comfortably, taking a seat on the end of Draco’s bed, “Are you-” Harry paused, and looked around, frowning. He could hear that funny scrabbling sound again, despite the fact that Draco was sitting quietly on the bed, not doing anything to produce that sound. 

“Am I annoyed with you for your want of scruples? Yes, of course I am. Will that be all?” 

“Hey, shut up a moment, do you hear that?” 

“No,” said Draco loudly. “Do I hear what?”

“Like a little running sound?” Harry persisted. “Like. Dnno. Rats or pixies maybe? Is it coming from the walls?” 

“I don’t hear anything except you,” said Draco even louder. 

“Well, you’re-OUCH!” 

Something sharp and invisible had landed on Harry’s knee and then rushed past him with a sensation of soft hair and a sort of chirping sound. 

“Circe’s tits, Harry Potter, you’re going to give me heart failure with all your shouting!” 

“There’s something in the room!” Harry jumped to his feet in the middle of the bed and looked up at the hangings. “There might be more of them; I think they’re invisible! Go and get the others!”

“Relax, Harry. It’s nothing like that,” Draco slid off the bed into a crouch beside it and lifted the edge of the bedding where it brushed the floor. “Are you down there? Did bad old Harry Potter frighten you as well?”

“Draco!” Harry laughed despite his utter confusion, “What horrible creature have you found or sneaked into my house? Did Luna give it to you?”

Draco paused in the chirruping sounds he was making from halfway under the bed to blow a raspberry at Harry, then made a little aha! of triumph, “There you are, lovely! Want to come out?” He crawled backward out from under the bed, and emerged, with dust in his hair and something invisible clutched in his arms. 

“What on earth is that?” 

Draco performed the counter Charm for a Disillusionment spell, and suddenly his sharp, mysterious armful of nothing was a half-grown black cat with a dusting of golden fur and orange eyes, “Harry, I’d like to introduce you to November. November, this is the bane of my existence, Harry Potter.” 

Harry laughed and reached out to stroke the cat’s ears, “You’re always so fucking mysterious for no reason.”

“Or maybe you find everything I do intriguing for no reason.” 

“Maybe it’s both,” Harry agreed. “Why’re you hiding a cat in your bedroom?”

Draco answered all in a rush, petting the cat fiercely as he did, like she might be torn from his arms before he finished speaking, “I found her on my way home from bringing you lunch at the bookshop today. She was half frozen and half starved, and I couldn’t just leave her there to die in a skip, could I?” He glared at Harry, “I was only trying to come up with more convincing-”

“You don’t need to convince me,” Harry interrupted gently. “Of course you couldn’t leave her there to die in a skip. I didn’t know you liked cats.” 

“I’m not used to. Rescuing,” answered Draco a little stiffly. 

Harry nodded, and after a moment’s thought, he pulled out his wand and conjured a smallish basket lined with cushions, “Do you think she’d enjoy the kitchen hearth?” 

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“Oh please say you’ll come? If you won’t, then Harry won’t either, and it’ll be more fun if it’s not just Luna and me with Ron and Hermione. Sorry,” added Ginny as her Growlithe sent Draco’s Clefairy back into its Pokeball with one quick Fire Fang. 

“I’m used to your ruthlessness, Og,” said Draco graciously. “It’s hardly even humiliating anymore. And I didn’t say I won’t come, I only said I don’t see the point.”

“It’s lovely!” Ginny insisted. “We’ll bury each other in the sand and build sand castles and body surf and we can buy jewelry and such from the Mer village. And at night, we can have a bonfire and toast things and tell scary stories.”

“I do like to eat food off sharp sticks,” Draco conceded. 

“Plus Luna brings weed.” Ginny was briefly distracted by her Growlithe fainting, “Gah, fuck! Poor puppy! You’re so mean to him!”  

Draco laughed, “’S the point of the game, Oggie.” He did some date maths in his head and decided he’d be far enough away from the full moon that he could commit to the seaside, “All right, we’ll come.” 

