#r.writing

[1644s]

masterlist

minors/ageless/blank blogs DNI

Charles Leclerc ↳ One Shots

ruination: Royalty and greed go hand in hand. Prince Charles is no exception to this rule. And if he must ruin you to have you, then so be it.

Lando Norris ↳ One Shots

trust me I've got nothing for you other than love: Your marriage vows are til death do you part but Lando sees no harm in ensuring your forever is, well, forever.

#masterlist #my writing #r.writing

[gerrydelano]

Seventh Installment of the Pharos By Right series

Title: HOUSEFIRE Rating: M Chapters: 6 / 7 Words: 13.7k Characters: Gerry Keay, Jon Sims, Martin Blackwood, Sasha James, Melanie King, Tim Stoker, Mike Crew, Georgie Barker, Mikaele Salesa, Annabelle Cane, Danny Stoker (mentioned), Jonah Magnus (mentioned)

Relationships: Gerry/Tim, Martin/Danny, Sasha/Melanie/Georgie, Jon & Martin, Gerry & Mike, "Gerry" & "Annabelle"

Additional Tags: Archivist!Gerry, Canon Divergence, Mostly Morbid Humor, Angst, DID/EDS/POTS Gerry, HoH Tim, Cane User/Monocular Vision/Autistic Jon, Autistic/BPD Martin, End!Tim, Stranger!Danny, Corruption!Sasha, The Eye, The Corruption, The Dark, The End, The Vast, The Web, Non-Canonical Character Undeath, Canon-Typical Apocalypse, Canon-Typical Smiting, Suicidal Intent

Chapter Summary:

“…Hello?” “Ah! Is this Jon?” comes the voice on the other end. “Just the person I was looking to speak with.” Jon’s brow sinks. “Who is this?” The voice giggles. “Tell me your name and I’ll tell you mine.” “…You guessed it, it’s Jon.” Martin makes a disbelieving noise, and so Jon smacks him. “Now who are you?”

Or: A long walk through a Changed world, and then — solace.

#archivist gerry #gerry keay #gerard keay #jon sims #martin blackwood #sasha james #melanie king #tim stoker #danny stoker #georgie barker #mikaele salesa #annabelle cane #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #magpod #tma #r.writes #pharos my baby my beloved bastard i am so fucking sorry

[takahiiros]

hanamaki takahiro x reader

a whisper escapes your lips.

"did you know that your freckles are where your lover kissed you the most in your past life?"

the moon shines dimly through the windows of your shared apartment. its light favoring takahiro, blessing you with the image of his back; the smooth surface covered in fresh, red marks, and his freckles that you trace every so often.

"hm?" he replies groggily, head smushed onto his pillow, his eyes struggling to stay open and strawberry blond hair sticking onto his skin.

knowing that he's exhausted and keeping him awake is the last thing you want to do, you settle for silence and continue to admire him. light specks lay gently on the bridge of his nose and his soft lips parted. you brush through his hair and kiss his shoulder lightly.

another freckle.

you admit you stare at hiro a lot and you do this shamelessly – enough to remember and to pin point the freckles on his body. it's scattered all over his back, the constellation travels all the way up to his neck. however this one is one you've never seen before. maybe it's just a coincidence.

it would be stupid to think that you've caused this but you don't completely brush the thought away. your heart tingles at concept of soulmates, especially with hiro.

takahiro who is easy to love and undoubtedly lame. takahiro, a man who has worked ambitiously hard to get to where he's at, slowly but surely. takahiro, a man that prefers his solitude but decides to share his sacred space with you, and make room for your love in his life. takahiro whom you've learned to love despite his flaws

and maybe these freckles, a constellation of sorts, a gift from a past and now present lover, will continue to grow.

his body serving as a galaxy for you to paint his world with stars, a token of your love for him.

#hanamaki x reader #haikyuu x reader #makki x reader #haikyuu imagines #hq x reader #r.writes

[linonyang]

FLUTTERING CONFESSIONS.

pairings: crystal fairy prince!jeongin and butterfly fairy librarian!gn reader

genre: fluff, fantasy, fairy au, barbie: mariposa and the fairy princess au

warnings: short lowkey suggestive content (they had a kissing moment please)

word count: 5.2k words

synopsis: it took you both too long to confess, and maybe things moved quicker when you two realized you should be expressing what your heart desires already.

tag list: @awooghan @cosmic-railwayxo ​​ @xiaoderrrr​ @hwangsify

note: hey! another wip that i got to finish already!!! just a little warning, things do get a little faster at the latter portion of the fic. the first part really was my unfinished part (that i wrote... last year) and it’s kinda long, so i just tried to continue it! i hope it’s still good tho :D enjoy!​​

© linonyang - all rights reserved. please do not copy, translate, modify, repost, or claim as yours.

Supposedly taking you around Shimmervale again, Jeongin got distracted and ended up hanging out with you in your little getaway in the little library newly changed in your room.

“Mother will lecture me at dinner if I don’t walk you around the kingdom again,” he grumbles, free-falling onto your bed with his eyes closed.

Jeongin hears you answer his complaint with the sound of flipping pages, wonderfully engaging to a book you haven’t read yet back in Flutterfield. “You mean fly, your highness? I am very familiar with Shimmervale already, Jeongin. It’s not a requirement that you have to tour me around if I went here tons of times already.”

And that is his problem.

The queen always tells Jeongin to tour a guest around Shimmervale as a respectful form of welcoming them. It’s simpler compared to coping around at tea parties, but it’s something that he has to do out of respect. It would be rude to leave guests unaware of where they’re going.

“I told you, Mother’s going to lecture me if we tell her we didn’t go around Shimmervale.” Jeongin stares at the ceiling, admiring the decorations and lighting hanging around.

I didn’t know the lights here were that big for a small room!

Humming, he sits back up on your bed, poking your shoulder. “I can let you stay near the Heartstone again and call it a day if you don’t want to go around for the nth time.” 

The royal family adored you right when you became a great friend of Jeongin. When you two were young, the royal family of Shimmervale visited Flutterfield for a gathering with your kingdom’s queen.

A ball began, and both citizens of Flutterfield and Shimmervale attended. When you flew there with no knowledge of the people you’d encounter—especially your parents, who did not even say who were the special guests of the ball—you didn’t know you’d befriend the prince of Shimmervale. 

Every other kid who knew the privilege Jeongin held made them avoid him. The fact that he was a prince while they were commoners of their kingdom intimidated them. He felt left out, knowing that being in such a high position would always be a barrier to being a fairy like the rest of you. Meanwhile, you, who’s still learning about life and the world of fairies, shamelessly communicated with him and made him comfortable as a guest.

His parents discovered you are part of a family of marvelous professionals fairies could ever get, such as researchers, scientists, and historians. Hence, they found fascination with how you’ll perform once you grow a little older. 

And they did not look down at you even once — you became an intelligent young fairy who worked at the royal library of Flutterfield during your free time. They knew you’d be as great as your family.

Thus, they thought they should bring you to Shimmervale and join Jeongin in learning. After all, you two joined at the hip — it would be best to have two great fairies in the making to study and extend your education together.

Now that the two of you graduated. You visit Shimmervale occasionally, during your short breaks, as a holiday from working in the royal library once again.

Dropping your book to your side and glancing at Jeongin, an idea came into your mind. “How about we go around Shimmervale to look at the Heartstone and the crystallites above homes?”

The source of heat and energy for the people of Shimmervale doesn’t exist in Flutterfield. Those crystals have been a long interest of yours since your first visit to the kingdom when you were young. Jeongin once picked up some tiny bits of it and willingly gave it to you as remembrance, especially since he assumed you’d never come back‌. You tried to study these glowing gems and showed them to your relatives, who took the same interest in those as you.

Until this day, with hundreds of papers and books about these crystallites for everybody to read, you still think these crystals are so special. Imagine Shimmervale without the crystallites — they’d be nothing without those. Gemstones that might be useless to others are an essential piece in this kingdom.

To Jeongin, the crystals are nothing. He learned about the importance of crystallites and assumed they wouldn’t run out of them soon for a long time already. They had an abundance of it hiding behind the GlowWater Falls.

For the past years of visiting Shimmervale, you only crossed the waterfalls, obviously oblivious to the beauty there.

Jeongin hums and nods, still considering your suggestion for the tour. 

You sense hesitation behind your best friend’s eyes, noticing the subtle knit of his eyebrows and the pout of his lips. There’s something he wants to include.

Before you speak up about your small concern, Jeongin finally blurts out the question that has been running through his head. “Have you gone inside GlowWater Falls? How about we go there instead of going around the crystallites above the houses like last time?”

Pressing your lips together, you answer, “No. I know the crystals are in there, though. But are you really bringing me there?” You push Jeongin back down to your bed delicately, lying beside him. You lift his soft hands into the air, mindlessly playing with his fingers. You softly continue, “I didn’t bother getting in there because I might invade a space I shouldn’t be stepping in. So, no, Jeongin. I haven’t gone inside there.”

Well, isn’t it an excellent day for Jeongin? He finally gets to show you something new to you. He knows you’re tired of flying around Shimmervale like him. You two just do the regular touring to catch up on each other's businesses.

“How about I finally show you what’s in there?” He moves his head to the side, finding your face beside him. This intimacy has been natural, so being close like this has been a regular sight for some. 

Although, Jeongin tends to hold in the erupting butterflies in his stomach. He knows you’re an absolute sweetheart on a typical day, but he can’t help but feel something for you.

Funny to say, his parents aren’t even unaware of the blushes and uncontrolled smiles on his face every visit of yours. They had long known for his admiration for you whenever he couldn’t shut up about you when you were gone.

Should he confess later, then? The king and queen believe there is a long delay in his confession, and he should do something about it. The simple thought of his parents supporting him in pursuing a relationship with a special commoner of another kingdom already reassures him that things will be fine. 

Then, he will do it any time during the tour.

Or within your stay in the next few days? He’s so not sure about this.

He’ll just wing it later.

Jeongin calls out your name and ties his hand with yours, lightly shaking your hands together. He opposes your sentiment. “Going into the GlowWater Falls isn’t an invasion of privacy, by the way. Anybody can visit there!”

Your friend is trying to convince you so hard. Jeongin knows you have stepped into every place in Shimmervale except GlowWater Falls, which was weird for him.

It’s technically an attraction. Why haven’t you tried to visit there?

Your laughter fills the air, pulling his hand to your chest. You forgot for a second that Jeongin here is persuading you for an addition to the tour. His voice has given you so much comfort until the point you’d love to hear it all day without comprehending what he says. 

“As I said earlier, I know it’s a personal place for you. I don’t want to invade GlowWater Falls because I know it’s like an escape of yours.”

Oh, right, he mentioned that before.

A small surge of panic moves through Jeongin. What excuse would he say about that? The only reason the GlowWater Falls was very personal is that it also reminded him of you whenever you were away.

He’ll just mention that later on.

“Don’t worry about it! It’s a comfort place of mine. I think you deserve to see what’s inside an important space like that,” Jeongin sighs out of relief. “You are my best friend, after all. You should know why it is significant to Shimmervale and me. You did your best in learning everything about the kingdom already; it’s time that you get to see a special place with your own eyes.”

Your mouth fell open. Your best friend returning the favor with that big surprise stunned you. For your past visits, Jeongin always mentioned that he stays in GlowWater Falls in exchange for the loneliness he felt growing up. He usually feels that, so you thought it was a big deal. Stepping into a place of absolute comfort could feel like stepping into private property. It’s like diving deep into his secrets.

“If that’s what you want without feeling intruded on, okay then,” you nod, giving Jeongin a half smile. 

Jeongin moves even closer to you, your body touching his. He removes one of his hands from yours and lifts it to move some hair away from your face. Winking, he tells you, “You’ll have a great time. I’m very excited.”

You take in the sight of his face as he pats your head. “You were so serious every time you talked about GlowWater Falls, and then you’re joyous about it now. What has gone into your head?” you softly asked. Studying his face, you notice that he’s beaming with the corners of his mouth turned up and his eyes sparkling. He must be that excited.

Jeongin hums, returning his back to your bed. “I don’t know. Maybe I just have a good feeling of being more honest with you.”

Speaking of being honest, you forgot to give something to your friend.

A flutter flower.

You promised to give him another flutter flower. It would remind him of you while you’re gone. It all started when you gave him one on your first visit, and Jeongin impulsively gave you those tiny crystals because he loved the flutter flower and wanted to give something in return. After that, you gave him a flutter flower just to see him happy and amused. 

Hell, you even brought him references about flutter flowers so he could study them if he wanted. Give him another flower so he can feel your friendship's magic. You liked it to sign that your company is as powerful as that plant. You’ll always be there for him.

Pushing yourself up from your bed with your elbows, you search for your bag with the flutter flower, rapidly eyeing every corner of the room with anxious eyes. You sigh under your breath when you see the bag untouched and closed on your table.

Jeongin immediately senses the tension around your body, sitting up to check up on you. “You okay?”

You look at him wide-eyed, answering his question, “Yes, I’m fine. I thought I left one of my bags in Flutterfield.” Thank the heavens for being able to cover up your actual worry immediately. 

Before Jeongin asks more about that bag, you reach for his hand. When you pull him up from your bed, he squeaks, surprised by the sudden movement. “Be gentle! You don’t want to get exiled for accidentally stretching a muscle!”

“I will not get exiled, Jeongin. Your parents have exiled nobody for a few years now!” You laugh, pulling him along as you fly around your room to grab your needs for your tour around Shimmervale. 

Never forget your bag with that flutter flower!

“Oh, they’re going to do it for the first time in a while if something goes wrong,” Jeongin grumbles, feeling that slight sting on his arm from your hand. “But they love you very much, so you might be an exception if ever they’re going to — hey, _____!”

Jeongin groans as you drag him downwards to grab your shoes, your wings slightly hitting him. You chuckle, letting him go. “Alright, Jeongin. Let’s just get this over with.” You glance at him with a smile, tying the ribbons of your shoe around your calves.

“We’re leaving already?” Jeongin exclaims, moving lower to put his head around your head level. He flips around, seeing your head down as you tie the ribbon with pure focus.

You see him while you’re lying in the air, and you answer him. “Well, yeah. We have a long way to go on the tour, right? The whole kingdom and the GlowWater Falls?”

“You said a few minutes ago that you’re too lazy to leave?” Jeongin flaps his arms in the air out of exaggeration. “You said you wanted to stay here and read some books from the small library?”

On your last visit, you didn’t have a library in your room. The room reserved for you only looked utterly different until the royal staff applied the redesign to your liking. To your surprise, Jeongin was embarrassed to ask you about your preferences. He felt he was doing too much for you, mainly because he wanted you to feel at home in Shimmervale. But when he raised the suggestion to the king and queen, they were nice enough to follow Jeongin. They understood his intentions, which added to their never-ending proof that he’s absolutely in love with you.

Oh, he emphasized the library to the royal staff. He knows you’d feel suffocated with no book with you at all.

Thankfully, you arrived here last night with much satisfaction, giving Jeongin a tight hug and a quick kiss on the cheek, which the royal guards and his parents caught right at your door. 

You shrug your shoulders right after you finish tying your shoe. “Eh, I’ll do that tonight and for the next few days. I think it’d be better to finish the tour as early as now. It’s still noon, anyway.”

Well, you have a point. 

As payback, Jeongin playfully grabs your arm and pulls you out of your room to the palace's doors.

The hallways of the royal palace echoed with your shouts of protest, unable to catch up with the speed of the crystal fairy. You completely forgot that Jeongin is skillful with flying, perfect enough to fly quickly into obstacles and traps. Even with ups and downs, twists and turns around the palace, Jeongin has been flying around accurately. You wonder if he’s that skilled in flying or familiar with the enormous palace.

