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mmvalentine · 3 years

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Pomegranate pt 5 | Feysand

Hades/ Persephone inspired AU. Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 6

Rhys stays up most of that night with Cassian and Amren, making battle plans. The Night Court is far north enough that they aren’t in immediate danger. The same cannot be said for the Spring Court.

Since Hybern is already in the mortal lands, they are closer to the Spring Court than Rhys’s armies. He starts them travelling that very day, and then in the evening, is back in Feyre’s room. She is in his arms almost as soon as he winnows in.

“Hello lover,” he says into her hair.

“You still haven’t slept, have you?” she asks. Rhys doesn’t answer.

“Any response from Tamlin about the Hybern attack?” he says instead.

“Just one,” Feyre replies dryly, and then pulls back enough to meet his eyes. Rhys blanches.

Feyre’s face is mottled with bruises on her chin and temple. There’s an ugly gash across her left cheek, and a small cut in her eyebrow. Rhys’s knees give slightly, and he pulls her to sit on the bed before kneeling in front of her and inspecting her face and body. There are cuts on her hands, too. “Tamlin says, how dare you side with that night court whelp over your own father,” Feyre recites. “If I say Hybern isn’t a threat then it isn’t a threat. Stupid stubborn bastard.”

“He hit you?” Rhys said. His jaw is clenched so tight Feyre can see the muscles jump. Feyre’s laugh is brittle.

“Oh no,” she says. “He never hits me himself. He just… explodes things in my vicinity. And then he panics and says I shouldn’t have been standing so close. Or pressed him after he said to stop. Once, he actually told me I should have thicker skin.”

A snarl builds in Rhys’s throat, but Feyre touches his cheek.

“I’m okay, Rhys. They’re just scratches.”

“I’ll kill him.”

“Rhys. Don’t do anything dumb. Besides, whenever he really loses it at me he usually feels so guilty that he lets me out again. You know, until he finds another reason to lock me up.”

Rhys looked up at that. “So you’re free to go?”

“He hasn’t said anything yet, but he usually waits until breakfast anyway.”

“Well fuck waiting. Just come with me tonight, leave Tamlin for Hybern.”

“And abandon my own court? Would you do it?”

She has him there. Rhys sits back on his heels and drops his forehead to her knee. “I don’t know when they’re coming,” he says. “And I can’t just leave you waiting. Not when Tamlin’s doing this shit to you.”

“Okay, then stay here,” Feyre says. He looks up at here.

“Stay with you?” he asks.

“Yeah. I never like it when you leave anyway. And you need to get some sleep. Seriously.”

He looks at her and the anguish stings his eyes like hot tears. Hybern is coming. Tamlin is hurting Feyre. She’s asking him to sleep in her bed. There are too many things to feel.

“Come on,” Feyre says gently. She tugs him off his knees. “Come to bed.”

Rhys lets her pull him up into the bed. He toes off his boots and shrugs his arms out of his jacket and shirt, sending them in to a pocket realm in case someone comes in and finds his things on the floor. Feyre blows out the candle on the table by the bed, and gets under the sheets with him. He pulls her against him, and nuzzles her face into her shoulder.

“My armies are on their way,” he says. “Hybern won’t win.”

“Sleep now, Rhysand,” Feyre whispers, and he doesn’t think he could just fall asleep when he’s wrapped around this girl in her bed, but she hums a lilting song under her breath and he does.

///

Feyre wakes Rhys early in the morning by tracing her fingertips over the contours of his face. Travels the mountains of his cheekbones and the planes of his nose. Trips over the valleys of the crease above his eyelids, and is just brushing over his lips when his fingers tighten at her waist.

“Hello you,” Feyre says softly.

Rhys’s eyes open slowly, and he loves that she is the first thing he sees in the morning. The dawn light is filtering in through Feyre’s gauzy white curtains, and catches in the loose strands of her honey-gold hair.

“Hello my favourite flower.” His voice is scratchy with sleep.

Feyre’s hands are now trailing down his bare chest, and he watches her studying his tattoos. His hands start to wander, too, and he can feel the heat of her skin through the short satin night gown that he doesn’t remember if she was wearing when he got in last night.

“What do these mean?” Feyre asks quietly. Rhys uses his ankles to tug one of Feyre’s legs between his, and strokes down her flank again.

“It’s sort of a rite of passage for Illyrian warriors,” he tells her, now swirling a finger up her arm and over the top of her bare shoulder. Her skin in contrast is creamy white and unblemished.

“Did they hurt?” she says. She’s now following the tattoos over his biceps.

“Yes,” Rhys replies, with a smile in his voice. His throat bobs. “But it was worth it to have you touching me like that.”

Feyre smacks him lightly and pulls her hands back, but Rhys grabs them and places them back on his chest. “Don’t stop,” he says.