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“Piss off,” laughed Sirius. “Deer are herbivores. Herb, Prongsy. Plants. They eat grass and fruits and stuff.” 

“I eat fruits,” said Remus, bouncing an eyebrow. Sirius scoffed and gave him a little shove, but Peter burst into sycophantic laughter. 

“Steady on, Wormtail,” said James impatiently. “And it’s absolutely true. Deer have been observed in the wild eating small animals, roadkill, and carrion.”

Sirius tossed his head, “What a load of shit, Prongs. Give it up; you’re fooling no one.”

“He’s having you on, my love,” put in Remus. 

“I’m not!” James insisted, half laughing. “I read it in a muggle wildlife magazine.” 

“Where’d you get hold of a muggle magazine?” asked Peter. 

James ignored him, “I reckon Prongs could hunt better than Padfoot.”

Sirius laughed incredulously, “All right then, care to bet on that?” 

“Absolutely,” James grabbed hold of Sirius’s hand and shook it rather aggressively. “Bet you a Galleon I can catch, kill, and eat an animal next full moon. Before you can, Padfoot,” he added. 

“Make it ten Galleons,” said Sirius carelessly. 

“Fifty Galleons,” suggested Remus. “A hundred.” 

“A thousand!” squeaked Peter. “A thousand Galleons!”

“Padfoot, I bet you the Potter family fortune.” 

“What do you get if you win?” asked Sirius. 

James considered, “You write my Transfiguration essays for the rest of term.”

“No bet,” said Sirius promptly. 

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“I might take you home, my dear?” Aziraphale offered in his most kid gloves of voices. 

“Eh?” Crowley grunted with effort after a beat. 

“Is it your head again?” asked Aziraphale in a nigh-reverent murmur, as if a migraine were some sort of religious experience. “I can take you home straight away, if it would help. I know your bedroom is lovely and dark.” 

Crowley carefully drew in several deep breaths, til he had mastered the urge to be sick at the very idea of sitting up or leaving the sofa, “Can’t move.” 

Aziraphale seemed to cotton on that more conversation would not help. He eased himself slowly out of his chair, as if the disturbance in the air when he stood would make Crowley’s head ache even worse. He flitted about the shop, stepping as quietly as a cat, and drew the shades and even the heavy air raid blackout curtains he’d never got around to taking down. He shut off the gramophone and even somehow stopped the clock ticking. 

When the shop was quite dark and nearly silent, Aziraphale returned to the sofa, leaned over Crowley, and whispered in a voice like a butterfly landing on a dandelion spore, “I’ve a cold compress for you, my dear.”

“Thanks.” 

Aziraphale pressed the compress gently to Crowley’s brow. It was deliciously cold, and it eased Crowley a little bit. Aziraphale’s cold compresses were always lovely. They didn’t drip, and they didn’t slip off, and they stayed cold for ages. 

Aziraphale’s cool fingertips slid lightly along Crowley’s jaw to draw back his hair, and Crowley felt the familiar electric shiver of one of Aziraphale’s miracles in his scalp. It didn’t banish the pain. 

“Doesn’t work, Angel,” Crowley reminded him. 

Aziraphale sighed a little sadly, “No,” he agreed. “Can’t think why a miracle shouldn’t work on a migraine. Perhaps I could just send you to sleep, then?”

“All right,” said Crowley. There was another little zing of Aziraphale’s magic, and Crowley sank peacefully into the soft and welcoming dark. 