Unfortunately, rapidly flying around the palace means less time to admire the decor. The royal palace of Shimmervale is one of the most beautiful architectures you’ve seen. Walls painted with pleasing shades of pink and purple, windows of large sizes and abstract exteriors with natural light shining down on you — you might’ve thought you’re in an upgraded version of heaven.

“Can’t we slow down, your highness?” You grunted, almost avoiding one vase sitting on a table. Your butterfly wings cannot follow along, as it nearly hits one of the family paintings in the same hallway. “You know you can’t trust me with flight!”

“Coming from somebody who normally flies? And tortured me the same way earlier? I don’t think so,” Jeongin laughs, holding your hand tighter than before. “We’re almost there! We’re going for the quicker option, taking sharp turns around shortcuts and flying fast!” 

Jeongin screams out of joy, loving the feeling of the wind moving past him and his wings. He is amused at how you’re still keeping up with him. You’ve been at the edge of surviving this trip. He glanced at your face: eyes squeezed shut and jaw clenched.

He concerningly sighs and slows down his pace, now holding you softly. “Sorry about that,” he says, pulling you down with him on the ground and hearing you stop him repeatedly from apologizing. “We’re out of the palace now, anyway. We can fly up there and hang out for a bit?”

Your head follows the direction of his hand — pointing to the Heartstone sitting on top of a tower nearby. The narrow building is taller than the royal palace, showing the Heartstone to Shimmervale. Even far from the tower, you see the greatest crystal of the land shining against the sun.

Delighted, you nodded and flew first to the tower, gripping your bag’s strap tight. The prince follows behind, his hands around his squinted eyes to see a more clear view against the sun. The sun is shining at this hour, making Jeongin hiss at the contact with the damaging sun rays before him.

Begrudgingly stepping into the highest and only floor of the tower, Jeongin holds on to the pole beside him. Pressing his lips together, he says, “That took me a little while, and I forgot how hot it is when the sun’s up.”

“You obviously don’t go out as a child, Jeongin.” You sit down on the steps towards the Heartstone. In awe, you look behind and scowl once the brightness of the crystal hits your eyes. “And you’re probably more used to seeing crystals than the sun.”

Jeongin puffs and stomps on his way to the space beside you to move your head away from the blinding stone. “Hey, I have gone outside lots of times already. Excuse me!”

The pout on his face made you chuckle. That is one of the most common signs that he got affected by your teasing. “I’m just joking, your highness. Sit down here with me, will you?” you asked, softly patting the cold tile on your side.

“Yeah, sure,” Jeongin grumbles, rolling his eyes. “Seems like you’re the royal here. I cannot believe I’ve been doing the grandest stuff for you for years.”

He’s too late to deny it. What else has he done aside from the room renovation and the touring that made him think he’s so in love with you? So much, so much that it is so hard to count with his own hands.

Yes, his parents were right. He’s that crazy.

Jeongin laughs at himself. It’s too late to turn back, and he has to release the feeling today. He could’ve sworn that he’ll keep it in for the rest of his life.

“Why are you laughing out of the blue? You finally realized how much you’ve done for me?”

Hold on, do you know about his feelings?

You probably do.

Cursing multiple times in his head, he immediately makes up an excuse for your question, “I guess so, but isn’t that part of my role as a host?”

You tilt your head and furrow your brows. “Do all hosts hang around the guest’s room every night?”

Ever since, Jeongin consistently sneaked into your room, seeing you in any area with a book in your hands. Frankly, he grew more comfortable in your room than in his own. He had the time of his life every night in your place. Pillow fights, movie marathons, book readings and discussions, and helping each other in academics — he felt like he did so much as a friend in a few months than years of existing as a royal. Spending time with you was always a precious time of his. He’d never trade it for anything else in this world.

Even rejection. The prince is too sensitive to that.

It is comical to see Jeongin as either this ray of sunshine or a cold winter — something that will depend on his mood. Whenever he’s around you, he’s a mess. He could get as soft and sweet as a marshmallow on his favorite ice cream or flustered and red as apples freshly picked from a tree. 

“Uh…” he dragged his voice, thinking of an answer. “Not all, but there are some.”

“Like you then?” you ask. “You know, it’s not a lie that you did so much for me.”

Should he insert his confession now while there’s a touching moment between them?

No, he can’t do it yet.

“That’s because you’re also my best friend, _____.” Well, that’s a great excuse, Jeongin. He huffs before continuing. “And I’d do everything for my one and only best friend.” He gets back up and sends you a warm smile.

You feel your cheeks heating from the sweet words of Jeongin. You always thought your friend was rather timid and rational, but he gets quite romantic and idealistic — especially when it’s about you.

A confession as platonic as this makes your mind wonder because of the possibility of it having romantic undertones. It makes you question whether that commitment will stay forever with the state of being friends — or significant others if things will change — which makes you slightly more determined to confess this overflowing love you feel for him.

“I’d do the same for you, Jeongin.” You reach for his hand and move your finger in circles on his palm. “I’m willing to do that again and again.”

The two of you didn’t take that long staying near the Heartstone. Jeongin was slightly overheating today — considerably, the weather was warmer than usual. Maybe Jeongin’s complaint over the scorching heat was more valid than you thought.

You two went straight to GlowWater Falls. It took you both a while because many commoners were greeting the prince on your way. Some even did the same to you. Those commoners have seen you with Jeongin throughout the years — “Are you two together?” as the usual conversation starter, making your heart beat faster.

The prince heard this question behind your back. It made him snicker several times. There was this rush of confidence when fairies finally noticed his affection for you through your frequent visits and tours around Shimmervale City. Not that he implied he does like you to that one kid who asked him the same question, but it satisfied him enough that citizens have noticed his growing care for you. He’d love to let the people know he’s in love with a butterfly fairy who’s inarguably esteemed and adored in their home.

When he finally brought you past the vines and leaves to the waterfalls, he can’t help but look at you. Your eyes are as shiny as the surrounding crystals, your light feet bringing you around, your hands playing with the small body of water nearby, and your head spinning to look at the stones above — a beautiful sight. He might admit that you can beat the crystals’ magnificence.

“I cannot believe this.” You pick up a rainbow rock near the pond, “I’m here.” 

You widen your eyes at the sight of the rocks in your hand. “These are iridescent! So beautiful, I haven’t gotten myself one of these.” All you’ve kept were the crystals the prince gave you. 

“I always thought of giving you one, but I thought it’d be nice if you discover it once you visit here and play along with it.” Jeongin picks up a few pieces from the grass and throws one on the pond, making it skip in the water in different colors.

Unconsciously, you cover your mouth out of shock. You steal one from Jeongin’s hand to do the same. “That is so cool. You should’ve told me it does something on the water. I think I never noted that.”

His fondness never fading away, he tells you, “It’s a surprise, _____. There are things I don’t want to spoil.” He giggles when your smile drops. “I just want to see how you’d react when you find out about something new, that’s all.”

“Just to tease me until my death, I’m guessing,” you grumbled. The crystal prince grins and pokes your shoulder, “Nah, I genuinely wanted to surprise you. Do you really have to make everything seem like a foolish act from me?”

“Yes, because you have been such a tease for all of my life,” you replied. In return, you also poke his torso, making Jeongin shriek and almost trip. You laugh and mumble, “You deserved that.”

“Though, do I deserve your love?” Jeongin mumbled. He can almost hear his parents’ words in his head. If you’re going to confess, make sure that you show how dedicated you are to declare your love.

He’ll never forget how the king shared how bold the queen was when she tried to steal his heart from other royalties. He thought it was a coincidence that his parents also met at a ball. She pulled him into the air to dance for the whole night. Jeongin wishes he was as courageous as his mother. The love of his life is already with nobody, yet he can’t seem to be straight to the point.

You could not notice your friend’s words by playing with the rainbow rocks. You look at him and ask, “What did you say?” 

Jeongin lifts his head from the ground to ask, “If you like someone, would you rather keep it or say it?”

You cannot help but tilt your head. “Say it. Why would you keep an intense feeling for someone? You don’t have to give a show just to confess. As long as your words are straight from your heart, it’d best to say it.” If only you could laugh at your answer, you would’ve done that right after you said it. You can’t seem to follow your advice.

“What’s the matter? Do you like someone?” you asked. You suddenly toy with your bag strap to wonder what it feels like to be liked by the prince of Shimmervale. 

Love makes your body mess up. Your heart beats faster over the idea of confessing to the Shimmervale prince. Your stomach aches out of nervousness whenever you finally have that chance to declare your love. Your hands sweat when he lays his hand on your shoulder. Your mind gets blank whenever you remind yourself how frequently you return to Shimmervale for Jeongin. Anything that has to do with your desire to be with Jeongin, you mess up and hold yourself back.

I’m going to do it, I have to do it. Jeongin scratches his head, “Yes, I like someone.” He takes a deep breath before continuing. “It’s leaning towards love, but yes. I love someone, that someone being you.”

Well, so much for being dedicated. At least he was straight to the point. 

“I planned to confess to you so many times already, but none of them seem to work, and I chicken out every time,” Jeongin pushes your dropped jaw up and holds your hands. “Even if I thought I was going to mess up again when I finally get to bring you here, I guess I have succeeded, ‌right?”

Your short-circuiting brain makes you freeze on the spot. You thought of bringing out your gift that you’ve been keeping away from the boy with hopeful eyes. You drop your hands from his grasp and open the flap.

“Here’s something to tell you that,” you pull out the flutter flower from the bag and hear Jeongin gasp, “I feel the same way. Also, I’ve been trying to let you know, but I never found the right timing.” 

It’s Jeongin’s turn to freeze. His eyes move up and down — from the flutter flower and your face and vice versa. His heart might burst, and so does his eyes with tears. There was pining all this time, and he realizes he is as dumb as you for not realizing your love.

Everything you did for him means a lot to him. You gave him that true peace and silence whenever he visited your room. Your room was the perfect place for him to keep away from royal duties, reliving things children would do. Playing games together; studying for exams together; staying up late at night as secret sleepovers; reading books from Flutterfield’s library, and so much more. They might be simpler compared to his extravagant actions, but they’re still important to him. If not, maybe some of the most valuable moments in building your friendship.

He grins. “I noticed your eyes are shining brighter than the flutter flower and crystals.” As much as he missed the flutter flower (and still keeping the first one you gave him), nothing compares to the sight of your eyes shining. It reminded him of those eureka moments whenever you two are in class. He can’t believe he gets to see that kind of eyes again. That kind he observes on certain days.

You chuckle, “What if I say you look the happiest when you’re smiling?”

Jeongin returns the flutter flower to your bag. He gently grabs your hands, places them on his neck, and caresses your face. “I’d be the happiest fairy ever if it’s alright for me to kiss you.”

“Then, I’ll let you be the happiest fairy ever,” you close the gap in between. Jeongin closes his eyes and hums in delight. He ties his hands around your waist, pulling you closer to him. You can feel him smiling. You stroke your finger on his soft cheek as you reciprocate, making him smile even bigger.

Jeongin opens his eyes. His sight is very endearing — you kissing and touching him gently. He feels all the love, and he can always return it. Jeongin closes his eyes once again and parts his lips from yours. 

You wonder why he parted. He surprises you with fervent pecks on your face, making you giggle and pinch his arm. 

“Hey, let me kiss your cute face again for a bit,” Jeongin mumbles again. He reaches for your hands. You let him, moving your face closer to his. “Go on, just let me do the same afterward.”

For a while, you two just pecked each other’s faces and giggle in the place where Jeongin feels most comfortable. Jeongin has added another justification to his list of reasons he loves GlowWater Falls — you.

Even after your cheeks feel sore from smiling, you’re unable to process the fact that Jeongin likes you back, and you two kiss. You thought it was a saving grace from all the horrendous times when you had to back out because you were unprepared or the moment simply feels off to confess. 

You two flew back to the castle when the moon was up. Jeongin’s parents greeted the two of you at the door, who also felt surprised when they saw you both in each other’s arms. 

“Are you two—” 

“We’re together now, mom. Is that okay?” Jeongin playfully asks, showing his hand that’s woven with yours. The queen and king sigh in relief. 

The king clasps his hands together, “Glad to know that you both had the guts to admit what your heart has been screaming for years. I think the queen and I have been waiting for this moment for so long!”

You smile, “I’m also glad, your highness.” You glance at the love of your life, “Should I extend my stay here, Jeongin?”

“Please. My son might go insane without you,” the king pleads. The queen joins in the ride and jokingly asks, “Can both of you get married already? Both of you are joined at the hip!”

“Mom!?”

“I think I know why you’re so lovesick, your highness,” you peck on his cheek.

The queen cries, “He’s blushing! He got it from us!”

#kflixnet #celesteves #districtninewriters #straykidsland #wkcnet #Hiraya-M #stray kids imagines #stray kids scenarios #stray kids drabbles #stray kids fluff #skz fluff #jeongin imagines #yang jeongin imagines #jeongin x reader #i.n x reader #yang jeongin x reader #skz fanfic #jeongin fluff #yang jeongin fluff #r.writes

[rxspbrrry]

So I saw your requests are open and what about clotted cream x reader (can be gn) who is a legendary of the sky?

Imagine clotted cream saw reader's floating chamber hovering over creme republic and thought it was a threat?

This is my first time requesting so I am bad at explaining like this (Can I be Shiba anon?)

YESS YESSSSS ive thought about this idea at least once anon you big brain ❤️❤️❤️❤️

notes ; clotted cream cookie x gn legendary! reader, fluff, woah this is kinda long, ooooooh legendary reader surprising and subtly flirting with clotted cream summary ; the consul has been leaving his office more often lately. who could he be meeting?

a/n: added a little story after the meeting heehee also i didn’t really use the floating chamber idea but i did keep the ‘clotted cream being suspicious of reader at first’ idea

the creme republic was known to possess the most advanced technology in earthbread, even more advanced than any of the five heroes’ kingdoms. none of those silly stories of sugar gnomes, legendaries or deities; everything was ruled by technology and the beloved consul of the land.

so it wasn’t a surprise when clotted cream cookie, who grew up in the creme republic being taught that legendaries didn’t exist in the republic, was suspicious when he first saw you wandering around.

at first he thought it was just a trick of the light, or maybe even some citizen cosplaying a famed legendary like the fabled sea fairy cookie or moonlight cookie. but when he squinted his eyes, it was clear that it wasn’t just some costume you were wearing. the way your smooth hair rustled in the wind (that you created yourself, clotted cream was sure, because he couldn’t feel any wind on him now) was on a level of natural that no wig could ever mimic. gold sparkles adorned your skin and shined in the sunlight. long eyelashes framed half-lidded eyes as you gazed at the grassy ground, using little hand movements to play with the flowers below you. the dangling pieces of your outfit, like your hair, was flowing in the wind. your beauty was ethereal and out of this world, perhaps literally.

still, for clotted cream cookie, duty comes first. he sets his priorities straight as he walks up to you with a practiced smile, eyes not leaving your peaceful figure. he is almost shocked by the intensity in your glowing eyes as you turn around to face him, but he keeps his confident smile on and asks, “it’s an honour to have such a lovely looking deity here. the creme republic has never been able to welcome any legendaries from folktales, and yet here you are in broad daylight. may i have the name of the beautiful deity in front of me?"

“who’s asking?” you reply softly. your voice is as calm and powerful as your aura.

he continues smiling, “my name is clotted cream cookie, consul of the creme republic. i regret to say this, your majesty, but it is not often that we see such a stunning legendary cookie in the creme republic, and the public are wary of your presence.”

your lips perk up into a small smile. “i don’t see anyone around here but you. my eyesight must be failing me.”

“i wouldn’t dare suggest such a thing,” clotted cream laughs lightly, but his smile doesn’t meet his eyes. “as honourable as it is to be in your dazzling presence, might i suggest you relocate to another resting place, so as to not disturb the common folk here?”