Feyre meets his eyes then, and in the dawn light Rhys finds flecks of gold in her blue-grey stare. He circles his arms around her and pulls her closer in. “I’ll never get tired of your hands on me,” he murmurs. Feyre’s gaze drops to his mouth then, and she blushes slightly but her fingers start to move again. Cautiously at first, up his chest and over his shoulders. Rhys closes his eyes and breathes deeply while she does it. Feyre rubs a little more firmly down his arms and back up. The next pass down, she scratches lightly and a rumble stirs low in Rhys’s chest. His fingers twitch around her waist.

Feyre runs her nails up and then down his back, and now Rhys can’t keep his own hands still. He makes broad strokes over her back, too, fingertips following the line of her spine from the nape of the neck all the way down her backside. Back and forth, slow and leisurely, while Feyre’s hands slide under his hair and scrape down the back of his neck. The next time Rhys reaches Feyre’s ass, he keeps going and brushes her pussy through her underwear.

Feyre’s touch stutters, but she doesn’t make a sound. Moves her hands down his chest and over his abs, while his travel back up. And then back down.

With every pass he pushes his fingers against the growing heat of her, and on the third stroke he can feel her getting wet through the cotton. Rhys pauses, and then pushes her underwear to the side so he can feel her. When his fingers slide down the bare core of her, Feyre moans softly and it’s all Rhys needs to be rolling smoothly over her with his erection pressed firmly at her centre.

“I’m going to vanish our clothes now,” he says, an inch from her nose.

“Okay,” Feyre says breathlessly.

Rhys does so, in a moment between moving his body down and back up hers. They both breathe sharply when they find nothing separating their skin, and Rhys gets achingly hard between her legs. He holds still for a minute.

“Just a reminder that we have to be quiet,” he grits out. “Is this a terrible idea?”

“Yes,” Feyre says. She grins like sunshine through clouds. “Let’s do it anyway.” She rolls her hips beneath him and Rhys is moving again. He snaps his wings out and cocoons the both of them, as if that will help stifle sound. He puts his mouth on hers, and a second later he’s shifting between her legs and pushing against her pussy.

Feyre gasps slightly, but Rhys just kisses it from her lips as he focuses on going slow. Her breathing shallows but he’s holding his breath until he hits his hilt, and then he exhales hard against Feyre’s neck. She is so impossibly tight around him and she’s got her hands under his jaw now. He looks at her, and tries to anchor himself in her eyes as he pulls out just as slowly and then pushes back in.

“I fucking love you,” Rhys whispers to her, and then he moves again. Feyre tries to reply, but can’t form the words. She tries to hold onto his gaze but her eyes roll back as her body adjusts to the size of him and he starts to speed up. Just a little.

“It’s okay,” Rhys tells her. “I’ve got you. Keep your eyes on me.” With some effort Feyre pulls her head back up. “That’s it,” he croons, and then fucks her a little harder. Leans down to press a kiss to her lips, but doesn’t break his rhythm.

“Rhys,” Feyre gasps.

“Yeah honey?”

Feyre opens and closes her mouth, but can only manage his name again. “Rhys…”

“I know.” Rhys slides his hand between them and touches his fingers to her clit. His hips are relentless, and Feyre can’t catch her breath.

“Rhys I… oh gods I…”

“What’s that, petal?” She doesn’t know how he sounds so calm.

Rhys sits up onto his heels, and the angle deepens. He’s circling his thumb over her clit now, and Feyre’s eyes squeeze shut again.

“Open them sweetheart, please,” Rhys murmurs. He curls one hand under her thigh to bring her in closer to him. “I just want you here with me.”

Feyre forces her eyes open, but it’s so much more intense when they’re watching each other.

“I can’t,” she whimpers.

Rhys drops back down over her, and hovers his face above hers.

“It’s just me,” he whispers to her. “I’m right here.”

Feyre moves her hands to his face and somehow, with him this close, it is easier. The room fades away and his violet eyes fill her vision, and then they’re back in the field of wildflowers and they are the only things in the whole world.

“Good girl,” Rhys breathes. He moves his mouth on her nipple, then her neck, then her lips. Feyre's hands are on his ass and pulling him in further now, and he gets drunk on how much she wants him, too. Rhys watches her for a minute, then whispers in her ear. “I want you to come for me.”

And out of nowhere there it is, her climax is right behind her. Feyre holds onto Rhys more tightly as her breaths come fast and shallow, and there’s a moment she’s lost and her knees are gripping Rhys’s hips for dear life while his fingers move deftly between them and then the orgasm is bursting behind her eyelids and Rhys’s hand is clamping down over her mouth so she doesn’t make a sound.

Feyre shakes violently as the waves ebb, his wings tightening around her. Rhys takes his hand away and kisses her lips. She’s coasting on the come down when she realises Rhys has started to build his rhythm back up. He’s got his mouth at the hollow of her throat now and his hand squeezing over her breast, and before she knows it the spiral is tightening again.

“Come again honey,” Rhys says huskily.

“And you too?” Feyre asks.

“Yeah,” Rhys manages. His thumb is flicking over her nipple in time with the one over her clit. “I’ll come if you come.”