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john, sherlock, and hudson are all hanging out on their rooftop rn  just chillin trying not to wake up hudson’s pigeons. hudson is standing far away from the pigeon loft and smoking a joint. john and sherlock are passing a bottle of wine back and forth between them, talking about how genius is a gendered term bc you never hear women called geniuses and hudson just keeps yelling YES from where they’re standing even tho they can’t hear much of what j&s are saying. 

john’s phone is sticking up out of her breast pocket and playing some not super audible beyonce, and when they’re tipsy enough, john will ask sherlock if she wants to dance. hudson will announce that they are snacky and go inside and make beans on toast and then forget they were hanging out w j&s and fall asleep on the sofa watching youtube videos on their phone. 

john and sherlock will hold each other and sway on the roof until they get too cold, then go inside and get ready for bed and then pop back out onto the widow’s walk because they couldn’t resist another shot at stargazing, even though it’s too bright and too overcast. they’ll hold hands and chat on the widow’s walk until they get too cold again. then they’ll go back into sherlock’s bedroom even tho her bed is smaller than john’s because that’s where the cat is. they’ll bother the gob until john falls asleep, and then sherlock will talk to both john and the goblin until she falls asleep too. 

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Okay. Picture this. Sherlock getting up in the middle of the night because Rosie needs feeding and watching some crap late night telly while he gives her a bottle and just. Giggling to himself. Because it feels good to be alive. He wants to live.

And the discrete moment when he realizes that he’s no longer indifferent to his own continued existence gives him an unprecedented euphoria. He’s going to live! He’s going to grow old with John and putter around the garden of some cottage out in the country. He’s going to dance at their daughter’s wedding. He’s going to dance at his own wedding! He gets to keep drawing breath. And he goes from laughing to crying because he wasn’t sure he’d get back to that place for a long, long time. It feels almost like new ground. He’s going to live.

He takes Rosie back to the bedroom with him and crawls into bed next to John. John looks at him kind of blearily, because he’d been asleep and he asks Sherlock if anything is the matter. Sherlock draws a big breath and pauses, trying to put it into words. After a moment, he shrugs and kisses John instead. No, he tells John. Nothing wrong. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. We have all the time in the world.

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“HIS EYES ARE AS GREEN AS A-”

“Draco!” Harry trailed after his drunkenly prancing boyfriend out of the pub down the pavement toward their flat, feeling rather as if all his laughter was sending mixed messages. Being rather tipsy and giddy himself, he also felt there was not much he could do about that, “Draco, shh you’ll wake the-”

Draco tossed his wave of sleek, blonde hair, “Don’t you shhh me Ha Harold Harrison Ha Ha? What’s your proper name, Potter?”

“It’s just Harry,” Harry tugged at Draco’s arm. “Keep your-”

“Pff! Piffling! Too short! Don’t you shush me, Harratio Jameson Potter III! If I want to sing about your stupid beautiful eyes and any other perfect part of your stupid body, I fucking well will! Wake up the universe!” He turned a cartwheel, nearly crashing into Harry as he rose from it, “Reductor! Harry Potter is beautiful, and I’m going to shag him!” The spell had no effect of course, Draco being wandless, but Harry had to grab the tail of Draco’s coat to stop him staggering out into the road.

“Draco, the CAB, you idiot!”

Draco twirled himself into his coat like a dog tangling itself in a leash and threw his arms round Harry’s neck, kicking his heels up behind him, “What are you shouting about Potter? You’re always making a scene.”

Harry steadied Draco with a hand on his waist, “Just saving your life again. You nearly got flattened, just now. Didn’t you even notice?”

“Saint Potter,” Draco said almost tenderly, leaning in to kiss Harry.

Harry smiled and slipped his hand round to the small of Draco’s back, “You feeling nostalgic, Malfoy?”

Draco seemed to quickly accept that it was time for pavement ballroom dancing and rested one hand on Harry’s shoulder, then caught his free hand, turning them in a little circle as he answered, “We need music for this, don’t we, Harry? Should I sing again?” But instead of singing, he patted Harry’s pockets, til he found his phone and started up some music. “I know you don’t actually like that song, do you?”

Harry laughed, “I like it more now than I used to.”

“Well I’ve written loads of poetry about you, Harry. Loads. We’ll find something better.”

Harry could feel his ears going rather warm, “Is that a joke? I can’t ever tell with you.”