“young consul, if you want me gone, then you must simply say so,” you return with an equally airy laugh. “i assure you that your people are not worth harming, young one. won’t you let a deity admire the greenery of the creme republic?”

by now, clotted cream knows that you are aware of his intentions towards you. and despite your reassurance that you will not harm the creme republic, he cannot help but continue to be wary towards you.

which is why he flinches when you slowly reach a finger out to caress his cheek. the coldness of your skin shocks him, literally bringing a chill down his spine. the chill was an unpleasant reminder of a higher, stronger power, as though the god of death had touched him themself. he could only hope that you weren’t actually said god.

“let’s make a deal,” you whisper while tracing your finger along his jawline. he tries his best to not lose his composure at your action. “allow this wandering deity to stay in your land for a week, and if i do harm a single citizen here, then you shall chase me away, and i shall not complain. will you agree, young consul?”

clotted cream cookie manages to muster a challenging smile. “and what do i get in return for your stay, your honour?”

“do you see the flowers blooming below me?” and he looks down to confirm. indeed, the flowers appear more pure and lively with you standing above them. “i promise i will help your land prosper.”

“then it is a deal, your almightyness,” he lifts your hand off his cheek gently and shakes it. his stomach does a flip at the sight of your alluring smile.

-

little does clotted cream know, the common folk of the creme republic adore you. children visit your resting spot everyday, bribing you with candies and squeezing a story or two out of you of your wonderful travels and asking “how is it like to rule the skies?” questions. sometimes they drag their parents along who also respect you because of the trade secrets you share with them, allowing their businesses to bloom. the elderly come by every once in a while, sitting down with you as all of you hold folktale telling competitions or recipe sharing conversations. even some of the creme republic’s leaders, who were curious about the legendary deity that clotted cream cookie had encountered, had stopped by to chat with you before returning to their work. in less than a fortnight, long after the deal was expected to be off, nearly the whole of the creme republic was in love with you.

and despite the number of visitors you receive on a daily basis, the consul whom you struck the deal with never fails to stop by and chat with you himself. sometimes he invites you to the night markets and treats you to the creme republic’s delicacies; on other days he sits down with you on the grass and asks about your legendary life.

clotted cream cookie is enamoured with you, to put it simply. unlike the usual respect or awe cookies would have for their gods or heroes, he sees you as a normal person who just so happens to be extraordinarily powerful. yet it doesn’t diminish the admiration he has for you, which is clear in how the look in his eyes becomes softer and softer over time.

“i wonder if it’s a legendary thing to just stop by random kingdoms to say hi to their leaders out of nowhere,” clotted cream comments, resting his head on a tree that the two of you lean on. it is the twentieth day since your uninvited visit, and the deal has not been broken yet. he doesn’t think it will any time soon, with how gentle and motherly you treat the citizens.

you laugh as a reply, and clotted cream does not stop the smile from edging up onto his lips. “no, it’s actually the first time i’ve done this. when you live for thousands of years with no duties to do, you get bored very easily. i hope that my visit to the republic was beneficial, other than helping your land prosper.”

you turn to him and look at him in the eye. he no longer flinches at your glowing eyes, but rather finds himself drowning in them. he can’t tell which is worse.

“it was. do you have any more tales to tell me?” he struggles to get the words out. he must seem so utterly embarrassing in front of a majestic god.

“oh, i’ll tell you one alright,” your laughter sounds like chimes in the wind and it is a sound clotted cream can never get enough of. he gets dizzy when you lean in and whisper, “once upon a time, a lonely wandering legendary cookie decided to visit a land full of advanced technology, wondering if they, a mythical being, could fit into such a society.”

“while they were admiring the greenery of this land, a handsome lad came up to them with the intent to drive them away because of his suspicions towards them.” clotted cream continues staring at you dazedly. an uncharacteristic, silly and smitten smile appears on his face. “did the handsome lad drive the beautiful deity away in the end?”

“he didn’t,” you giggle, covering your mouth with your sleeve. “he let them stay on the basis of a deal, and ended up befriending them in the process.”

“i wonder,” clotted cream starts, unwilling to let you continuously take the lead in this flirty conversation, “if this lad would like to get to know the beautiful deity even better.”

“if he does i’ll be surprised,” you can only hope the blush on your cheeks are not clear enough for him to see, “but i won’t be upset about it. in fact, i’ll be elated if he does.”

clotted cream musters the courage to lift your hand to his lips, before looking at you again. his eyes already tell you that he’s infatuated with you; though it isn’t like your worshippers haven’t loved you romantically before, you’ve never felt as ecstatic as when clotted cream looks at you like this. “then,” the consul’s voice is but a whisper, “i’d like to get to know you better, my dear.”

“isn’t it too late to say this?” you laugh again. “we’ve been having moonlit conversations for around two weeks straight.”

“i do hope it’s not too late to make you fall for me, though.”

his words are bold. his face is flustered yet confident. you wonder if coming to the creme republic was a mistake, if getting lost in his emerald eyes was the result of this trip. however, when he squeezes your hand and kisses it lightly again, waiting for your answer hopefully, you realise that perhaps this visit was more than worth it.

you smile and squeeze his hand back, hoping he understands your reply.

#r.writes #cookie run #cookie run kingdom #cookie run x reader #cookie run kingdom x reader #cookie run sfw #cookie run kingdom sfw #clotted cream cookie #clotted cream cookie x reader

[subtextnatural]

Mmmm so what if i would write a fic where Dean is in a heaven that doesn’t feel like heaven at all, Cas is supposedly saved but somehow still missing, and Sam is living a life that makes him feel like he’s stuck in a romcom all over again? And Jack is all benevolent and reassuring but it gets more and more obvious that something, somehow is off? What then?

#asked the girl who never wrote anything meaningful in English ever #but yeah would anyone be interested in sg like that? #a bit of Chuck won truthing #a bit of 'one last hunt' #post-canon and Winchesters adjacent #i know a lot of you are thinking it and i saw some galaxy brain takes #and my own thoughts are rattling in my head and i feel like i should maybe get them out #spn #supernatural #chuck won #r.chitchat #r.writes #maybe?

[onwalkman]

shoes.

my shoes don’t fit

they’re too big

too loose

too much around my feet

even with the laces tied so tight

i lose feeling in my toes

my shoes don’t fit

as they walk me around this foreign room

on domestic soil i’ve never felt before

as they slip and slide

and fall off my feet

in puddles of empty space

my shoes don’t fit

but when have they ever fit

because, you know

the more i think about it

i can’t remember what it’s like

to have shoes that are meant to fit

meant to be walked in

meant to be mine

as i kick them off at the end of the day

and crawl into dirty sheets

sheets that should smell like home

like my mother on an august morning

because

i shouldn’t feel so lost in

territory i created

in mountains i conquered

in plains i’ve long seen

but my shoes don’t fit

and they haven’t for a while

#r.write #poetry

[biiscione]

An Heirling: Heart Stretched Too Thin ❂ ━━━━━━━━━━━━➤   part  one  of  ???. note: tfw you just reunited with your family after a year but one sister is getting married and another, well, you’ll see..... anyway, couldn’t remember the names i gave maria and margaret for this verse so i just used their... names. will amend later. i plan on writing a few more of these, maybe all the way to rafi’s own wedding? we’ll see.

       “It is said Northern Lords consummate marriages for their groom - subjects.” Maria, a girl of ten and three years, cheekily says. Where she got that information, Rafi did not know and, looking up from where he sat at their elder sister’s feet, eyes her suspiciously.       “You’ve made too much conversation with the hound - master’s son, I see.” Margaret laughs, gaze never lifting from her needlework.      “The hound - master? I thought he was childless?” Rafi asks, confused.      “Our Lord Father was displeased with him, so he got another.” The eldest Rowan answers her brother. “It cannot be helped, father’s fickle nature.”      A deep inhale, meant to quel what anxiety brewed in his chest. Lord Rowan worries about the hold he once called home, his sisters, his mother           upon learning he was named heir, he was swiftly picked up and taken to Goldengrove, abandoning those he wished to protect. Such heavy burdens this boy of fifteen has placed upon himself          

     When silence settles between the three, Rafi takes it upon himself to inquire about the upcoming wedding ceremony that had brought up the Lord of the North.       “Will... will you have one?” Broad back leans against his sister’s leg, head of auburn curls resting back and atop her knee. From this angle, as she peers down at him, she looks like their mother.     “Have one what, brother? Speak plainly.” Impatience tinges her words.     “A       a bedding ceremony.”     “Ah,” her tone softens, she displacing her needlework and combing lithe fingers through her brother’s curl.     “Yes. It is expected of me.”     Lord Rowan’s nose wrinkles. Nothing should be expected of the sister to the heir of Goldengrove, even if she were to be a lion’s bride.     “Then you did not protest?”     “Weakly, yes, but what is one night to ease the realm’s mind?”      He thinks for a moment, still uneasy in his sister’s response.      “Now, as we speak, is that what you want?” Rafi shifts onto his knees, dark hues never leaving her pale ones. From the view of their younger sister, they look like mother and child.       Though Margaret’s eyes spell out her uneasiness, she smiles wryly.      “I will champion you.” Lord Rowan responds quickly to her sad smile. “If you do not want the ceremony, you will not have it. I will inform Lord Lannister that there will be no viewing of the consummation and         ”       Slender hands, one on either cheek, still him into silence.       “Father has brokered this affair. I will not start another war between you and he.” The last tumultuous disagreement between the Rowan lords happened upon the proposition that Margaret was to wed at fourteen, and though Rafi was but a boy of nine, he fought viciously so that would not be so. Rafi’s father accused venomously that it was his own wife that puppeteered his son’s bitterness or even Rickard, Lord of Goldengrove, but it was neither. Rafi saw Margaret weeping the night she was given possible suitors, still very much a girl, holding onto that straw doll an old stable - hand made for her. If her own father would not champion for her, her younger brother must.        Cheek, amazingly stubbled with dark hair, leans into his sister’s hand as he cedes.        “We have just reunited.” Lord Rowan mutters softly, watching Maria cuddle next to Margaret on the day bed. “And I will lose you so soon again. Perhaps forever.” The elder sister somberly smiles        there was to be nothing to keep the three of them apart forever, not even the gods.        An oddly quiet Maria catches the attention of her siblings, wiping the silent tears from her eyes. She sniffs and with her big, dark Rowan eyes stares angrily at her brother, who has started to laugh. When the cacophony of her sibling’s amused and pointed laughter frustrates her so, her ears flush a bright scarlet, just as they did now.      Rafi pats his younger sister’s knee. All in good fun.      “And you       You thought me too somber to remember? With haste, tell me about this hound - master’s son you’re so fond of.”     ��

#tw long post #r.asoiaf #r.margaret #r.maria #r.writings

[starlighthan]

haha can those ppl who liked my last drabble rb it at least 😅

#istg this reblogging problem is getting worse month by month #i'm THIS 🤏 close to stop writing here hah #anyways i'll just return to my wips and finish all of em #it's just devastating to see that rb-like ratio 😓😓😓 #r.writes

[azurodriguez]

Nunca una mirada dijo tanto como la tuya ese dia, en tus labios se abria paso una agria despedida, pero tu mirada expresaba cuanto esa despedida dolia.....

Y por ultimo ese adios que me enbolvia en amargura, fue un adios y no dijiste mas....

S. R.writing

[seasteading]

filter words and narrative distance

so i’ve been seeing a few posts on avoiding filter words, especially in third person pov, and i wanted to make a post about some of my own thoughts about it!

filter words are words like noticed, spotted, saw, realized, felt, heard, etc. they take an event and as the name suggests, they filter it through the perspective of the narrator.

filter words tend to slow down the pacing of whatever sentence they’re in, so they can clutter up action scenes or reduce the impact of certain moments. however, they’re also not something you should necessarily avoid altogether, and here are a few reasons why!

introspection

while writing a longer work, you don’t necessarily want to be going at 100% for 100% of the time. it’s good to pull back a little bit to give an opportunity for slower, more introspective moments. with no filter words, the rhythm of each sentence accelerates. there’s no moment for deliberation on either the reader or the character’s part, everything that happens simply is. 

for example, let’s take a look at the sentence, “he knew he should have been there sooner.” “knew” is a filter word in this case, but it makes it seem like the narrator has had time to think things over and come to this conclusion.

this same introspective tone can work well with a character who’s withdrawn into themself for one reason or another. after a traumatic event, for example, the frequent use of filter words can suggest a character numb to their environment, barely registering what’s happening and even then only through a hazy filter.

unreliable narration

in third person in particular, using filter words can be a great way to hint at an unreliable narrator. “the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall” is what is really happening. the reader and the narrator have the exact same description given to them. “she heard the sound of footsteps echoing down the hall,” meanwhile, is filtering the sound through the pov character. for another level in unreliability, we can say “she thought she could hear the sound of footsteps echoing down the hall.” you can also use filter words to state things to the reader to imply unreliable narration, since as readers, people are primed to assume that a basic description is just that: a basic description.

in first person, the reader is already completely in the narrator’s head, and is already seeing everything through their eyes. in third person limited, meanwhile, filter words can be a good shorthand to mark someone as unreliable, and to create a distance between the reader and what’s actually happening in the text of the story.

filter words should not be used as a crutch, but they also don’t have to be completely removed from your writing! they have their own use cases, and are important to creating narrative distance, whether that be for the sake of internal deliberation or for establishing unreliability. 

#r.writing #these are all just my own thoughts !! pls take this with a grain of salt #this is just how i think abt filter words myself and none of this is word of law #having some sentences with filter words also helps with sentence variation but i didntthink that deserved an entire category

[serpentarii]

good characters are not good people

i love hot people covered in blood as much as the next but calling every character you like a bossbabe girlboss lil meow meow malewife has really negatively affected people’s abilities to view them objectively. 

a good character has a proper motivation, want, & need ; 

this should be the case for almost all of your characters. however, i do understand that there are exceptions, such as stagnant characters. 

a good character is understandable & interesting ; 

your characters do not have to be likable. liking them as a character also does not mean that you like them as a person. good characters do not have to be good people, they don’t even have to be decent. the roles of protagonist and antagonist in themselves are passive and do not equate to good vs evil. 

i feel like so many people are afraid of having an unlikable protagonist for fear of being seen as a bad person or justifying their actions. it’s not. writing about knights doesn’t mean you want to joust someone to the death, writing about dystopian governments doesn’t mean you condone them. 

trust your audience ; 

this post is really only meant for a small portion of people who consume media in a way where characters become caricatures. if your character is an assassin, have them assassinate people. don’t try to shoehorn in ill-fitting traits and arcs in an attempt to “negate” their darker traits. 

and if your narrator is unreliable, trust your readers to figure that out. unless you legitimately don’t see why people hate holden caulfield ig. 

at the end of the day, your characters need to fit their descriptions, and the narrative should support that. don’t accidentally weaken your enemies to lovers romance fam. love you and good luck. 

people who “just want to write about taboo subjects” do not interact with this post. 

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #writing advice #character writing #morally grey characters #r.writing #r.characters #w.mine

[gerrydelano]

SKINDEEP

Rating: M Words: 13.3k Characters: Jon Sims, Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood, Danny Stoker, Sasha James, Melanie King, Caroline Brodie, Callum Brodie, Gerry Keay (in memorium)

Relationships: Gerry/Tim, Martin/Danny, Sasha & Tim, Melanie & Caroline Brodie, Danny & Tim

Synopsis: Alternate ending for Pharos by Right (inspired by this anon) where Tim doesn't manage to stop Danny from swinging the hammer while Gerry read the incantation to start the Change — i.e., Gerry is killed to save the world, and then the world goes quiet.

(Actual ending of PBR will commence after posting this because I needed to get it out of my system. Got possessed.)

To those unfamiliar, PBR is my massive Archivist!Gerry series, and this requires the context of most of it, but especially my most recent chapter. If this intrigues you at all, there's 430k more words where this came from!