Rhys’s hips are getting erratic now and finally he is unravelling. Feyre is satisfied. She pushes her fingertips against his wings and listens to his breathing change, and then she’s floating again. She forgets to keep eye contact but at this point she can’t care about anything at all.

Rhys watches her eyes roll and her face flush. He loves her reactions to him, loves being able to watch her orgasm sneak up on her and the glorious look of almost surprise when it hits. Most of all he loves the way her pussy clenches tight around his cock when she comes, and this time when it happens he loses it and he’s right there with her, and he yells as he comes before biting down hard on his lip to keep himself quiet.

Their bodies shudder together and Rhys gathers Feyre close to him as they chase their breath. He takes in lungfuls of the scent of her and it is minutes before he finally pulls out and cleans them up with magic. Rhys has just gotten his arms back around Feyre and closed his eyes when there is a crash in the hallway outside.

Feyre sits bolt upright and looks at him with terror in her eyes. “My father,” she says.

But Rhys can hear shouting minds in the corridors. “No,” he says, sitting up more slowly. “Hybern. They're here.”

**** Happy weekend my loves! Wishing you all a wonderful day xx

MASTERLIST

TAGLIST: @ghostlyrose2 @highladysith @stardelia @feysand-loml @tillyrubes10 @ratabrasileira @live-the-fangirl-life @maybekindasortaace @annejulianneh111 @thebonecarver @rowaelinismyotp @loosingdreams @whythefuckdoiexist @inejsarrow @swankii-art-teacher @sjmships @courtofjurdan @teddytdr @positivewitch @thalia-2-rose @darling-archeron @rapunzel1523 @fairchildjace @philosophorumaurum02 @story-scribbler @allthecolorsneverseen @asteria-of-mars @fandomstalker27 @realbookloverproblems @dealfea @s-tormwitch @cretaceous-therapod @whenyadoesntcutit @scatterbrainedgirl @tanvee1231

#feysand #feysand fic #acotar #mine #smut

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felswritingfire · 3 years

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April Brain Rot #12

Prompts:

53. Marble

Riddle Rosehearts x Reader

Summery: You met a cursed Riddle Rosehearts when you were 6- you've been sneaking out to meet him ever since. Now you're an adult and determined to break his curse and find his friends despite the stress of home.

TW: Implied Abusive relationship (Mother/child)

Word Count: 1,589

A note from Fel: If y'all do not ask me for a continuation of this- my girlfriend will- that is not a threat that is a promise.

“What have I told you about following rules?” You wince at the tone of his voice. Riddle had always been a stickler for rules- ever since you first met him.

You were a child then, running away from your shrieking mother- raging about some sort of vase that you accidently bumped into and broke- and hiding in the forest just beyond your backyard. You had tripped, your palms colliding with the twigs and stones and your chin following afterwards. You lay there for a few moments, your small body heaving with each shaky breath you suck in. You whimpered at the stones digging into the open scrapes on your palms as you pushed yourself up. You hiccuped, sitting up and looked around. The sun was setting, bathing everything in an orange glow. The shadows of the trees were an inky black and the cries and creaks of the forest seemed to be amplified and you sniffled, standing up and looking behind you. You didn’t know where you were, but you didn’t want to go home. You didn’t want to hear your mother scream again.

You hiccuped again, waddling further into the forest on your shaky legs.

By the time that the sun had dipped below the mountains and the night sky was coming to eat the rest of the day away, you had stumbled onto an old mansion’s garden. You had been awed by the vines that were creeping over the crumbling walls and the black gates that barely hung to their hinges. You squeezed through the gates to see a statue standing in the middle of the overgrown garden of flowers.

It was a boy: short in stature despite the heels he wore, his eyes looking down forlornly at the rose in his hand and his lips were pulled into a thin line. You stared up at him, eyes sparkling as you pressed your hands against the smooth marble of the statue.

You gasped when the surface bagan to crack, bits falling off as the statue began to move and breath. A gasp escapes him as a sheet of marble falls from his face and steel grey eyes and red strands fall from their previous position. He stumbled forward and you held out your hands like you were going to catch him-

“(Y/N)!”

You wince again, being pulled out of your musings of the past by a pink faced Riddle. “Yes, yes- I know. I’m sorry.” You pick at the grass despite that being the rule you broke not too long ago.

He folds his arms, squinting at you. His frown twitches into something more concerned the longer he looks at you. He finally sighs and moves to sit next to you on the dried up fountain. “Are you alright? You-” he brushes his fingers under your puffy eyes- “have bags. They’re very dark, you know?”

“Really?” You rub at your face, feeling sheepish suddenly. “I thought I covered them up enough. Guess not, huh?”

He pouts.

“I’m fine, really, Riddle.”

“Don’t lie to me.” His tone stern and unwavering.

“Ah…” a breathless giggle leaves you, “you know me too well, don’t you.”

“Of course! I’ve known you since you were 6 after all.” He’s smug as he crosses his arms.

“Yeah. I’m old compared to back then, eh?”