“Are you hinting that you’d like to hear some? Nothing else from second year. It’s all limericks or self-loathing. Have you ever seen a self-loathing limerick? I don’t recommend it, though the form does lend itself rather well to a flip darkness. Fifth year, I discovered sonnets; there’s probably something salvageable in there, if you don’t mind excruciating sincerity.” Draco raised his head from Harry’s shoulder to look into his face, “Do you know about sonnets?”

Harry frowned, thinking, “Sonnets? Errr, Shakespeare?”

“Mm,” Draco lowered his head to Harry’s shoulder again, “Yeah, Shakespeare. Some of our lot are so stupid and narrow-minded; you can hardly talk to them about anything. Shakespeare. Nor dare I question with my jealous thought where you may be, or your affairs suppose. Shakespeare. He was one of us, you know.”

Harry laughed and stroked Draco’s hair where it fell into his collar, “What, you think Shakespeare was a wizard?”

“No!” Draco’s head snapped up so quickly, he nearly caught Harry in the mouth, “Not a wizard, Potter! Gay!”

“Ahhhh,” Harry kissed Draco through his grin, “That makes more sense.”

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Laurent picked up his pace a bit so that he was nearly at a trot. It was early yet to be running. Generally they made it all the way through a morning without running, and it wasn’t nearly lunchtime yet. But he’d passed quite close by Damen, and Damen’s head had snapped up with an eager attention that set a little thrill of excitement skipping in Laurent’s middle. He hurried down the passage to a practice room, conscious of Damen’s footfall several paces behind him. Almost, but not quite casual. 

Laurent took a corner at a jog and ran into the practice room, trying to shut the door quietly. Damen had to know where he was going, but the game was most fun when they did the thing properly. He just had time to crouch behind a suit of armor, his lower lip between his teeth against the laughter that threatened to burst out of him before the door opened. 

Damen entered the room, and Laurent couldn’t help peeping out to watch him. Damen stood in the center of the room and gazed around him, his hands on his hips, his chest puffed out slightly. He was wearing Laurent’s favorite smirk. 

Damen said, “I’m faster than I look, aren’t I?” 

Laurent couldn’t smother his giggle, “That’s not saying much.”

Damen caught his eye and began to approach, slowly like a cat about to pounce, “Then why are you hiding, instead of running?”

Laurent scampered sideways and tried to dart behind Damen, who wheeled toward him and followed. Laurent ran around the edges of the room, weaving in and out of the equipment along the walls. Damen nearly caught him once, and Laurent had to spin away, his hair flying out around him, laughing giddily when the edge of his chiton tore away in Damen’s hand. 

Damen changed his tactic then and ran in a tighter circle to head Laurent off. Laurent found his way blocked and blocked again, so with a shrug, he charged Damen, hoping to duck at the last moment, and slide under his outstretched arms. 

Damen had known and loved Laurent long enough to know a feint when he saw one. He dropped to one knee as Laurent did, catching him round the waist and throwing him smoothly over one shoulder. Laurent let out a little scream of joy as he rose. He couldn’t help kicking a bit, his torn chiton flying up when he did. 

Damen bounced up and spun in place, holding Laurent tightly around the waist and laughing delightedly, “I caught you, Laurent!” 

“You caught me, Damianos!” Laurent kissed all of Damen that he could reach. His arm, his hand, the back of his neck, the join of his enormous shoulders. “I hope you know what to do with me now you have me.” 

Damen patted Laurent’s backside over his rumpled chiton, “Oh believe me, I do.” 

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“Wake up, Laurent; this is important.”

“Mmm? Damen? What is it? Are you all right?”

“Is it all right to ride horses?”

“I beg your pardon? I do not think I could have heard you correctly.”

“Is it all right for us to ride horses? Is it all right with the horses?”

“Is it all right with the horses that we ride them?”

“That’s the question.”

“Yes, I believe so, Damianos.”

“Are you sure? I don’t think we should be riding them, unless we’re sure.”

“Your horse loves you, Damen.”

“He does seem to.”

“I’m sure of it.”

“Thank you, Laurent. Good night.”

“Good night, Damianos.”