CWs: Character death; Head trauma; Severe injury; Grief; An intense breakdown ft. drowning imagery; Mention of drug use

───── ⋅◆⋅ ─────

Jon opens his eyes to the sound of screaming, burning, and a loud ringing in his ears. He coughs against the ash in his mouth, halting in his attempt to roll onto his side as his ribs clip a hard object underneath him. He must have been thrown backwards into something when the—

When the bombs went off. The bombs went off. It’s must be over.

But the screaming. Oh, the screaming, it’s louder than the ringing and the burning and the voice that he can almost hear saying shhh, it’s alright, I’m right here! Oh, G-d, somebody help! The voice calls his name. His name is Jon. His name is his name again.

Stiffly, he rises to his elbow and coughs again, his chest sore and his legs weak and oh, G-d, his leg— there’s a gash in his leg, a large one, and he can feel the blood running down into his sock.

His name is called again, and he’s almost afraid to rub soot into his remaining eye even on the off chance that he might clear it and find the source of the sounds, the screaming, the voice. Bleary, he stumbles forward onto his less-injured leg, peering around in the smoke for a shape he might recognize.

There is a shape, tall and upright, but it’s silent. A spire in the fog. Not the source of his name.

He keeps looking. He keeps listening. He crawls.

“Jon, where are you! Judith? Tim! I need help, somebody help me!”

Martin? That’s Martin’s voice, high and desperate and rough with smoke, too, there’s smoke everywhere, they need to get out of here. They need to leave, before the police arrive, before the structure collapses, before—

The screaming has transitioned into bawling, deeply pained cries for help, and only when he finally sees Martin’s shape hunkered over a spasmodic, outstretched body does it click. Danny is hurt. He was hurt in the explosion, and Martin needs help with him. Jon drags himself over to Danny’s other side and reaches out for his arm to find his sleeve wet with blood, but not torn. Danny screams again at the contact of his hand, startling Jon into letting go.

“How—” Jon coughs again. “Where is he hurt, what—”

“I-I don’t— Everywhere!” Martin panics, his hands on Danny’s chest like he’s about to start compressions. He doesn’t, of course, because Danny is horrifically alive, and there is blood seeping through his ringmaster’s jacket like the fabric has just been lain upon a dark puddle.

Jon reaches out for his hem to lift it, earning a smack from Danny’s frantic, bloody hand. He persists. He gasps.

The open wound is a perfect split down the middle of his stomach, disappearing at his groin, and most certainly extending up his chest into a V. He’d heard about the autopsy seams. He could never have imagined they would split open again.

Quickly, Jon lowers the shirt again and presses down on the wound, earning another guttural sound of agony. Martin is weeping but trying not to let it slow him down, trying to pin Danny’s arm to his side with his knees. Jon tries to do the same, but then who will get his legs? They surely go down his legs, too.

“Tim?” he hears himself croak out. “Tim, where are you?”

No answer. He could assume the worst, but he remembers that tall shape and turns around. It’s still there, standing a distance away in utter stillness, like another wax statue that hasn’t been taken down in the blast or a troupe member that refused to be exterminated, but Jon knows that sound. The sound of phantom water.

“Tim!” he shouts. “Tim, come over here and help your brother!”

No answer.

Jon turns around again and waves a hand through the smoke. There is daylight shining through a busted out window, casting beams onto the filthy, ruined floor. Tim is hovering a few yards away, staring down at the ground and soaked to the bone as water pours from the top of his head all the way down his body. He doesn’t look injured — why would he? He’s still clenching his fist around what Jon can only assume is the detonator.

“Tim!” he shouts again. “Tim, we need you to— oh.”

At Tim’s feet, there is a dark pool. It creeps slowly across the floor towards Jon’s own extended shoe, glinting red in the dusty daylight. Jon traces the seeping to its source, and meets Gerry’s open eyes.

“Oh, no… No, no, no.”

The blood is pouring fast from his head, spreading out from under the mess of his hair. His mouth is parted almost in surprise, frozen around an unspoken word, like he’s been interrupted from a dream.

This has to be a dream.

“Jon, could you please focus!”

Jon realizes he’s let go of Danny entirely. Jon stutters back around, stutters his next half-words. Nothing comes of his violent nausea. He almost wishes it would. Maybe it would wake him up.

“I— Martin, Gerry is—”

“I know!” Martin snipes, and then takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I know. I know, and I can’t think about that right now, not when— Danny is still alive, please, help me keep him that way!”

“We need… We need an ambulance, we need… Where’s my phone…?”

Jon pats at himself, feeling the tack of bloody handprints on his clothes as he goes. When he finds his phone, he finds the screen cracked, but it still works when he presses his sticky thumb to the sensor. His free hand moves back to Danny’s arm, squeezing his bicep hard.

“Y-Yes, hello? We’re at the House of Wax. Yes, that one, in— in Great Yarmouth. There’s been— There’s been an explosion, people are hurt, we need… please, send an ambulance. Send two. Send all of them! I don’t care, please, just— please, help.”

Jon doesn’t realize he’s started to cry until he’s bowed forward enough over Danny that the next time his arm flails, it clips him on the face. He recoils and nearly drops his phone, barely catching it to put it back into his pocket before he secures his hands around Danny’s arm again and holds tight. He dreads turning his head again, but he has to.

“Tim,” he says more carefully this time. “Tim, you need to move. You need to do something.”

No answer.

“Either help us, o-or go find Judith, or the Hunters, or see if any of the troupe are still alive.”

No answer.

“Anything, Tim! Can you hear me?”

No answer.

“He can’t hear you,” Martin sniffs. “I don’t— I don’t think he can hear anything.”

The water in his ears may be too much. He may be frozen in his avatar state, consumed by repulsive satiation. He may be lost, too.

When Danny’s screaming dies down into whimpers, his thrashing into mere twitches, Jon finds himself just as worried as Martin. He lets Martin take up the mantle of trying to keep his attention — Danny? Angel, can you hear me? Stay with me, stay awake! I can’t lose you here, not like this! — because what could Jon possibly say? What could he offer to either of the Stoker brothers now?

A clattering sounds from afar. Jon snaps his head up to look for the source of it, spying Judith stumbling over a pile of rubble to reach them. She’s covered in soot, clutching her arm and limping. When she reaches their pocket of the room, her eyes go to Gerry first.

“Oh, G-d.”

Jon swallows hard. “Where are the other Hunters?”

“Dead. Think they fragged each other.”

Her voice is dreamy and distant. She crosses over to Tim, and bends down to pick something up off the floor. Gerry’s walking stick, forgotten in between the two scenes. She doesn’t wipe the blood off of the handle, inspecting the head of the hammer in the light for something Jon can’t see. He watches her study Tim like a marble statue in a museum, until his eyes drop once again to meet Gerry’s.

This has got to be a dream.

“What happened to him?” Judith asks of Danny.

“I— I don’t know,” Martin struggles. “I think a lot of his old wounds opened up, but I don’t know how, I don’t see why they— Jon, how long until the ambulance gets here?”

Jon blinks. “I didn’t ask.”

Martin doesn’t chastise him, instead nodding with a tearful sound. He’s come to lean his forearm across Danny’s collarbones, his other bent to cover as much of the vertical line down his chest as he can. Like he’s holding together some little paper art project, waiting for the glue to dry. His wrist is angled strangely, and for the first time, Jon notices his gritting teeth. He’s hurt, too, and he’s fighting through it.

“I’ll go wave them down,” Judith says, starting to step over the growing lake of Gerry’s blood. A thin branch of it is close to touching the edge of Danny’s.

“What’s our plan?”

“Plan?” Jon almost mocks. “What can— What can we even do now?”

“You were all about contingency plans before,” she says dryly. “You didn’t plan for something like this?”

“Well, obviously not, Judith! Of course I didn’t think—”

Didn’t think… what? That only some of them might die? That the rest of them would have to live with it? Of course he didn’t plan for that.

“I say… let it get sectioned.” She shakes her head at the scene. “Let it all get put away.”

“How do we do that?”

“Tell them that something unbelievable happened, that they got caught in the crossfire, that you don’t know what happened to them because something was happening to you, too. Isn’t that the truth?”

It sounds too easy. “Won’t we be detained anyway until they decide we’re not lying?”

“We all need a hospital. I have a feeling we’ll be fine, when they see the rest of the scene. The choir’s dead, too.” Judith turns to Tim once more. “…I’ll put this in my car before they get here.”

She leaves with the help of the walking staff, calm and direct, and Jon doesn’t think he has it in him to be a Hunter, after all.

Tim pays her no mind, still staring stone still at Gerry’s body. He’d landed on his back, mostly, one leg tipped to the side and his hand delicately curled in the puddle. The other is resting serenely on his hip, almost like he’d been posed that way. One of his eyes is severely bloodshot, grey shining up through the darkness of it like a coin. The longer Jon looks at him, the clearer the sunlight is through the window. It’s a beautiful day outside. It’s the middle of summer. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“How did— How did this happen?”

“There was an explosion, Jon,” Martin mutters.

“No, I know, but— but the rest of us… We’re fine, we’re… Why him?”

“I don’t have an answer for you. I didn’t see what happened.” Martin lifts an arm for a split second to wipe his nose, leaving a smudge of red on his face. He stares down at Danny’s face, paler than fear has ever left it, one-track minded as ever. It’s not as if Jon can blame him. What else in this room is worth worrying about now? It’s all over. They were just in time, and they were too late.

Jon forgets until the sound of sirens. He spins around to face Tim again, to tell him that he needs to control his leaking before someone sees, but the only evidence that Tim was ever standing there in the first place is a small disturbance in the blood where it has been thinned and expanded with water.

Firefighters first, police, and then the paramedics with their stretchers and their questions and their back away, let us take over. Martin tries his best to explain the extent of Danny’s wounds, launching into the true lie that Judith encouraged without rehearsal.

“We were just walking around, and something weird started happening, there— there was music, and dancing? But it was terrible dancing, not bad to look at but bad to be a part of, we couldn’t stop, there are— there are more people lost in here somewhere, I just know it, but I don’t know where they are. There was—” A sob. “There were people without skin.”

Danny can pass very well as a mere victim of whatever supernatural nonsense had taken place, certainly. His wounds are too severe and his clothes too close to pristine over them to make any sense to the ordinary eye.

Jon is asked about Gerry.

“I—” His throat stops up with a cry. “I didn’t see. I think… I think the blast must have… I don’t know. I don’t know.”

Should he mention the Magnus Institute? Will that hurry up the Section Eight process? He doesn’t know what to do. When a paramedic asks to see his leg, he’s powerless to do anything but obey, limping out of the building with the help of a firefighter.

Martin isn’t permitted into Danny’s ambulance, the paramedics too frantic to stabilize him. Jon catches one of them noting the texture and colour of his blood in confusion, in distress, and looks down at his hands to find them more maroon than crimson in the sunlight. He sways.

While he’s being bandaged on the back of an ambulance, a stretcher carrying a body bag is rolled by and loaded into another. He watches as a series of dark, wet spots form on the ground leading up to the step into the back before the doors close.

Good. Someone should stay with him until the end. Jon only knows Jewish funerals, the strict customs that being sectioned might not care to honour. Perhaps Gerry wouldn’t care one way or another if someone were to guard his body, but he still shouldn’t be alone.

───── ⋅◆⋅ ─────

They bring him straight to the morgue.

Tim follows behind the man with the stretcher in silence, in absence, and cares nothing for the mess his footsteps leave behind. When the swinging door shuts in his face, he steps right through it. He watches the man handle his lover with ambivalence, with some anxiety, and waits as long as it takes for him to leave. He is going to be alone with Gerry if it kills someone else.

When there’s no one left in the room, he releases his grip on disappearance and watches the perfect stillness of the black bag. He doesn’t feel that old sense of being observed anymore. It’s his turn to stare.

He reaches for the zipper.

Pulling it down takes an eternity, his hands numb with hate. When he’s peeled back the sides to free Gerry’s face, to let his body breathe, he takes in the sight without so much as a shaken gasp. Gerry’s eyes are still open, the one damaged with the impact to his skull, the other clear as day, but catching no light. Not anymore.

Tim reaches out to shut them with his fingertips. To wipe a speck of blood from his forehead. To stroke dust from his cheek.

Gerry’s head lolls with the touch, no control left to be had. The fluorescent lights cast a shine on the blood-matted depression in his skull.

Tim’s eyes catch on the purple bruise on the side of her neck, nestled sweetly just above her collar. His fingertips drift down to touch it, to beg for a pulse. He remembers why he never bothered with prayer.

Gerry never bothered with it, either. What would he want to happen next? It’s up to Tim now. One decision he never wanted to make for her.

Tim remains by his side until the morgue doors open again, at which point he makes eye contact with a startled hospital employee. Water pours from his head and shoulders to spread across the tile floor at his feet, his hand still resting on Gerry’s lifeless breastbone. The worker doesn’t scream, staring back and breathing hard, until Tim forces two words past the outpouring of water from his mouth.

“Get— out.”

Now, they scramble to run, and he turns back to his love for one last, long glance. The next time someone interrupts him, he’ll have to leave. He can’t keep Gerry like this forever. It wouldn’t be fair.

He needs to be out in the waiting room as family when someone finally comes looking for some. He needs to be composed. He needs to be human. To handle this like a husband.

Tim reaches for Gerry’s chin to straighten his head again. Dignity.

Gently, he reaches his hands behind her neck to feel for the clasp of her collar first, and then the chain that holds her padlock. He can get the rest of his jewelry and his jacket back when they strip him for cremation. No one else should get to touch these. Not for anything.

Gerry would choose cremation. He wouldn’t want to be locked in a pine box, slow to decompose. He wouldn’t choose to leave remnants for desecration should someone feel like fucking with the Archivist just a little more. He feared the sink even more than he feared burning. He wouldn’t choose to be Buried.

That doesn’t mean it sits right with Tim. For there to be nothing left of her, just like that. Like she was never here.

He knows what Gerry wanted. He knows exactly what happened.

Tim tucks the collar and padlock into his pocket, no regard for the blood on them, and looks down at Gerry’s bloodless, peaceful face. Carefully, he bends down to place his lips over hers one last time, as if he had a final breath to give her. All he’s ever had was a kiss. He’s still colder than she is.

He zips the bag shut, but lingers just that moment longer.

When the doors open again — the same worker, this time with reinforcements and a right there, see! — Tim lets himself be seen before he revokes the privilege, disappearing with all that he can take with him. He walks past them as any live man ordinarily would, sure to brush shoulders with the one that he knows now will never forget his face. The shudder makes him stronger, and he needs it. There is nothing else left in him.

He walks back into the world in an empty hallway, and keeps going until he finds Jon and Martin in the waiting room. Jon shoots upright when he sees him, stumbling on his new injury. Tim takes a seat beside him. Jon’s questions are a blur of sound and disinterest, until a long silence passes and Tim hears him say:

“I don’t understand.”

“It was the bomb, Jon,” Martin tries. “Something must have hit him when it went off.”

“No,” Tim says, his voice foreign in his throat and his own ears. They need the truth. “It was Danny.”

Martin recoils with a curled lip, disgusted by the notion. “No, that’s not true. You don’t know that.”

“I do know,” Tim refutes. “They had an arrangement.”

“An arrange— what?” Jon shakes his head. “You can’t be serious.”

“You knew about this?” Martin demands. “You knew and you just—?”

“Choose your next words very carefully, Martin.”

Martin shuts his mouth. Jon’s better leg bounces with tension. He breaks the next silence with a question that Tim wishes he couldn’t hear.

“What do we tell the others? When, h-how?”

Tim stares at the floor. “In person, when we get back. I’ll do it.”

“We have no idea how long we’re going to be here,” Martin tells him. “Danny’s in bad shape. He might be stuck here for a long time.”

“If you want to stay with him, you should. I won’t.”

Martin almost looks offended, hurt, before he reins himself back in with a cleared throat. “They won’t let me see him yet.”

“It takes a long time to suture the entire body,” Jon contributes. “Those wounds went down to the muscle.”