“And you’ve become a wonderful adult.”

You hum and look down at your hands, your fingers intertwined with each other, suddenly feeling exhausted.

Riddle’s eyebrows crease and his frown grows bigger. He places a hand on your back, gently rubbing circles against your shoulder blade. “What’s wrong?”

You look up at him, your eyelids feeling heavy. “My mom… She… Ah, Riddle- I don’t know what to do anymore.” You whisper. “Everything I do isn’t good enough and she always pulls the ‘I’m sick so I can be completely awful about everything.’” Your sight began to turn glassy. “And there’s-” you suck in a deep breath trying not to cry- “there’s no one else I can rely on to help take care of her. And she’s started getting more and more angry about me leaving at night-”

“Does that mean you’ll stop seeing me?” Riddle’s voice is quiet as he asks you that.

You look up at him, shaking your head. “No! No- never. I still have to break your curse and find your friend.”

He smiles almost bitterly. “I’m not sure how we’re going to do that, Rose Bud. I’m sure that Trey and Che’nya are long gone… and my curse…” He shakes his head. “I don’t even know where to start.”

He had told you about Trey and Che’nya multiple times- each time he looked more and more wistful and lonely. They had been his best friends, from what he told you. “We’ll figure it out! You mentioned that they were both there when you were cursed right? So maybe they were cursed too.”

He grimaces. “I hope not. It’s simply awful.” Suddenly his eyes droop. “Why would they leave me though?”

You wrap your arms around him, feeling his face heat up against your skin as you press your cheek against his. “I’m sure they didn’t know. I wouldn’t expect my friends to be a living statue.”

“I wasn’t.”

You blink, pulling away from him yet you still kept your arms around him. “Hm?”

“I wasn’t a living statue until you touched me.”

You hummed, pressing your face against his again. You felt your head swim with thoughts. From your mother to how you were going to help Riddle. Even the strange looking cat that hung around the bakery you loved so much. A thought began to bloom in your mind: maybe… maybe-

“Hey, Riddle.”

“Hm?”

You look at him out the corner of your eye. He was leaning against you, holding your hand. You feel your heart beat faster as you lick your lips before you begin: “you know all those fairytales? The ones where… where true love's kiss breaks the curse?”

Riddle’s eyebrows furrowed. “Yes?”

“Do…” You gulp. “Do you want to try it?”

A strangled noise leaves him as he jerks himself away from you. “What?”

“I mean-” you wave your hands around, a blush climbing up your neck and cheeks- “it’s the one thing we haven’t tried!”

He clears his throat, smoothing down the front of his vest, glancing at everything that wasn’t you. “I- I well yes- but-” he looks at you, his face the picture of flustered. “How do you know I love you?”

“You do, don’t you?” Your voice was high pitched and panicked.

“I- I- of course I do! Do you?”

“Yes! Of course!”

“G-good!”

“Let’s- I- um-” you snapped your mouth shut, staring hard at him with a determined expression and a red face. Your hands shoot out grabbing his cheeks and dragging him to you, pressing your lips against his. You two stay like that, not moving, barely breathing.

You’re both red faced by the time you finally pull away from each other. You feel yourself practically vibrating. And you assume Riddle is too by the way his hand trembles in yours. “I- I-” you try to steady your shaking voice, “Do you feel any different?”

His bottom lip trembles as he closes his eyes. His brows furrow and he frowns. “No. No, I don’t.”

You frown too. “Oh.”

“B-but maybe we- we have to do it again?”

Your eyes widen and you gawk at him before nodding feeling ecstatic. “Ok.”

By the time you two had stopped pressing soft kisses against each other- both of your lips were tender and your cheeks felt like they were stained a permanent red. Your breaths intermingle as you press your foreheads against each other. You stare into Riddle’s eyes, feeling yourself drown in the depths of his grey eyes and the way that the morning light put gold flecks in his-

You gasped. “Riddle!”

He lets out a dazed noise, a wobbly smile on his red lips.

“Riddle! Riddle! It’s- it’s morning!”

You almost burst out at Riddle’s face: he looked like he just got hit over the head with a metal bat. He looks at the sun and immediately recoils with a hiss. “It- the- the sun!” He tries to look at it again and squeezes his eyes shut with another hiss. “It burns!”

“Don’t look at the sun, silly!”

His pained hisses bleeds into a giddy laughter. “It’s the sun, Rose Bud! The sun!” He pulls you up and traps you into a hug, spinning you around with him.

You shriek with laughter. “It is! It is!”

“We- I- we have to have a talk with your mother!” Riddle suddenly turned serious. “I need to have a word with her. I need to make clear to her how she should be treating you! There are rules that my mother beat into me at a young age and obviously she isn’t understanding them-”

“Before that!” You start to tug him out of the woods. “I need to go and take you to that bakery! The one with the weird cat- I think his name is Alchemy, or something- and Mr. Clover! I always get you your tarts from there-”

“Wait- Alchemy? Clover?”

You nod, looking confused. “Have I never told you their names?”