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Damen sighed, shifted, punched the pillow under his cheek. 

Beside him in the dark Laurent also sighed. “It won’t make you go blind, you know,” he said in his clear soft voice. 

“Oh, you’re awake,” Damen whispered. 

“Apparently. Which negates any need to whisper, doesn’t it?”

Damen grunted mingled annoyance, amusement, and affection, “Go back to sleep, Laurent.” 

There was a moment’s silence in which neither of them went back to sleep, “You won’t grow hair on your palms either.” 

“What?” said Damen. 

“Touching yourself. Or are there different repressive myths in Akielos? Anyway. Go ahead and masturbate, Damen.”

“I know I won’t-. I didn’t want to disturb you.” 

“So you’re bouncing around my bed like a rubber ball instead,” Laurent’s voice was amused. The bedding whispered as he shifted closer and laid his head on Damen’s shoulder. 

Damen laid his head on top of Laurent’s. “I wouldn’t do that next to you without giving you the opportunity to decide you’d rather I didn’t,” he said quietly. “I would never have you wake up to something you had not agreed to.” 

Laurent swallowed and blinked hard, “Oh.” Damen kissed Laurent’s hair, and they were silent for many moments. Laurent found Damen’s hand in the bedding and pressed it between both of his. “Thank you for the consideration.” 

Damen curled his huge fingers between Laurent’s slimmer ones, “No less than anyone is owed, my love.” 

Laurent curled even closer to Damen, “I don’t mind, if you want to. I know it will help you sleep.”

Damen wrapped in arm around Laurent, “I’d rather talk to you just now. Since you’re awake. Just as relaxing.” 

Laurent snorted in surprise, “I’m relaxing? Truly I  have never been accused of that before, Damianos.”

“Well,” said Damen, smug. “You’re in love with me.” Laurent found the only reply he could make was to grin and grin into Damen’s shoulder. 

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9, lamen <3

9) things you said when I was crying

The fever had been on Laurent for two days. His eyes were glassy, and his hair stuck to his neck, straggled in his flushed face. Paschal had seen him and declared that he would likely recover from the infection if he could outlive the fever. If. The word stuck in Damen’s throat like a jagged stone. 

Laurent would have no one but Damen to nurse him. Damen wrapped him in chilled cloths, administered the draughts Paschal mixed, changed his sweaty bedding, and coaxed him to eat, one mouthful of broth at a time.  

Laurent woke in a candlelit haze (early morning or early evening, it was difficult to say) to find Damen weeping over his hand. Laurent raised his hand and cupped Damen’s jaw. Damen started, sighed, wiped his face covertly on the bed clothes. 

Laurent said, “I’m not going to die.” Damen nodded, his head still lowered. “I don’t think you believe me, Damianos. I’m not going to die. All that time before I met you, I never did. And this is a much better preservative than spite.” 

“What is?” Damen rasped, raising his face at last. 

“This,” Laurent stroked Damen’s cheek. Brushed away tears with his hot hand. 

“Then you will live forever.” 

“I think I shall,” Laurent answered, as if accepting a glass of wine. “If you will.”

Damen pressed Laurent’s hand, kissed it, “You have a bargain.” 

Damen woke some time later to find Laurent leaning on one elbow and looking down into his face. 

Laurent said, “Tell me you didn’t hear me singing.” 

Damen couldn’t help grinning, “If I say I didn’t, will you do it again?”

“You ought to be entertaining me. This is my sickbed, you usurping barbarian.” 

Damen laughed and pressed his palm to Laurent’s cheek. Cool and dry. “I know you must be feeling better, when you get romantic like that.” 

“I can muster all kinds of pet epithets for you, Damen. But yes. Much improved.” Damen sighed and opened his mouth to answer, but his eyes pricked and ran, and he could not. Laurent leaned in and kissed his tears as they fell. “All right,” he said. “Don’t cry, Damianos. I’ll sing.” 