Tim would wince if he could. Martin does, leaning forward to scrub at his face with the one hand not in a sling. He’s washed the blood off of his hands, but his clothes are still soaked in it. Jon’s are, too. Tim doesn’t feel the need to tell them that their bags are in the trunk of the car they drove here. They’ll change when they remember.

“It feels wrong to be so calm,” Jon says suddenly. “I feel like I should be throwing the biggest conniption of my life.”

“That’d be a pretty big conniption,” Martin mutters.

“It would be, yes. But I can’t seem to… access it.” His brow creases, as if in confusion. “This still doesn’t feel real.”

“It’s real,” Tim says simply. “Gerry’s dead.”

Jon’s face scrunches up in refusal as he turns away to lean into his hand. Martin stares at the floor at Tim’s feet for a while before he speaks up.

“I’m sorry, Tim.”

Tim has nothing else to say.

───── ⋅◆⋅ ─────

Martin bolts out of his chair when Danny stirs, fingertips to the edge of his bed.

“Danny?” he asks, tentative. “Danny, can you hear me? It’s Martin, I’m right here.”

Danny whines in protest. His arm shifts barely a centimeter before he seizes up with pain again, eyes flying open as he gasps. Martin freezes; he learned from the sore spot on his cheek. Don’t get too close.

“Look at me, over here. That’s right, right over here. See? It’s only me.”

At first, Danny says nothing. His eyes are bleary with the frankly lethal amount of sedatives they’d given him after the last time he’d lashed out at an orderly when she tried to change his bandages, his mouth slack and weak. His chest heaves with shallow breaths, but he looks at Martin and keeps his eyes locked on him. Martin will take that.

He sits back down in his chair, pulling out the magazine he’d gotten from the waiting room. It’s hard to turn the pages one-handed, his left arm still in the sling. “I was just reading this trashy thing here, but none of the gossip is all that good.”

Not that he expects a response or anything. He just wants Danny to get used to the sound of his voice again, to his presence in the room. Eventually, it feels stupid to make this kind of small talk, though. He tosses the magazine down at the very foot of the bed and leans forward on his knees.

“Can I… get you anything? Water?”

Danny licks his lips, but says nothing. Martin can hear his breath trembling.

“Okay… when you change your mind, you let me know. The doctor said we might try to sit you up a little bit today, if you’re up for it? Just a little bit, not too far. Only until you’ve had enough. I… I think it’s a good idea to try.”

It’s difficult to look Danny in the eye when he’s still so drugged out, so silent. Martin regrets looking away, though, because then all he can see are his heavily bandaged limbs. The padded cuffs around his wrists.

“I wish I could just take these off of you, but… but you hit an orderly, so—” Martin lets out a curt breath. “It’s for your own protection, too. So you don’t rip your stitches. It’s been a few days, though, and you’re doing a little better, so maybe they can start weaning you off the morphine, a-and if you’re more alert, you won’t get so scared anymore when somebody comes by to help.”

“Tim.”

Danny’s voice is wrecked from screaming, reduced to a small, thin whisper. Martin looks down at his laced hands. “Tim isn’t here.”

He takes a long moment to form a second word, licking his dry lips again. “Where?”

“He’s— Jon is… teaching him how to sit shiva.” If Martin could lower his head any more, he would. “They’re about halfway through.”

Danny’s eyes glaze over as they drift up to the ceiling. Martin gives him a moment; that might have been a confusing thing to say while he’s still only partially in his head. It was devoid of context, it was a stupid way to answer that question, dammit, he’s going to need to start over.

“What, um… What do you remember?”

There is another stretch of quiet while Danny seems to think. The sound of hospital machines chews on Martin’s bones. In the end, Danny only comes up with one murmured, deadened word.

“Crack.”

Martin’s stomach solidifies into a brick inside him. He fights the way his leg wants to shake, running his hands over his thighs and pressing down hard. “You remember that?”

Danny nods minutely. “The dancer… thanked me.”

“…But you didn’t do it for her,” Martin suggests. “You did it for Pharos. Right?”

“Right.”

An empty little echo, barely an exhale. Danny’s eyes slip shut, finally, and in the bright light from the window, Martin can see the faintest glint of a tear stuck in the corner of just one. It doesn’t dislodge to fall when he looks up again, clinging instead to his lashes. Martin aches for him in a way that perhaps no one else has it in them to ache.

“I won’t… claim to know what sort of ‘arrangement’ you and Pharos had, or why, but… I know you. I know you wouldn’t have done it without an honest reason.”

“Honest,” Danny huffs.

“I know you,” Martin says again. “I know you’d never—”

“Stop. Stop it.” Danny shifts and shock-stops again, a pained sound caught in his throat. He keeps his eyes screwed shut tight. “Please, don’t. Just stop. Stop.”

“Okay,” Martin murmurs. “Okay, I’m sorry.”

He sits in helplessness as Danny fights the pain of trying to turn away and hide, as he struggles against the wave of grief and regret that Martin can see written plain across his face. Tears build up in Martin’s throat, too; he’s only cried in private since that day, too set on being strong for Danny. No one else could stay in Great Yarmouth just to wait around for Danny to wake up or become a more cooperative patient or explain himself. Tim couldn’t stay in the city that rushed to burn Gerry’s bones.

To be so absent from the mourning process back in London makes Martin feel like a terrible friend. He can’t cite feeling less than close to Gerry as a reason for it; of course his death makes Martin want to curl up into a hole and stay there, but there’s— there’s another factor in the situation, and if no one else can stomach it, then he will. Why stop now?

“Can I hold your hand?”

Danny makes a disagreeable noise. Martin accepts the rejection as gracefully as he can, sitting back in his chair to diminish the temptation to reach out anyway.

“Maybe I could get you that water—?”

“Leave,” Danny spits out on the tail ends of a sharp breath. “Just… please, go. Go home.”

“Well, no, I won’t be doing that much. I can leave the room for a while, I’ll go down to the waiting room again, but… No, Danny, there’s no way I’m just leaving you here. It’s a three hour drive, and you’re in no shape to be by yourself. You need someone to bring you home when you’re ready.”

It must hurt like hell to cry. Martin can see the tendons in Danny’s neck standing out with how harshly he’s turned his head away, his body jolting painfully as he tries to keep himself quiet. How could anyone possibly be expected to hold all this in? Martin isn’t judging him. He wants to cry, too.

“I love you,” he says, even knowing it might even make things worse. Just on the off chance that it doesn’t. “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

He stands up without waiting for a response, grabbing up the magazine from the foot of the bed. The waiting room is a better place to check his texts.

───── ⋅◆⋅ ─────

Every desk in the bullpen filled, but an empty Head Archivist’s office. Sasha glances towards it every now and again, still half-expecting it to creak open and to see Gerry yawning in the doorway. They haven’t erased the nap counter from the white board. They haven’t been touching the calendar, the last blue dot left behind on the day before they all left for Great Yarmouth. It’ll simply gather dust, she suspects, because what function does it serve now? No more estrogen. No more joy.

There is no joy left in Tim. It’s been wrung out of him in a way that Sasha has never seen before. Never in his wildest depressions or losses has he ever looked this grim. His eyes sink into shadows when he turns his head the right way in the light. The wet spots on his shirt could almost be mistaken for sweat if he didn’t radiate such a coldness that sitting across from him makes her want to tighten her cardigan around herself. She hasn’t seen him smile since their meeting in the safehouse, when the corners of his mouth turned up in a halfhearted attempt at saying I’ll see you soon before she hugged him goodbye the second time.

She joined in on Jon’s attempted shiva. They all had, except for Martin. Jon explained the rules; only some of the restrictions, as Gerry was not a Jew, but he said that for the time being, they were to see themselves as Gerry’s immediate family. Who else would mourn him properly? It not being his custom hardly mattered in this case; it was something where he would otherwise have nothing. According to Jon, shiva was meant to contain the grieving process into something manageable. To allow for the full depth of it to sink its teeth in, to truly sit in it, and then when the time came, face the world again with renewed strength. It was the only way he knew how to grieve, and so it was all he could do to share it.

Tim had followed the rules in silence. Sasha watched him from her low cushion and waited for an opportunity to touch him, to console him, but he never gave her one. On the morning of the seventh day, Jon took it upon himself to say play the visitor and recited a blessing in front of Tim, bidding G-d to comfort him among all the mourners in Jerusalem, and reached to help him up off the floor. “Arise,” he’d said, and Tim had.

It just wasn’t Tim’s custom, either. It’s been a week since they returned to work, and he’s still a stone gargoyle in his desk chair, empty of light and effort. Jon told her that for spouses, the mourning period will be considerably intense for at least a year.

A year. Two years. Three years, four. Eventually, the years without Gerry will outnumber the ones they had with him, and Tim will feel it like no one else. Sasha looks at him, and she feels moths crawling underneath her clothes, trapped there in her own grief.

Sasha has lost enough sisters. This one is especially cruel.

“So…” Martin begins, breaking the long silence. “What exactly are we going to… do now? Here, I mean, at the Institute.”

“The same thing we’ve been doing, I presume.” Jon sets a pile of papers off to the side. “The Unknowing was only one ritual of many potential rituals. I think it’s only natural that we should keep trying to stop as many as we can.”

“But—” Martin bites his tongue for a moment. “I mean… sure. But something has to happen next, right? I mean, Elias—”

“Elias is mine.”

Tim’s voice doesn’t even sound like his voice anymore. Sasha shifts in her seat.

They’ve talked about this already. Judith went back into the rubble to find Begging the King and bring it to her father, who studied page 77 with a thoughtful face. There was only so much he could speculate about the incantation, but the long string of words at the end made him surmise that it was an attempt to bring forth all of Smirke’s Fourteen at once, and that the results could have been catastrophic. None of them knew how far Gerry must have read, or if he’d even been reading it at all by the time Danny swung the hammer, and so it’s difficult to say that the sacrifice was worth it.

But it looks like they wiped the chessboard entirely. Elias can’t come back to the Institute and reinstate himself as Head, he can’t ‘promote’ anyone to the Archivist position and start over whatever the hell he’d been doing with Gerry the whole time, he can’t show his face while it’s still Faraday’s. Whatever game he was playing, he’s lost.

Sasha doesn’t know if she’s allowed to feel triumphant or if she should just settle for being afraid of the retaliation that could creep up on them should he switch bodies again, or send something after them, or pull another gun. She wants to believe he won’t risk it; not with Tim still around to want revenge. She’s willing to bet he’s more afraid of Tim than he ever was before.

“…Okay, but, after that.” Martin’s skepticism is hesitant, but reasonable. “I just feel—”

“Lost,” Jon suggests, sounding far away.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Sasha repeats, too. Tim has the right idea, in his almost-vow-of-silence. There’s not a whole lot else to say.

Another length of quiet sweeps through the Archives. Sasha can’t bring herself to touch her laptop, or get up for a box of folders. She can’t imagine recording statements onto her phone. She can’t imagine moving, paralyzed into her chair by the crawling sensation at the small of her back, the bend of her knees, in her sleeves.

“Hellooo?”

Sasha, Jon and Martin all jump in their seats as Divshah elbows her way into the Archives. She’s carrying a tray of coffee cups with both hands. Dread drops into Sasha’s stomach like a cement block.

“Oh, um—” Jon swallows. “H-Hello, Divshah.”

“Hi!” she chirps. “I haven’t seen you guys in a while, so I thought I’d bring something by! Scoot, scoot!”

She hops over to the bullpen and sets the tray down in front of Sasha and Tim. Sasha numbly accepts the biscotti as Divshah passes it to her, watching the cups as she distributes them by memory until there’s only one left in the very middle. Divshah takes it into her hands and straightens up to look around the room with a smile.

“Where’s Gerry?” She gasps gently. “Is he asleep?”

Sasha looks up at Tim to find him entirely unmoved. There is a droplet forming at his hairline. One glance at Jon and Martin tells her that she’s going to have to get up from her chair after all, because this conversation can’t happen in here.

“Um… Divshah, come with me really quick.”

Confused, Divshah places the last cup down on Sasha’s desk. “What’s going on?”

Sasha doesn’t respond just yet, shaking out her clothes a bit as she stands. If she doesn’t look down and around for the moths, they may just fade away.

Divshah follows her to Basira’s old room down the hall, her cheerful smile traded for something more apprehensive. Sasha shuts the door and sighs, catching her own face in both hands for a moment before she bites the bullet.

“You don’t have to bring cocoa for Gerry anymore,” she begins.

Divshah wilts. “Oh, no! Does he not work here anymore?”

“No, he doesn’t. Because, um.” Sasha swallows roughly. “Because— he died, Divshah. About two weeks ago.”

For a moment, Divshah just stares at her. She’s not like them, though, and she’s quick to blink. “What?”

“There was an accident. He… took a bad blow to the head. It happened really fast. There was nothing anyone could do.”

Instant are the tears. Divshah covers her mouth with both hands, shaking her head. “No, that’s— How could that happen? That’s not right, I don’t— He couldn’t—”

“I know,” Sasha interrupts, her own throat stopping up again. “I know, come here.”

Divshah slips into her arms like a river, clinging tight to the back of her cardigan. If there are moths around, she doesn’t seem to notice them, or care. Why would she? She’s been touched by the Corruption, too, and nothing seems to faze her. This is the first time Sasha has seen her look anything less than simply happy to be alive.

It takes a while for her to stop crying, pulling back to sniff so hard it must hurt. “How’s Tim doing?”

“Not well,” Sasha admits. “He’s really not himself right now.”

“Oh, I can’t imagine,” Divshah says nauseously. “I’m so— I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make it worse with the— with the cocoa, I just wanted to—”

“I know, sweetheart. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Sasha pets her hair; her dark roots have grown out past her ears, the bleach-fried ends freshly lopped off. “Just… He needs some space. They all do, they were all there for it.”

“Oh, G-d.” Divshah hides her face again, letting out another round of tears. “That’s— That’s awful.”

“Yeah, from what I gather, it… it was.”

She could be more comforting, probably. She could be better. Or she could be honest, and cry a little bit, too. Divshah hugs her one more time, and Sasha plucks off her glasses to bend and bury her face in her shoulder. She hasn’t done this with Tim yet. She doesn’t know how much longer she can take it.

“I’ll, um… I’ll go.” Divshah wipes her face, stepping away and towards the door. “Enjoy your biscotti.”

Sasha steps out after her, watching as she pauses in front of the Archives doors and looks in through the window with a tearful face before she carries on towards the stairs at a brisk walk. Good that she didn’t go back in. She has some tact after all.

That was mean to think. Sasha taps her own cheek in reprimand, to shock the tears back inside, before she goes back into the Archives with a straight face. Tim is still sitting with his back to the door, the cocoa still sitting in front of him. Jon meets her eyes with concern, arms wrapped tight around his stomach. His kurta today is pink.

“She’s gone,” Sasha tells them, sitting down.

“What did you tell her?” Martin asks.

“What else? I told her the truth.” Sasha stares down at the cocoa cooling in front of her. “She didn’t take it very well. Cried a lot.”

Jon and Martin both nod, but only Jon voices his opinion. “Good. Someone ought to. S-Someone other than us, I mean. Anyone, really.” And then he gasps. “Oh, G-d, someone has to tell Tazia.”

Sasha winces. “You do it. I can’t. Not after Divshah just now, I— I can’t.”

He pulls out his phone to scroll through his messages for the large group chat they’d made back in Venice. The only way that anyone would even have her number. The only other person that Sasha can think of that knew Gerry, really knew him, and will care that he’s gone.

Tim moves, suddenly, to take the cocoa from the desk and swipe it into the bin.

The remainder of the day moves like molasses. The moment the clock strikes 5:00, Sasha stands up and requests that Tim follow her. He rises and does, and the drive home is silent. He waits on the doorstep for her to find her key and use it, perhaps consciously stopping himself from walking straight through. Without another word, he retreats to his bedroom and shuts the door.