He lets out another laugh. “Let’s go, Rose Bud!”

You feel the giddy emotions spread through you, never having seen him this excited in your life. You’ll deal with your mother later, right now you and Riddle were going to drink in the sun.

Thank you for reading!

#Twisted wonderland #Twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland imagines #twst #twst x reader #twst imagines #twst riddle #riddle rosehearts #riddle x reader #x reader #gender nuetral reader #non bianary reader #sfw #not a reblog #april brain rot

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ajokeformur-ray · 4 years

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Two Hungry Souls // Arthur Fleck x Reader // soft comfort.

Written for @anti-peach in a time of great need. Darling, I hope this helps you. I truly do.

Summary: What I need is some cuddles. Since he's also touch starved (clearly much more than I am), I'd love just some intimate moments where it's meaningful contact with sweet words thrown it. Conversation about how lack of love and intimacy hurts and how happy we are to have found each other. Maybe its like the first time in the relationship either have been ready for intimate contact. Nothing smutty obviously, but just like- sweet stuff.

Word count: 1, 675.

This smol bean look at him ughhhhh~ imagine being blessed enough to wake up to this every day! <3

“Hey, Arthur?” You called from where you were settled in bed, leaning against the headboard. “The Murray Show is on! Hurry up~” You turned the last word upwards into a sing song voice and you smiled despite your overall mood at the sound of dishes being shoved unceremoniously into the sink and the quick padding of his bare feet across the apartment’s threadbare carpet.

“Yay, Murray!” Arthur’s smile was full faced and natural, his eyes glowing as he threw himself down beside you on the bed, the mattress bouncing slightly with the force of his enthusiasm. His voice was soft and his tone childlike, filled to the brim with excitement. He loved the Murray show, even the reruns. His shoulder touched your fleshier one as he sunk into the mattress, and he jerked away as if he had burned you, his eyes quickly shooting to yours to gauge your reaction.

“It’s okay,” You smiled, the ghost of his brief yet welcomed touch still haunting your skin in the form of goose pimples. “You can lean against me.”

Arthur frowned gently, the crease in his brow furrowed. “N-no i-it’s okay, I don’t - “ He cleared his throat and tried again, “Don’t wanna bother you.”

“It’s hardly a bother if I invited you, is it?”

Arthur’s eyes searched yours earnestly. A slow, wide smile spread across his emaciated face as he realised slowly and with much disbelief that you were being serious. You wanted him to touch you. Even in the innocent context that it was meant in did it spread a blush like wild fire across his face.

“Can we...” Arthur leaned against your shoulder again, gently easing his weight onto you like he was afraid you were a delusion, like he would fall across the bed holding nothing but the cold, empty air. When at last was his weight fully against your side did he breathe a quiet sigh of relief.

As your eyes fluttered closed - such a simple touch could leave your head spinning - you decided that you wanted more.

It hadn’t escaped your notice that Arthur hadn’t finished his question and you also didn’t fail to see that almost subconsciously was he leaning further into you, trying to get as close as he physically could. He was only wearing charcoal grey trousers, leaving his top half naked. The material of your green zip up hoodie was a comforting sensation against Arthur’s tired, worn down and bruised skin.

“’Can we’ what, honey?” Tentatively did you reach out a hand to thread your fingers through Arthur’s own, squeezing his hand gently in yours. You squeezed a little harder this time as you silently encouraged Arthur to say what he wanted. It was something you were both learning alongside each other; to ask when you wanted something. So used were you to being denied by yourselves and by others that being able to ask and to receive was an entirely novel concept which you both adored having found in the other.

“Can we cuddle?”

Oh, help you, that was exactly what you wanted. “Yes!” The word ripped from your lips before you even fully registered Arthur’s words, and his answering beam had you positively glowing as he pulled you into his arms. The opening instrumental of the Murray Show started to play as Arthur took you into his arms, your head easily finding his chest. Your ears immediately found his heart beat and you pressed down, wanting to hear your most favourite sound like it was inside your own mind; a tattoo inside the part of the brain that remembered sounds and tortured you with refrains of unfinished songs you could no longer remember the name of.

Arthur’s small chuckle and his muttered “woah” as you got comfortable without your conscious mind telling you to slow down, to ask if it was okay, to ask if Arthur was okay with this made you pause, but his hand found your dyed hair, his slender fingers gently untangling any knots it encountered. “It’s okay, sweetheart.” His voice was so quiet, so intimate, that it made that long since neglected, ignored part of your heart sing in amazement. “Take what you want from me. It’s all yours if you want it.”

You pulled your head up from his chest somewhat reluctantly to look up at him. “What about you? What do you want?”