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18, lamen <3

18) things you said when you were scared

“It’s only a scorpion,” Laurent narrows his eyes and raises the boot, advancing slowly so as not to frighten the thing back under the rug it crawled out of. 

From the exact center of the bed, Damen says, “I know what it is,” and draws his knees up tighter to his chest, hugging them. 

“Isn’t dealing with the beasts meant to be your territory? You grew up here,” Laurent punctuates this speech by bringing the boot down on the scorpion with a wet, smacking crunch. 

“My hero!” Damen calls, bouncing in place on the bed. 

“Oh?” Laurent tosses the boot aside and turns toward Damen, beckoning. “Come and lay on my victory laurels.” 

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Lid, write about Laurent having a nightmare and Damen comforting him after ;_;

It’s the shaking that always wakes Damen. Laurent doesn’t scream or groan or weep when the nightmares find him, but he trembles in his sleep like a leaf in a high wind. It brings Damen out of even the soundest sleep every time. At least Damen devoutly hopes it is every time. 

The first time it happened, Damen gathered his love to him and kissed him tenderly. This gesture was answered with a strangled cry and a struggle that bloodied Damen’s nose and split his lip. Laurent, mortified and still trembling, had removed silently to the floor and sat the rest of the night, his back to the wall, his jaw tight. 

Damen doesn’t try to sweeten Laurent’s dreams with touch anymore. Instead he talks to him. Soft, sweet little nothings. Hopes about their breakfast the next morning. Plans for their day. Endearments. Jokes. Snatches of poetry. Whatever comes to mind. And it works. Laurent’s fists in the bedding slacken. His breathing eases. His brow smooths. Even in sleep, he follows his beloved out of the darkness and into the light. 

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ficlet prompt: femlock. someone has a nightmare. cuddles.

There it is again. A wet, furtive snuffling. Familiar and unfamiliar (John doesn’t do this)(everybody does this)(John is human, isn’t she?). 

“John?” 

John freezes, then I feel rather than hear her sigh, “Put the light on, will you?” Her voice is muffled by the bedclothes and thick with shed and swallowed tears. I obey at once, then squint against the sting in my eyes at the sudden dazzle. Blink until I can see properly. 

John is swaddled in our bedding so that only the top of her hair is visible. Even so I can see the hunch of her shoulders, and I fancy I can feel the tightness of her neck. I reach out and stroke the golden wisps of hair on her pillow (same colour as the lamp light)(she’d like that, though she’d pretend she wouldn’t)(must tell it to her)(later).

“John?” John leans the smallest bit back into my hand as the only indication she’s heard me. I stroke her hair, and she sighs again. “Bad dream?” I offer quietly. 

John clears her throat, “Yeah.” Her face is still muffled in the pillow. “I could still see it.” She lifts her head a bit and presses her hot damp cheek to my fingers. “I dream that I don’t find you in time.” She shivers. The stiff pink scar on my torso tingles in sympathetic horror. 

I draw very close to John and kiss what of her I can reach. Her hair, her ear, the back of her neck, “You did find me in time John.” So many times. John shivers again. “Look at me, John,” comes out almost sharp. I bite my tongue, but John turns slowly toward me, and we reach for each other in unison. I kiss John, then let her pull me to her chest and tuck my head under her chin. She strokes my back. I rub her side and listen to her heart rate slow. “It’s over now, John,” I say after a bit. “We’re safe.”

At first think she won’t answer. But she does, “We beat him.”

“We beat him,” I agree. “We’re safe.”

“We’re safe,” John’s arms tighten round me. Her heart rate is nearly normal now. I find her hand in the bedclothes to clasp it and squeeze her fingers one by one. She squeezes back. “You can sleep on me, if you want to, baby,” John murmurs drowsily after her chest has risen and fallen under my cheek many times. 

I kiss her chest, then her hand, “When you do.”

John toys with my fingers, kisses my hair, “Maybe we can go together.” 

John’s sleepiness is a lullaby, “Mmm,” I agree. 

And then, I think, in another moment or so, we do. 

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