Sasha doesn’t know what to do with the rest of her evening. She spends most of it on the couch, texting Melanie. Danny got home yesterday, having left the hospital against medical advice, and is largely immobile in bed. He still won’t speak much, either, apparently. Sasha can’t wrap her mind around the fact that she currently lives in a world where the Stoker boys — of all people — have gone speechless.

It’s half past midnight when she hears the crash. It jolts her out of bed and into the hallway, towards Tim’s room, before an even scarier noise halts her worried footsteps entirely. A garbled wail, like a scream underwater, interspersed with loud, hacking sobs. She looks down at her feet; there’s water seeping out from under his door. When she knocks, the only response is another item shattering — the bedside lamp? A picture frame? Sasha reaches for the doorknob to find it locked.

“Tim?” she calls out against the door. “Tim, can you hear me?”

The drowning noises don’t stop for her. Every image her mind conjures up of what he might look like right now only serves to split her heart further apart. She almost doesn’t want to see, but it feels like she needs to know. She needs to know in order to fix it. She needs to be able to hold him, to shush him, to simply be with him until the pain eases. She needs him to want her to.

“Tim,” she repeats, pleading. “Open the door, let me help you.”

“No!” comes the shout, hysterical. It’s barely intelligible as a word through the slosh of water that must have spewed from his mouth alongside it. “Go— away!”

Fine, then. If he wants her to do this the hard way, then she will. Sasha leaves the hall to dig through her room for the new lock-picking kit Melanie got her for her most recent birthday. The lock on his door is simple and plain like all the others in the house’s interior, so it barely resists when she fits the tool inside it. The phantom water is cold under her bare feet as she stands in the growing puddle, until the lock pops open and she ventures inside.

The floor is almost entirely flooded, and there’s a large wet spot on the center of the bed. She was right, the bedside lamp had been thrown to the ground, pieces of glass scattered in the water. She can’t see yet what else had been broken in the dark, but she can see Tim’s shape in the moonlight through the window, curled up between his side table and the edge of his mattress on the floor. He grasps at his chest like he’s suffocating all over again, water cascading down his body at an almost threatening speed. It’s a wonder there’s any room for him to cry through the outpouring.

There is no splashing sound when she walks through the flood to reach him, the water only as real as they believe it to be. Sasha chooses to believe he could breathe through it if he wanted to. That he will, eventually, when this has run its course. It’s been such a long time coming.

She sits down on the floor under the window, her dressing gown skimming the top of the puddle. Tim jolts like he’s in the tank again, his head banging against the side table, and Sasha lets herself wince because he’s not even looking at her. He can’t yet. He’s not ready.

So, she waits. She watches as it all comes rushing out of him at once, until he’s reduced to trickles and trembling and softer cries that finally sound more like weeping than a waterfall. He leans against the mattress and she finally sees what he’s been clutching in his fist; Gerry’s padlock on its chain.

There’s still nothing to say.

───── ⋅◆⋅ ─────

Melanie zips up her backpack with a sigh. “Martin, come on! You’re coming with me!”

“No the hell I’m not.”

“You have to! I’m down an assistant, and you know Callum. You went to his birthday party this year!”

Martin slams his mug down on the counter hard enough that she sees some of his tea splash out of it. “I’m not going to be a part of this video, Melanie. I don’t know how many times I have to say it.”

Melanie crosses her arms. “You’re really not even going to give me a statement for it, either? You don’t have anything to say about our dead friend?”

He whirls around with a vengeance. “What do you want me to talk about, Melanie! The time I stole his keys and went behind his back and got Leitner all NotThem’d, so he compelled me and made it really clear that he’d never trust me? Or the time I nearly strangled him to death and proved him right? Or maybe for something lighter, how about the time we went to a flesh witch’s house and he hacked up his tonsils in front of me, that was a blast!”

“Okay, I get it!” Melanie cuts him off. “Fuck you.”

“Just— go do your thing, and don’t bring this up around me ever again.”

With a scowl, she turns around to snatch up her bag and storm out of the house. She hates this Martin. He’s worse than punctuation-user Martin, because now he uses punctuation all the time and he’s mean in person. Even when he had that bullet inside of him, he wasn’t quite so cutting.

She knows it’s because of Danny leaving, but it’s been three bloody months. He should be starting to level out again. He should be starting to— well, to get over it would be unrealistic to expect of him. How are any of them supposed to get over any of this?

Maybe she’s faring better because she’s the one Danny said goodbye to. The only one, because she was the only one he could trust not to beg him to stay. She’s the one who gets pulse check texts now and then, and sometimes the name of whatever continent he’s made it to. When he said he was in South America last weekend, she almost called him a liar.

Melanie doesn’t want to be angry at Martin, but it’s hard when he’s angry at her. For harboring something that he’s been deprived of. For persisting in the face of the paralysis that’s taken over the entire Archives, still, to this day. For being almost relieved by it, because Danny’s absence gave her enough space to breathe to decide on her next, long overdue project. One that he could never have helped her with.

It starts snowing halfway through her bus ride, speckling against the windows to dissolve into droplets. Melanie watches them trickle away, going over the intro to her video in her head again and again and again.

This is a video I’ve wanted to make for a long time, but it’s also one I never wanted to have to make at all. I’m going to start this by asking for some basic courtesy, because while I know this is the internet and I’m broadcasting from a channel about supernatural crap that a lot of skeptics like to make fun of, I’m going to be telling you about that close friend of mine that passed and I will not tolerate disrespect towards his memory. There will be times where I can only give so much proof, because some of the events I’m going to outline are from a long time ago, and yeah, have to do with supernatural crap that didn’t exactly leave behind a lot of clues. Long time viewers will know that the real stuff can’t always be captured digitally, and I want to finally tell you who opened my eyes and changed my entire career path with that knowledge: his name was Gerard Keay.

It was hard to deliver the lines into the camera when she first started recording. Took way too many takes, and she’s still not sure about the script. She might have to rewrite it a third time, maybe a fourth before this is over. This is going to be a big project. It’s going to be all the more difficult without Danny’s help.

One thing that makes it easier are the number of witnesses willing to appear on camera and speak on it.

Divshah wanted to tell her story the very day that Melanie asked her if she would, eager to tell the world the truth about how Gerry saved her from an abusive relationship without even knowing her name, and how he was never unkind to her, or dismissive of her disposition. She knows she’s a lot to handle, but Gerry never put out the idea that she was too much. He was accepting, and friendly, and he always put something in the tip jar.

Melanie sent Timothy Hodge an email. She plans to put a screenshot of his reply in the video, too, with his permission; he wants to put Jane Prentiss behind him, but he will admit with no hesitation that the only reason he’s alive today is because of Gerry. Gerry noticed, Gerry saw the signs, and Gerry personally saw to it that he was brought to a hospital. Gerry did that.

Next on her list is Caroline Brodie.

The snow is sticking to the grass a little bit as she walks up to the door and knocks. Caroline answers quickly, expecting her at this time. She ushers her inside and to the living room, where she sits on the couch to wring her hands in anxious hesitation.

“Thank you for doing this,” Melanie says after she’s taken out her camera and tripod. “I know it’s… out of the blue, after all this time.”

“No one could have predicted that this would have happened.”

“Still, it’s been… what, a little over a year? Since—”

Since Basira took the umbra from Callum. Since Gerry scared him to save him. Since the worst time of this family’s lives finally came to a tentative end.

Caroline nods. “Just about, yes. It feels like so much longer ago, but… also like it was only yesterday. Do you ever get that feeling?”

“All the time.”

Melanie offers a small smile, and then turns on her camera. Caroline shifts to sit up straighter, presentable, nervous.

“So, you’re making this video as… a memorial?”

“Sort of. But also… there’s a lot of people out there who have some really wrong beliefs about who he was. And people who did know him only got him in passing, he was like some… mythic figure, even to me at first. So, now that he’s not here to have his privacy invaded more, I figured it’s finally time to shed some light on the situation and kind of… clear his name.”

Tim had granted his assent, though not in so many words. He knew she wouldn’t be exploitative about it, but the real root of his reason was clear: everything is pointless now, so it didn’t matter what she did. Jon and Sasha had already given a few accounts each, full of stories and love. They’ll surely think of more to add as time continues to pass, in the absence of any contribution from Tim. Melanie won’t press him the way she pressed Martin earlier. It’s different.

Caroline wraps her mind around it, and doesn’t pry about what his name needs clearing from. “What is it you want me to say?”

“Just… the truth of your experience, I suppose? This video is about Gerry, about the person he really was, everything he did to help people… So, whatever you remember about him, I’d really like to hear it.”

Caroline nods again, clearing her throat. Melanie gives her a thumbs up when the camera starts recording, gesturing for Caroline to look at her while she speaks. It takes a long moment and a deep breath, but she does.

“I didn’t know Gerry very well. I only met him a few times, and the most prominent of those memories was the scariest moment of my life. Even scarier than losing my child was watching him— tied to a chair, and afraid. It worked, is the thing; the scary thing worked. I-I couldn’t even begin to recount it for you, what the process of… freeing him, was like, but it saved his life. It gave me my baby back.

“And just before the scary part began, I remember Gerry… sitting in front of him, just talking to him. He showed him a scar that I can still see in my mind if I think back on it — a big, black handprint on his leg — and told him that he wasn’t alone in what he was going through. That letting people notice that he’s hurt and letting them help him was the only way to heal. I remember him pulling his rucksack into his lap and showing him all these little trinkets he’d gotten from people over time, and one of them was—” She laughs wetly. “One of them was from Callum. They’d met before on a bus one day, and my son flicked a paper ninja star at him. Something I might’ve scolded him for had I been there, but then… maybe Gerry wouldn’t have flung it back. Maybe they wouldn’t have had their fun, and my son would have one less fond memory of a kind stranger who paid attention to him. Gerry kept that ninja star pinned to his bag that whole time, because he must have been short on fond memories, too. I didn’t know him well, but I know that’s the kind of person he was. The fond sort.

“And Callum listened to him. He has friends, now. Good friends who come over and stay the night sometimes, and lightbulbs don’t break in our house anymore. He’s happy. He’s healthy. He’s safe. And we’re closer than ever, we’re in a good place. That whole time was… very dark for us, so dark, and if you’re asking me about Gerry… I’d say he did his best to shine just a little bit of light on the future he wanted for my son. No one made him do that, no one made him care. He just… did. And I wish I had taken the chance to thank him for that.”

After a hesitant hand motion from Caroline, Melanie shuts off the camera and dabs at the corner of her eye. She hadn’t been there for Callum’s rescue, or his second saving, but she’d heard the stories of their respective horrors. She didn’t know about the sentimental part of it, but she believes it. She knows it.

“Thank you, Caroline,” Melanie says again, and she’s taken off guard by the swelling of pain in her throat that comes with the words. She turns her face away to roll her eyes up to the ceiling, bouncing a hand on her leg. She’s not supposed to cry, not here.

Caroline gets up and rushes back with a box of tissues, handing the whole thing to her. Melanie laughs, and accepts it, letting herself let just a bit of it out before she forces it all back inside. Another mumbled thanks, and an equally quiet you’re welcome.

“Are you done already?”

Melanie jumps, snapping her head back around to see Callum standing at the foot of the stairs. His hair is in need of a trim, his shirt baggy around his arms and hanging low past his waist. He stares at her sullenly, one hand on the banister as he sways with the clear desire to enter the room.

“I don’t know,” Caroline says to him, and turns to Melanie. “Are we?”

“I, um— I think that’s just about all I needed, yes. We can watch it over and you can tell me if you want to do another take, but I think… I always think interviews are best kept organic, you know? We never recall things the same way twice, and we can’t… replicate the same emotion.”

Caroline agrees, looking down at her folded hands before she glances back up at her son. “Were you listening?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you want to come and talk with us?”

He gives Melanie a wary look before he slumps over to the couch to sit beside his mother. He doesn’t react much when she runs a hand through his hair and rubs his back once, his eyes tracing the camera and Melanie’s belongings.

“Why can’t I do one, too?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Caroline says. “We’d be telling the same story, wouldn’t we? I don’t want your face on any more… computers, or televisions, or any of that.”

“But he died.” He says it so plainly. “Shouldn’t I say something?”

“What would you say that she didn’t say already?” Melanie prompts.

He looks at the camera again. “Turn that on.”

“Why?”

“Because if I have to say it twice, I’ll get it wrong.”

Melanie looks at Caroline for permission. Caroline hesitates a moment longer, petting Callum’s hair again.

“Are you sure, honey?”

He nods. “A lot of people… have died, for me. And maybe he didn’t die for me, but he died, and I knew him. I want to do this.”

Caroline’s eyes well up again, and after another beat, she relents. She scoots over to the other side of the couch to let Callum take her seat in front of the camera, and Melanie starts to fiddle with her equipment again. Before she hits record, Callum asks her a difficult question.

“When’s Danny coming back?”

Melanie swallows. “I don’t know yet, kiddo. But I’m still in touch with him, so when I know, you’ll know.”

“Okay.”

She readjusts in her seat and angles the camera a little lower to focus on his face, and starts recording.

“Whenever you’re ready, go ahead.”

───── ⋅◆⋅ ─────

He listens to the rumble of the train around him in place of any sort of music, no headphones on his person since he left. Self-deprivation, perhaps, but that was almost the point. Instead he’s filled his life with the sounds of the world around him, voices to mimic and borrow, the machinery of travel and distance. No nice little daydream to get lost in. He hasn’t earned that.

His bag is light on his lap. He’d only brought enough with him that he could carry on his person at all times, replacing things when he needed to the same way he’d swindled his way onto planes, boats, trains like this one, when he wanted to take his time instead of traveling through mirrors. Excuse me, that’s my seat. Oh, you already punched my ticket. The same way he’d grifted their way to Greece the first time he left home with Martin and—

Home. What a lost notion.

It’d be a lie to say he didn’t still daydream. His dreams are different now; no longer limited to the Circus the second time, no longer Watched by that haunting pair of silver eyes. They’re broader again, now with new hammersplat sounds and Tim is there, turning away from him. Sometimes they’re not about anything at all, ordinary dreams that he didn’t realize he could still have. Ones that leave him emptier than the ones that wake him up with chills or a shout, because he hasn’t earned those, either.

But some mornings, he would wake up in a motel without arms around him and sincerely wonder where they went. Had Martin gotten up to get them coffee? Was he showering, or off finding a vending machine? Will he be back soon?

The illusion never lasted very long. It was always a source of stinging while the rest of him stayed numb and distant, removed from the experiences he could be having in Zimbabwe and Costa Maya and Sydney if this were a vacation. If this were anything but a chance to think. Mostly, he wandered.

He’s finished, now.

The train comes to a screeching halt, and he rises with his bag to exit. His legs have had eleven months to heal, nearly ten of them spent walking, and still they ache with each step. He doesn’t need a taxi for the rest of the way, or a bus. He’ll bide his time now that there’s so little of it left.

It’s the first of July. The crickets are loud in patches of grass when he reaches the start of the lawns, and the sun warms the back of his neck. He doesn’t count the minutes on a watch, or pull his phone from his pocket. He wouldn’t search for a mirror to jump through even if he thought he could land right inside the house. He still doesn’t even know if he’ll be welcome there.

Try as he might to stay numb, his stomach twirls up into tighter and tighter knots the closer he gets to the street. The more his legs ache for him to stop and rest, just for a little bit more time. The more he wants to turn around and go back to somewhere, anywhere, that no one could ever have the chance to know him.

He can’t, though. It’s been long enough. He can’t let the world creep into August; hah. August. The worst time of Tim’s life, and death. He must have replaced the losses in his heart by now. Danny keeps coming back, against all odds. Gerry never will.