With an awkward bend to his spine did Arthur press a lingering, tender kiss to your forehead. “S’okay,” He hummed, “I’ve got everything I need right here.” Emphatically did he kiss your forehead again, his arms tightening around you as if he was afraid that you would leave him. Nothing could hurt him more than his fear of losing you in any meaning of the term. You were his double edged blade - you were his happiness but you could also craft his doom if you so chose. He was the same for you and carefully did you keep each other on the same side of the line - the side where you carved your lives out together, creating a person who makes you believe that everything the world tries to tell you isn’t real, is real - that everything is true. Love did exist in its purest form - you were cuddled up to him right now, your head rising and falling gently with his every breath, his heartbeat in your ear and his arms wrapped around you cosily.

A soft noise left your throat but you pushed it down, blinked the tears away before they fell, before Arthur felt them against his warm, soft skin, and just enjoyed the moment of feeling Arthur under you, his skin on yours and his lips in your hair, breathing you in, and you just sunk into the feeling of being loved and being in love the way you sink into a hot bath; slowly, carefully in case you get scalded, and then all at once with a full bodied sigh of quiet relief.

As the show was half way done and the adverts played across the television did you raise your head to look at Arthur. You turned, blocking his view of the television screen. Arthur’s hands dropped to your plush hips as he squeezed gently, just looking at you.

“I’m so happy we found each other.” You leaned forward to press a kiss to his cheek, coming forward even more to rest your forehead against his.

“I never dared to think - “ Arthur couldn’t say that he had never dared to dream, because he had. Oh, you both had yearned and dreamed of meeting someone like the other, of meeting someone who loved you as fiercely and as strongly as you loved them, but in your pain and your sorrow, that weird numb feeling which stole all sense of time and direction, had you been forced to learn the true meaning of patience. Finding each other quite by chance had been no reward, but it had been a simple case of being in the right place at the right time, a chance encounter which had led to the most beautiful, devastating relationship you had ever experienced or would ever experience again.

“I thought I wasn’t able to be loved.” You whispered quietly, as if you were afraid that speaking the words which so often haunted you would be drawn into reality; that even speaking them makes the sentiment real. It was a fear Arthur knew all too well and immediately did his hands move from your hips to cup your face in his hands. His hands were hot against your skin, and as the instrumental sounded out from the old television again to announce that The Murray Show was continuing did he tilt his head to kiss you. His lips were soft, warm and dry against your own. Even here in the bed, cuddled up under the duvet and watching television together, your bodies touching, there was no thought of sex. There was only sympathy, tenderness, love and affection and the new but so welcomed knowledge that you and Arthur were in love and would always be in love.

“No, angel,” Arthur shook his head, your forehead tingling as his rubbed against yours with the movement. “Don’t ever think that. I won’t let you think that.”

“But - “

“No,” Arthur sighed out the word, his breath washing gently over your face, you pulled back slightly, just enough to nuzzle your face in the crook of his neck. His hands slid down your face and came to wrap around your back. He hugged you tightly to him, the both of you sighing in various degrees of relief and love, “It’s not you that can’t love or be loved. It’s the world. Look what it’s done to you, to both of us. It’s,” He sighed deeply, his ribs becoming more prominent against his skin as he inhaled, and then becoming less so as he exhaled; he was so thin. “It’s crazy.” The last word became another sigh, almost as if Arthur had run out of steam.

Perhaps he had.

In any case, as you both got settled down again, finding joy in such a simple pleasure; touching and being touched by another living person, though the force of the gravity of the love you held for one another was so strong that everything was amplified. Sometimes you felt so much love it was like you physically couldn’t handle it and that it was going to burst forth from you uncontrollably. Sometimes it did and you were left with tears running down your face as you thought about Arthur and all that he meant to you.

As the Murray show came to a close and the television played another old re run of a different stand up show did the two of you stay together, basking in the love which you both had thought would never be yours.

But the old saying, as annoying and cliche as it was, was true:

Never say never.

The Arthur Fleck/Joker Defense Squad @writings-of-a-gen-z @x-avantgarde-x @insomniabird @mavalenovaninagavi @itwasrealenough @morrisonmercurymalek @rand0ms-fand0ms @rafaelina-casillas @aclownthing @rebs-doom @vivft @help-i-am-obssessed@autumnaffection @taintednihilist @vladtoly @mg-woolf99@misstgrey92 @that-s-life @dopey-girl-blogs @seeking-dreamland @sweetheart-syndrome @heartxfdesire @xmusichealsthesoulx @0callmejude0 @the-one-that-likes-riddles @hannibalsslut @folliaght @freeeshavacadoo @bingewatchingmylifegoby @unlovedbyeveryoneandeverything @okamiredfoxx @sp0okysp0oky @the-pandorabox @mardema @jibanyyan @honeyflvredcoughdrop @emissarydecksetter @jokerfleckk @epidendroideae @chuuntas @stillmabel @pumpkinpeyes @onehystericalqueenposts @the-jokers-wolf @nalsswa @justahyena @arianatheangelworld @soullessblondbitch @gothamslittlejester @twentyonestarrynights @sirianfromsixties @kissmeclownman @joker-is-my-hero @lazyloosah @lovesickkloxx @ladylovelyluna @live-love-loki @clownerybbxx @tragicarthur @anmach123 @rommie-chan @arthurflock @lucyboytom @anti-peach @ immortal-bi-bitch @hearthurfleck @crazieroutthere @curlystark @hailmary-yramliah @sagyunaro @playinthedarktillitsgoldenagain @jokeringcutio @xenthefox @mijachula

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redrebecca · 5 years

Text

Effortlessly Endearing

You met at the Met Gala, where you saved his ass and he saved yours.