Danny stops walking to breathe against the memory, the knowledge. The shame that builds and builds heavier and heavier with every day that passes, no matter how long he’s taken to deconstruct it. Maybe that was another one of Gerry’s gifts; all that Weight. Reva told him all about the sink. Whenever they were out instead of him, that’s where he would be, without fail. That was his home in their head.

So maybe that’s Danny’s punishment, too. Every morning, he is lowered back into that tank, and he thrashes all day until someone has their twisted idea of mercy and pulls him out to let him sleep, only to start all over again tomorrow. He never drowns like Tim did. His fault, too.

It doesn’t feel like punishment enough.

He leaps away from a speeding car before it has the chance to honk at him for drifting into the road. Adrenaline tingles in his limbs, his lungs, just the barest little taste of something alive. He looks ahead at the street signs and knows he has to keep going, he has to turn left, and to do that, he needs to forget how to feel again. Just until he gets onto the doorstep.

When he does reach it, he stands there for a while. He hasn’t earned the right to knock on the door and say hello, certainly not to smile and wish for one back. But he’ll be standing here all day if he doesn’t, and he can’t waste any more time. It feels like taking, but he does it.

Melanie answers the door. Her face falls in an instant, her eyes wide and skipping over his body as if in search of wounds or changes or evidence that he’s only a mirage. He lets her process his presence in silence until she finally finds it in her to speak.

“Holy shit.”

“Hi.”

“Hi!” She laughs, backing up to usher him inside. “You didn’t tell me you were coming home.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s— Well, I won’t say anything is fine, but I’m just… really glad to see you. You haven’t been texting.”

“Sorry.”

She makes a piteous face, pausing on her way to the kitchen. He knows she’s going to offer him tea in the mug with the holographic telly on it and he’ll accept it to be gracious, not because he thinks it’s fair. For a moment, they hover in place at a distance from each other, equally at a loss for words, or affection, or mending.

“Um…” she recovers, pointing towards the hallway. “I’m… going to go get Mar—”

Again, she pauses, this time in a cold startle. Danny turns his head to face the music; Martin is already standing in the mouth of the hallway, staring at the pathetic scene with the flattest expression Danny has ever seen on him. Danny keeps his own face just as empty, careful not to betray the depth of how that expression makes him feel. It wouldn’t be fair. He has no right to beg.

“…Ah.” Melanie clears her throat. “You know what? I’m gonna— I’m actually going to head to the store, we don’t have… milk. I’m going to go get some milk.”

“Sure, Melanie.” Martin doesn’t bother to look at her. “Go get some milk.”

His voice is different. Not in tone, but in quality. His hair is different; shorter, in an unfamiliar stage of hopefully-growing back out. It was only a matter of time before Martin cut his hair. Danny remembers stopping him the first time he held scissors down to the scalp, convincing him it wouldn’t be worth it to cut it out of anger. He’s been angry, and Danny wasn’t here to stop him.

Of course he’s been angry. That is something Danny deserves.

As Melanie grabs her keys and leaves the house, Danny turns his body to face Martin fully, his bag still on his shoulder — he can’t set it down yet, he can’t make himself at home. He braces himself for the tirade, the accusation, the hatred. All things he’s earned.

Martin takes a step forward. Danny doesn’t realize he’s taken a step back until the look on Martin’s face is more hurt than hollow. This conversation will be held across the room.

“Happy Birthday,” Danny tries.

“What were you thinking?” Martin says instead of ‘thanks.’ “You disappeared.”

“I’m sorry.”

“How could you do that to me?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop— saying you’re sorry, and tell me what was running through your head!”

“I couldn’t be here, Martin!” The confession leaps forth without another hesitation, prompted forward by Martin’s demand. “I couldn’t just— exist here, waiting for Tim to be able to look at me again! I couldn’t just wait around for him to feel obligated enough to forgive me, and you know my being here would have put that pressure on him. I couldn’t— I couldn’t think here!”

“So you went to Tanzania?”

“Yes! Yes, I did, and I went just about everywhere else, too, and did almost every drug known to man, and I didn’t have a lick of fun because I was running! You have to know Elias is probably after me, too, after I fucked up his plans. I couldn’t stay anywhere for more than a few days, I had to just keep moving, I barely— I barely processed any of what I was seeing, I just needed to think.”

“About what?”

“About why I did it!” The bag slips from his shoulder, and he hardly notices the sound of it hitting the ground past the blood in his ears. “You said in the hospital that I did it for Pharos and I agreed with you, but was I just agreeing because you said it? Or did I do it because I knew it’d be the best thing for Nikola?”

“You wouldn’t have—”

“But what if I did!” He can’t fight the smile as it pulls at his mouth. “What if I did, Martin?”

Martin stops arguing. Danny battles to neutralize his face again, and fails. The best he can do is continue to explain himself.

“I had to figure it out on my own, I couldn’t just— let your belief in me influence how I remembered things.”

“No one really— remembers the whole Unknowing, I mean. It was the Unknowing. You can’t try and force yourself to recall every single detail of an event like that, the whole point was to confuse us.”

Danny scoffs. “Don’t you think I know that? I soaked in that for years before you people dragged me out of it by the hair. I learned to navigate it, I learned to cause it, and you think I wouldn’t have been able to coast on that during the ritual? You think it’s that impossible that I could have just slipped back into my old role? Seriously, Martin? You still love me enough to lie to yourself like that?”

You still love me at all? Danny can’t take the words back. Martin crosses his arms, leaning against the wall to look down at the floor.

“And what conclusion did you come to?”

“A different one every day.”

He sees the minute shake of Martin’s head, the disbelieving desire to scoff as he turns his eyes back up to the ceiling. “So, what you’re saying is that this was pointless. You didn’t come back with some big epiphany, you didn’t have your come to Jesus moment in Cambodia, it was all just— a waste of time.”

“No,” Danny says firmly. “I still couldn’t just be here. I need you to understand that.”

“What I don’t understand is why you didn’t just tell me.”

“Because you would have tried to stop me, or asked to come with me, and I wouldn’t have been able to say no to you! I needed to be alone, Martin.”

“Since when has ‘alone’ gotten anyone anywhere good? You said before you did every drug known to man, h-how is that a good thing? How did that help you?”

“It helped me forget sometimes.” Danny curls and unfurls his fists. “You don’t know how hard it was to look any of you in the eye before I left. Any of you, even you.”

“I never blamed you for—”

“Maybe you should have. Maybe I wanted you to! Maybe I needed someone to blame me, because it can’t just be me blaming myself! I can’t trust myself, you know that.”

“But if no one blames you, then isn’t that a signal that it wasn’t your fault?”

“I swung the hammer, Martin! I did that. And I still don’t know for certain if I did it for Pharos or not, so no, it’s not a signal that it isn’t my fault. It just tells me that no one takes my actions seriously, even when they’re catastrophic.”

“You saved the world, technically.”

“Don’t.”

“You did, though,” Martin insists. “Adelard said that incantation could have been the end of everything—”

Danny shakes his head. “We have no idea how accurate that is.”

“And we’ll never know! Because it’s over, and because Pharos saw it coming. He trusted you.”

“And what about Gerry, then, huh? What about the one all of you actually miss? The one I took away from Tim without a second of hesitation because Pharos decided that the collateral would be worth it?”

“That sounds like a Pharos problem. And it sure sounds like you put a lot more thought into what Pharos was asking of you than you were probably thinking of Nikola in the moment.”

“G-d, you’re not even listening!” Danny can’t control his gestures, arms frenetic and jerking to grab for his own head. “Martin, I murdered the love of my brother’s life! I killed him, he’s dead because of me! No amount of justification is going to change the result! I don’t care about the incantation, I don’t care about the end of the world, I care about the world I have to live in now! I always have, that’s all that matters to me! There needs to be a consequence for what I did!”

“Is that another reason why you left without so much as a note?” Martin asks. “Inviting some kind of consequence?”

“Maybe it is! Now, are you going to deliver one or are you just going to— forgive me?”

For a long time, the adrenaline of raising his voice had kept the tears at bay. He doesn’t know precisely when they started to burn in his throat, but all at once, the notion of forgiveness creates such a deep longing in him that he can’t help the way it jumps out. He can’t retract the way it sounded; like a lie, like bait, like pleading. Danny does his best not to drop his head, muscling through as his eyes water, looking Martin in the face as if he stands a chance of challenging him. He feels like the frenzied bull in the arena, while Martin stands calm and resolute in the distance, daring him to come closer.

It’s Martin who steps forward again. Danny backs up one more step, instinct over impulse, but there’s only so far he can go before his back hits the wall. Martin is slow in his approach, reaching out with his hands first to show that they’re empty, they’re open, they’re safe. Danny is powerless to him, then, when Martin pulls him down into his arms.

“I’m going to forgive you, Danny.”

Danny sobs into his shoulder. “Why?”

“I don’t— I don’t like being angry, it makes me mean. Just ask Melanie, I’ve— I’ve been awful to her this whole time. I don’t see the point in holding a grudge against you for… for what happened to Gerry, or for you leaving to sort out your thoughts. I can’t punish you any more than you’ve punished yourself. I refuse to even try.”

“Why?”

Martin cradles the back of his head as he shakes. “It wouldn’t do any good. Not like… actually trying to fix things might.”

“I don’t know where to start.”

“You’re home. That’s a start.” Martin kisses the spot behind his ear. “And don’t get me wrong, I’d love to keep you all to myself as long as I can, but Melanie’s going to be back with that milk we don’t need, and… I think the person you really need to talk to is Tim.”

For a while, the most Danny can do is weep. He hasn’t cried much since he left, if at all — hell if he remembers anymore. The wall behind him and Martin’s sturdy frame in front are the only things keeping his legs from giving out underneath him, the Weight still there and still suffocating and still too oppressive to dig himself out from. He lets Martin hold him until it makes more sense to let him lead him to the couch, and then time distorts until he’s lying with his head in Martin’s lap, breathing slower.

He hasn’t earned this, but he’s selfish. He needs it.

They decide to text Sasha, not Tim, just to make sure he’s home, and leave it at that. Danny takes a shower before anything else and changes into a fresh set of clothes from his dresser, still full of his things. He looks at himself in the mirror and wills it not to crack. The scar on his forehead. The scar on his lip. His identity in seams. He can’t face his collarbones, or his wrists.

Martin offers to go with him, and he finds the strength to say no. The most he can give is leaving his bag in the house, a promise to come back. Today, he thinks he keeps his promises.

Tim’s house is too far to walk to, so he takes the bus as close as it’ll bring him. He hopes that Sasha doesn’t answer the door, too tired for another round of what happened with Melanie and Martin. He wonders if he’s earned the right to want this to be direct. To the point. Not painless, but bearable. He can bear quite a lot before it breaks him. He could take any comeuppance Tim has to offer as long as it isn’t forgiveness, too.

It won’t be. It couldn’t be. Not this time.

With hands unfeeling, he knocks. He listens for the heaviness of the footsteps that approach the door, for a moment forgetting if Tim’s are still audible at all. When he doesn’t hear anything, he figures that no, they aren’t, and why would they be? Tim is more of a ghost than ever. Danny doesn’t know how to prepare himself for what he’ll see when the door opens.

Tim is dry, at least. His hair is down, no longer or shorter since the last time Danny saw him. They’re the same, in that regard; Danny’s hair still hasn’t grown a centimeter since he first encountered the troupe. Tim can’t cut his for anything now because there’s every chance it’ll never grow back.

His eyes are vacant, empty black holes in his head. Frightening to passersby, no doubt, but to Danny, it’s something else. Something words can’t describe, so he doesn’t try.

“Hey,” he starts, because Tim doesn’t say it first.

For a long moment, Tim doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move to let Danny into the house, or step onto the porch to join him. Simply stands in the doorway like a statue, studying him for change the way that Melanie and Martin had. Studying his eyes for traces of… what, guilt? Shame? He’ll find it in abundance.

“I just came by to tell you… I’m done running, now.”

The calm question comes up from inside a deep well. “Where were you?”

“Um… around.” Danny looks down at Tim’s shirt and shrugs. “All over.”

Tim hums, and still he doesn’t move. “Have fun?”

“Not especially.”

“Alright.”

Danny thought he could handle the comeuppance. “I just didn’t… think it’d be right to tell you over the phone.”

“When you left, or when you got back?”

“Either.” Danny tucks his hand behind his hip to fidget in private. “…Tim, I’m sor—”

Tim holds up a hand.

“What’s done is done.”

“Which part of it?”

“All of it. You can’t take it back. I don’t want you to try just to be disappointed that I can’t forgive you yet.”

“I don’t want you to forgive me yet,” Danny admits. “…Or at all, if you really can’t. I know Pharos said that I’m the only one you might be able to—”

“Might.”

“Exactly. And I left because… I didn’t want you to feel obligated to honour that just because he said it. I left so you could have some time to yourself, without me… pressuring you to move on.”

“You left for yourself.”

“That, too. I needed time, I thought… I thought we could both use the time. I didn’t expect to walk back into welcoming arms.”

Tim doesn’t need to say good for the sentiment to come across. He’s silent for another long while, unmoving in the doorway. A barricade between the outside world and his private space, so empty now with his loss.

“What’s done is done,” Tim repeats. “And I don’t forgive you yet. But… you’re back now. Which means we can start to try and get there someday.”

Danny’s throat closes up. “You don’t have to.”

“I know. And you didn’t have to come back, but you did.” Finally, Tim’s eyes shift to look over Danny’s shoulder at the street. “You did the one thing I couldn’t do for him.”

“I’m sorry,” Danny rushes out before Tim can stop him again. “If I could go back—”

“You can’t. He wouldn’t even want you to. What’s done is done.”

Danny drops his head. “What’s done is done.”

“Yeah.” Tim turns his eyes back to Danny’s face, his stare so deadened that Danny can feel the blood on his hands. “We can talk about this some other time.”

“Okay.”

There is a beat of quiet before the door is shut in front of him. Danny swallows the rejection and forces his eyes to stay dry, forces himself to turn around and step off the porch and head for the bus stop. One step at a time, one speculation after another; when will some other time be? What will tomorrow look like?

There’s so much left to say.

───── ⋅◆⋅ ─────

#r.txt #r.writes #pbr tag #bad end tag #gerard keay #gerry keay #archivist!gerry #jon sims #martin blackwood #tim stoker #danny stoker #sasha james #melanie king #tma fanfic #tma #magpod #au of an au #if this makes even one person mildly tear up i'll consider it a success #i took like One big liberty and i expect no complaints #also melanie's video makes me cry.

[sprigofbasil-archive]

Tips for New Writeblrs

i’ve been seeing a lot of new and young writeblrs popping up recently, and i know the community can seem a bit daunting at first so i decided to make a post with some tips i wish i’d have known when i first joined!

↳ INTERACTION IS KEY

first off, and i cannot stress this enough, is the importance of interacting with other writeblrs. this community is here to help us all grow as writers, and one of the best ways to do that is to find writer friends. there’s so many incredible wips on writeblr, and it’s a genuine treat to get to see them develop further. interaction comes mostly through reblogs on tumblr, but for making actual friends, your best bet is joining a writing discord server. @welcometowriteblr​ is an example of a writeblr net with an open discord, but there are also many others out there catering to specific genres and subcategories.

↳ CLOUT IS MEANINGLESS

tumblr is bad enough at interaction on its own, but it’s especially true in communities like writeblr. unlike litblr graphics or fanart, writeblr content usually doesn’t come with a built-in audience unless you’re writing fic. so instead of trying to appeal to trends and getting lost in a sea of identical wips, your priority should be creating something you’re actually passionate about. a wip is a huge commitment, and it’s important to find a project you love instead of hopping from trend to trend. it’s ok to drop wips and realize that maybe it’s not the right time to write them, but wips are not solely there for notes.

↳ WRITEBLR, NOT GRAPHICBLR

it may not always seem like it, but this is in fact a writing community, and not a graphics one. making pretty graphics can be really fun, as well as doubly functioning as a procrastination tool. however, the main reason we’re all here is to write. don’t spend all your time on making pretty pictures for tumblr and then only ever complaining about how you never write. a lot of the most popular meme posts are jokes about writeblrs never writing, but the community is called writeblr for a reason.