Warning(s): Just swearing

A/N: Hiya, so this is a little Met Gala fic that doesn’t have Hailey in, at all. I just thought it was a kinda cute idea so yeh. Feedback is always appreciated, have a nice day.

Words: 2.2k

“And breathe in.” The woman from behind you commanded. The fabric restricted around your torso as she expertly stitched the material of the dress so it clung to you like a second skin, accentuating the curve of your chest and hips.

You had initially said no to this. A list events such as the Met Gala were never considered fun by your standards, more of a pain in the ass – you would much preferred to stay in your bed, eating junk food until your heart was content. But no. Instead you were stuck in a small, stuffy room being gawked at by more people than you were comfortable with, your internal organs groaning in discomfort at the all-too-tight dress and you wouldn’t dare to think the amount of unimaginable pain your feet would be in after at least 4 hours of walking in those ridiculously high heels that were placed in the corner of the room. You swore your feet ached from just the sight of them.

“Done!” The seamstress exclaimed, the first bit of emotion she’d shown since arriving. You gladly stepped off the pedestal and into your slippers, humming as your toes were finally enveloped in warmth. Unfortunately, your little moment of bliss was interrupted as you were swiftly ushered towards the hair and makeup chair. Your manager scolded you as you accidentally let an annoyed groan slip out of your mouth.

Luckily, or unluckily – you were undecided – the hair and makeup team were extremely efficient. They applied countless amounts of product on your face and put so many bobby pins into your hair you could actually feel the weight of them, in record time. However during this, someone had parted you from your beloved slippers and replaced them with the dreaded heels.

“But they’re custom Louboutins!” Your manager had expressed her disbelief when you had complained about them when they arrived. Like you cared what they were, if you made it through the event without breaking something you would be happy.

Unfortunately for you she didn’t take your request of wearing trainers instead too kindly – in fact she stormed out of the room.

You arrived at the event, the familiar buzz heightened your senses as you took in the other celebrities in ostentatious outfits surrounding you.

“Okay so you know the plan?” Your assistant said.

You inhaled and exhaled calming your nerves. You’d done enough met galas that you should be able to do it in your sleep, but nerves still ate away at your composure.

“I’d much rather be at home.” You muttered, wondering how many of these other celebrities felt the same way and which ones craved the attention this served them on a silver platter.

“I know you would,” She pulled you into a hug, granted it wasn’t the smoothest as she had to be extremely careful around the intricate design of your gown, but it was comforting nonetheless.

“You’re an actress right?” She said with a small smile. You nodded. “Then if you need to act, act.” You shoved her lightly, a smile gracing your features at her teasing. “You got this.” She assured you before you turned to walk the red carpet into the huge building.

As soon as you entered through the doors, interviewers began doing whatever they could to attract your attention and the sound of camera clicks increased as paparazzi swivelled and turned their focus from the people they were photographing, to you in your eye catching dress.

Sure the process wasn’t great but the outcome was simply stunning. Everything from the daring neckline to the elegant train that graciously moved behind you, like a shadow following your every move, even the colour – a charcoal grey with flecks of silver that caught the light perfectly – made this one of your favourite dresses.

The raucous caused upon your arrival resulted in many heads turning your way. You straightened your posture and put on your award winning smile before walking over to the closest interviewer.

You felt as though you had been here, jumping from tedious interview to tedious interview, for a long time, but, according to your watch, you had been here for under an hour.

Great.

You sped through your interview, deciding it was probably time to walk the carpet – and the dreaded stairs. The sooner you got your hands on that drink at the after party, the better. You politely declined interviewers’ offers that were being shouted at you from every angle and made your way to the buzzing centre of the event.

Several of your past co-stars approached you to have a much needed catch up, granted, it was quick and rushed, but it was always nice to see them.

You walked with Zendaya as you turned towards the long stretch of cameras paparazzi and a sea of very expensive suits and dresses, one man in particular caught your eye. Shawn Mendes. You couldn’t recall seeing him last year, or the year before that. A newbie.

He was talking to Troye Sivan, who perfectly timed scanning the room – just as you looked at him – and pointed towards you, drawing the taller man beside him’s attention to you. You waved, causing the two to smile and wave back. You turned back to your conversation with the actress before she was called over to the side by her assistant, urging you to go on without her.

Your eyes quickly found the maroon suit again, but this time the bright red of Troye’s suit was no longer there. He looked almost lost, certainly unsure. However, you didn’t blame him, you had been to countless events before your first ever met gala but you’d still found it daunting. Your eyes involuntarily trailed down his broad figure before something caught your eye. Your eyes widened when they landed on his crotch area – and not for that reason. You inhaled sharply when you noticed the white that significantly contrasted with the darker tone of his suit. The idiot hadn’t zipped up his trousers.