↳ DO YOUR RESEARCH

so you have a wip idea. now what? now it’s research, research, research. this is especially prevalent in fantasy worldbuilding but really applies everywhere: you cannot pick and choose the parts of a culture you like while ignoring all others and their implications. there are certain topics that need to be handled with delicacy, which in itself requires a lot of research on its own. then there’s writing characters different from you. there is a vast difference between tokenism and representation, and the first thing is to make sure you actually treat your characters and world with respect. don’t rely on people from those groups to call you out for your mistakes—google is free, and it’s not their job to deal with your mistakes. if people are open to helping though, you should reach out to them if you still haven’t found your answers. @writingwithcolor is an excellent resource, and there are many other blogs dedicated to giving advice.

↳ CHOOSE ACCESSIBILITY

this is a community focused on writing, so your priority should be making that writing as accessible as possible. i know scripts and fancy text are a popular aesthetic, but @ikilledmyocs made an excellent post here as to why you should avoid them; namely, they’re an accessibility nightmare. i promise that your posts will still look nice, and more importantly, they’ll actually be readable. the same goes for blog themes. large text and high contrast are your friend! @serpentarii has a wonderful theme recommendation post here with some examples of writer-friendly themes.

↳ DON’T GET CAUGHT UP IN PROSE

and lastly, this applies particularly to new writers in general. very purple, floral prose is popular on writeblr, and sometimes it can seem like it’s the only writing on here at all. however, you’re here to actually write a wip. the purpose of your first draft is to exist, not to win a pulitzer, and it’s perfectly ok for it to suck. making it actually good is the job of future drafts; after all, you can’t paint a house that hasn’t been built yet. your writing style will come with time, and simpler writing also has its place up there with pretty prose. i can promise that coherence is far more important than putting nice-sounding words together without actually knowing what they mean. that isn’t to say that floral prose is bad, but it isn’t the only writing of value, and i think that we sometimes forget that on writeblr. just sit down, take a breath, and write.

#long post #writeblr #writeblr advice #idk where i was going with this but it's a thing #r.writing

[linonyang]

END OF THE DAY.

pairings: non-idol!minho and gender-neutral!reader

genre: fluff, established relationship, rock band au

warnings: none

word count: 1.6k words

synopsis: nothing else feels better than going home with your beloved rockstar by your side after a few weeks of distance.

tag list: @awooghan​ @hwangsify​ @cosmic-railwayxo​​ @xiaoderrrr​​

note: hey who's back with another short fluff fic? <33 as much as i'm obsessed with 031123 minho, i can't help but make a fluffy fic bc that's all i can do rn LMAO seeing him irl was unreal until the point i wrote this after i saw more photos of him on that day :'>

© linonyang - all rights reserved. please do not copy, translate, modify, repost, or claim as yours.

“You’re supposed to be in your tour van. Your bandmates would kill us when they find us here,” you chuckled, sipping the milkshake.

He shakes his head, disagreeing. Smiling, he corrects you, “They will not be mad at you, love. It’s only me who they’ll scold.”

With his leather jacket on your shoulders, you sit back and wrap yourself tighter in the thick cloth around you. A fond smile grows on your face, finding the man — with tousled hair and tight polo with folded sleeves on the elbows — very endearing, despite the contrast to his appearance. “Right, I’ll be an exception to the guys.” you rolled your eyes.

“I always tell them it’s all on me.” He picks up and eats a piece from the basket of french fries. “I won’t let them blame you as well if I’m the one who’s constantly pulling you to restaurants and diners after every show.”

“Like what we’re doing right now? Yeah, I think they know already. They don’t even have to think for a second.” You lean forward and take a sip once again. Minho snickers at the sight of you sipping nothing — you haven’t realized you finished your milkshake already, and you’re taking air only.

Confused by your beloved’s expression, you raise your eyebrow in question. Minho answers you, “There’s nothing in that glass anymore.” 

You look down at the glass and see there’s still that tiny drop left that you’ve been trying to get. You shake your head. “I just want to finish this milkshake until the last drop. There’s a tiny bit there that I still want to get!”

Minho shakes his head and laughs. “You’ve drunk most of it already. It’s time to let that go. I think I should bring you home already,” he said before he reached for your hand. He hears you puff, and he laughs once again.

You softly hold his hand back and roll your eyes — an action that Minho thinks you got from him rolling his eyes with the members frequently whenever he pretends to dislike his bandmates’ affection. “Sure, dad.”

The two of you walk back home under the moonlight with the biggest smiles. It has been a while since Minho took you out since he had to return to the tour for a few weeks. He finally did what he wanted now that the constant singing and guitar playing was over.

With Minho’s arm wrapped around you, you touch his hand on your shoulder and look at him. “Should we just go back to your bus and grab your things? Go back there after dropping me off at home.”

Both of you stop walking after your question. Minho hums and answers without hesitation, “The boys told me they’ll go home tomorrow since they’re exhausted. I think I can go back there tomorrow. My bags will stay there untouched.”

You pinch his cheek and ask, “And where do you think you’re going without your things?” You know the answer already, but you want Minho to say it word by word.

“I’ll be staying with you for the night, obviously.” He tightens his arm around you and pecks your head. “I finally get to spend some time with you. I should cherish that time before we have to work on a new album.”

Understanding his circumstances, you hum in contentment. Though, an idea makes your head turn to him. You suggest something to him, “You can stay in my apartment for a bit. It doesn’t have to be one night.” Do you think he’d be ecstatic?

Yes.

He happily nods. Minho does enjoy prancing around the four walls of your apartment. Aside from bringing his cats over to hear your squeals and see your grins, he just loves some good bonding time with you where you are most comfortable. If he has his guitar with him, he’d spend your afternoons serenading you with the cheesiest love songs and his soft voice to tease you and your warm cheeks. He’s always been aware of the effect of his soft voice whenever you’re with him. It’s a total contrast to his powerful voice when he has lines to sing with Jisung, Changbin, and Chan onstage.

“Absolutely! I’m glad you told me that. I wanted to spend my whole break with you, of course,” Minho scratches his head with his free hand. “I don’t want to barge in or overstay without your approval.”

Gasping, you pull him with all of your might, also wrapping your arm around Minho’s back. “It’s fine, Minho. You can stay whenever you want. No need to ask for permission because you’re living with me at this point.” You giggled as you feel yourself get warmer with your arms around each other’s backs.

When the two of you reached your home, prepared yourselves for bed. It was an hour of doing your own things with peaceful silence.

The talking began when you finally settled in your bed, blankets wrapping you both.

Minho breaks the silence. “By the way, how was the final show?” He awaits your answer by reaching for your hand as usual and pulling it under the blankets to kiss it.

You can’t help but laugh at the sight. “Sorry, I just can’t believe you’re like this outside of the stage.” And your thought’s not wrong. He does show a different side of himself whenever he’s onstage. The sharp eyes, the fierce energy, and the teasing personality — it all disappears whenever he’s with you.

Not to mention, he’s looking at you with the brightest eyes and the softest look on his face right now. You can’t seem to comprehend that Minho as a guitarist differs from Minho as your significant other. 

“About the show though, I loved it, as usual. Your shows really hit differently here in our hometown. Your guitar solo almost made me ascend.” Your last comment made you giggle together. “You’re the coolest person out there. I cannot believe I’m with one of the best guitarists and vocalists out there, you know? I love how you always enjoy being on stage with the boys.” You shared your thoughts while playing with Minho’s fingers.

Minho melts, unable to respond right away. He loves hearing your thoughts about the band’s shows. Even if you say the same things, your words never fail to touch his heart and make him love you even more.

“Thank you so much, _____. I’m joyful that you got to see our last show. It’s one of the most memorable shows we ever had. You got to be a part of it and see everything that happened,” he hushed, sleepiness finally kicking him in.

You pull him into your embrace and feel his lips on yours. “Thank you for letting me in your best moments. I’ll always be there, hopefully, to make everything better.” You combed his hair away from his face and also leave a kiss on his forehead.

“You’re also a part of every single memorable moment I ever had. And I am very sure that you will always be the reason I even get to experience such things.”

You two fell into a deep slumber in each other’s arms and comfort. Inarguably, it was Minho’s best snooze ever since he had to continue the tour. You, on the other hand, lost that feeling of loneliness. The two of you really proved that sleeping with each other’s the best method for great rest. 

That is why Minho’s not surprised that he woke up with you holding onto his shirt and your head on his chest. He held you in his arms for another hour until he got out of bed carefully, make some breakfast, and go back to the tour bus to take his things.

Supposedly, he’s going to message his bandmates. But his phone’s lock screen greeted him with several notifications.

chan: minho, i know you’re with _____

chan: i already returned to our apartment, no need to get your stuff back in the tour bus because i also brought your bags back here

chan: though, if you want to help jisung and changbin get out of bed, feel free to do so since they’re still staying in the bus

jisung: HEY! i’m up already! i’m gonna leave changbin here :p see you in two weeks guys!

chan: you’re not going back after two weeks

chan: you visited minho and i after he stayed in with _____ for a solid week, you cannot survive without us

jisung: ugh stop exposing me!

jisung: bye :DD love u all

chan: lol love u jisung

chan: your coffee beans will always wait for you here! 

Minho chuckles. He mumbles to himself, “I guess I can stay in bed a little longer.”

He walks back to your bed, lying down to leave a text to his bandmates.

minho: take care of my guitar! i’ll get it later when i go get groceries for dinner!

chan: sigh… we just finished tour! don’t tell me you’re back to writing songs again </3

minho: nope :p i have something to do with it that has nothing to do with that!

All he plans is to serenade you again, anyway. He thought it’d be great to give you another show just for you to see.

He lists down some songs in his notes as his “alternative set list” — which he wrote as the title of the note — as he waits for you to wake up to the smell of your aromatic breakfast. 

Though, you wake up to Minho trying hard not to squeal over the songs he listed. He knows you’d either cringe or obsess over his performances later, but he is sure that you’ll enjoy them, regardless.

Minho drops his phone to the side table and greets you with a beautiful smile on his face. He brings himself to your body. “Good morning, my love!”

#kflixnet #districtninewriters #straykidsland #wkcnet #Hiraya-M #stray kids imagines #stray kids scenarios #stray kids drabbles #stray kids fluff #skz fluff #minho imagines #lee minho imagines #minho x reader #lee know x reader #lee minho x reader #skz fanfic #minho fluff #lee minho fluff #r.writes

[rxspbrrry]

you’ll make a good pillow.

notes ; clotted cream cookie x gn reader, fluffy fluff to make up for the pain caused by sekai wa zankoku da which you should most definitely read if you haven’t <3, no warnings just cuddles!!!!!!!!!!, ooc clotted cream who i only know feiyue’s characterisation of clotted cream

a/n: been thinkin bout him a little too much lately dot dot dot clotted cream boutta take the number one spot in my heart 😞 raspberry and red velvet have some tough competition

after the newly appointed consul of the creme republic had given his first speech addressing all the citizens, a magnificent feast was to be had. inspired by the joyous spirit of the hollyberry kingdom’s balls, the creme republic had decided to hold a kingdom-wide feast for all the come and join to celebrate the new consul taking office.

yet strangely enough, said consul, the subject of the celebration, the one whose achievements everyone was celebrating about, was nowhere to be found.

as you guided yourself along the never-ending corridors of the vanilla castle, you huffed and complained to yourself about your aching feet for walking for too long just trying to find clotted cream’s chambers. you swore to yourself that he would never hear the end of it if you manage to find his chambers before the sun fully sets; keyword being “if”.

clotted cream cookie was so going to get it from you.

luckily for you and your hopelessly terrible navigation skills, it wasn’t long before you found yourself outside his unguarded door. financier cookie was nowhere in sight— most likely chased away by him to give him space and allow her to enjoy the feast herself. how considerate, you mused. how very nice of him, too, to let his own lover carry a plate of food and a glass of water all the way to his chambers because the hero of the day wouldn’t show up at the feast dedicated to him.

you knock on the door, and you almost miss the soft “come in” that signals you to open it. there, on the bed with dishevelled hair and a crumpled coat, in all his pride and glory, sat clotted cream cookie.

his weary eyes light up slightly when he realises that it was you who came in and not his bodyguard (bless her, really, financier cookie doesn’t get paid enough to deal with his bullcrap) or some other creme republic leader. his arms reach out to hug your waist, burying his head in your stomach before you can finish locking his door. “hey, wait, i haven’t—”

“that was a terrible speech,” he laments to you, groaning and pressing his face further into your tummy. you shift your standing position such that you can put the plate of food and glass of water down, while making him be more comfortable. “so, so terrible. i did so badly that i’m certain the honourable elders secretly hate me now.”

you smile a little to yourself, thinking about how funny it would be to show this dramatic and vulnerable side of him to the girls who were constantly fawning over him (more so during his speech, which you took note of at that time), but a selfish part of you is glad that only you can see it now. so thankfully to him and thankfully to you, his reputation won’t be ruined today just yet.

“you made me skip the feast to find you,” you remark softly, carding one hand through his hair and taking a slice of ginkgo focaccia with the other. “here. i’m positive you didn’t eat since brunch— which i forced you to eat, by the way— and don’t you dare go to sleep with an empty stomach.”

he begrudgingly takes a bite of the slice you offer him, temple constantly pressed against your stomach and arms never letting go of your waist. while you watch him swallow some of the food you brought and down a bit of the water, you absentmindedly play with his hair and your thoughts drift over to possible ways to get him to let you go so you can return to your own chambers for the night. tomorrow, as clotted cream’s first official day in office, it’s considered a big day and you have to ensure that everything is prepared for him to start work immediately.

it’s almost as if he can read your thoughts. “why are you trying to wiggle out of my grasp?” he asks. the choice of word is dubious and the tone is incomprehensible; like always, you can never decipher his true intentions. “you aren’t going anywhere tonight, my dear. you’re staying with me.”

“staying? with you?”

“that’s what i said,” he wipes his fingers on a napkin you brought along, before turning to you with a suspiciously bright smile. “call it an energy boost of sorts for tomorrow, hm?”

you aren’t sure if you’re convinced, but given that you’re dating the clotted cream cookie, you should’ve guessed that you wouldn’t have a choice. next thing you know, he pulls you onto the bed and cages you in his arms. he wraps them around your waist again and snuggles into your neck, creating a hum of content once he gets comfortable.

there is no way to get out or retaliate. if you try to wriggle out, he’ll just hug you tighter. he’s not ticklish, so that’s out of the question. asking him to change into more comfortable clothes wouldn’t work either because he’ll just say that “being in your embrace is comfortable enough”. and you know that seducing him into kindly letting you out is a big no.

besides, a small voice in your head that sounds an awful lot like the man cuddling you now speaks up, do you really want to leave?

“i suppose not,” you sigh, answering your own thoughts. you have to admit that having clotted cream cuddle you like this on his bed was something akin to heaven. you would be waking up to the angelic face that girls would die for the next morning, so that was kind of a bonus. and you supposed that the feeling of his slow breath on your neck was, though rather intimate, quite a relaxing feeling that nevertheless makes your heart flutter.

sleep overtakes clotted cream faster than it does you, and you have half a mind to leave him while he’s unaware. but who does that, really? so clearly you reject the thought and stay in his warm, cozy embrace. what a blissful feeling, you think, allowing your eyelids to finally shut and let yourself doze off to dreamland.

the next morning the two of you wake up late for work with unruly hair and untidy clothes, but clotted cream cookie ensures that it’s totally worth it.

you’re never staying the night again.

#r.writes #cookie run #cookie run kingdom #cookie run x reader #cookie run kingdom x reader #cookie run sfw #cookie run kingdom sfw #clotted cream cookie #clotted cream cookie x reader