You panicked, not sure what to do. Should you tell him? You cringed at the thought of approaching a rather attractive human being, who your only interaction with was a brief wave, and telling them that you were staring at their crotch? No thank you. You willed yourself to turn around, after all, it wasn’t your problem. But just as you were about to distract yourself with god knows what – you saw him begin to walk towards the paparazzi. Fuck it, you thought, rushing faster than you thought was physically possible in your heels towards the man who was about to make a huge mistake – whilst wondering how catastrophic yours would be.

You reached him just as he turned towards the first cluster of cameras. Purposefully not giving yourself enough time to overthink your actions you stepped inches away from him, shielding him, and his modesty, from the mob of shouting photographers behind you. His expression morphed into shock very quickly at your unexpected appearance.

“Hi.” You said, the awkwardness of the interaction already had you wanting to hide in your apartment for at least a week, and you hadn’t even addressed the crotch situation yet.

“Hi?” He replied with so much uncertainty it was phrased more like a question than a greeting. You winced. God why did I do this? You swatted those thoughts away. As embarrassing as this was, it was the right thing to do.

“Y/N it’s nice to finally meet you but I-” He started.

“Your fly is undone.” You blurted. You hoped that your foundation was thick enough to hide the deep blush that was unquestionably heating your cheeks.

His eyes widened like a deer in headlights before they quickly left yours so he could check for himself. You looked away to try and reduce the embarrassment, for him and you, only turning back when you heard the hum of the zipper.

His perfectly flushed cheeks had darkened to a shade that almost matched the colour of his tailored suit.

“Thank you so much I- oh my god can you imagine the headlines.” His breaths were becoming more and more shallow with every word he spoke.

“Hey don’t worry about it. Wardrobe malfunctions happen to the best of us.” You nudged his shoulder gently and a beautiful smile grew on his face. To your surprise, he wrapped you in a hug, at first you were worried about creasing your dress, but that thought was erased almost as fast as it had come when you realized just how strangely comforting his hold was.

However you were abruptly brought back to reality by the deafening sound of camera clicks. You pulled away despite everything in you wanting to stay wrapped in his ridiculously strong arms. It was difficult to miss the way his eyes raked down your figure – just like you had done to him – as he too took a polite step back.

“See you at the after party?” He opened and closed his mouth a few times before just settling with a nod. You smiled, your confidence levels thankfully replenishing after that… experience. You turned as attractively as you could to walk away, hoping to ‘flaunt it’ as your assistant would tell you. However when you went to move your foot, it stayed still and you went flying forwards. You closed your eyes and braced yourself for the impact. But instead, before you could physically harm yourself, two muscular arms looped around your front, hoisting you up and towards him, so your back was pressed securely against his chest.

“You okay?” He asked. You tried, and failed, to refrain from shivering as you felt his warm breath on the shell of your ear.

“Yep.” You squeaked, still recovering from your almost-fall. If you couldn’t even walk without falling on a flat surface, your chances with the stairs were not looking promising.

“Just stand still for me.” He said, slowly removing you from his arms, ensuring that you were able to stay upright. He leaned down and you inhaled when you felt his large hand gently wrap around your ankle. “You might wanna hold on for a second.” He said and you just managed to hear it over the chaos that meant a popular celebrity was arriving. Your eyebrows furrowed before you caught onto what he was suggesting. You reached down to hold onto his shoulder. When he felt the pressure of your hand, he lifted your foot up, his long fingers untangling the train of your dress from the heel of your Louboutins. Just as carefully as he had picked it up, he placed your foot back on the ground with so much attentiveness, you felt as though you could melt into a puddle right there and then. He didn’t remove his hand straight away, meaning that when he stood back up, his hand trailed dangerously far up your leg causing you to suck in a breath of air.

Shawn’s eyes had a sheepish glint to them as they connected with yours, as if he was unsure of whether he had crossed a boundary. You smiled gratefully “Thank you.” You murmured.

“We’re even now.” He said with a toothy smile, which subsequently made you grin back.

Around the two of you cameras continued to flash and the obnoxious people behind them shouted different orders at the stars who were posing for photos, trying to show off their best angles

“Hey, um do you have a date?” He asked, bringing your attention back to him. He scratched briefly at his neck, surprised at himself for being so audacious. His signs of nervousness made your heart beat a little faster – he somehow managed to go from having his hand on your thigh to being an absolute gentleman, and easily got away with it.

“No I don’.t” You responded. Not wanting to get your hopes up about the intention of his question. You were never that lucky.

“How about we make a deal? We do this together – you tell me if my zipper comes undone,” He quickly motioned to his crotch “And I will catch you when you trip on those stairs.” He finished, nodding towards the steps which you had been dreading since you had received the phone call about the event.

“What do you mean ‘when you trip’?” You said incredulously.

“Come on sweetheart, we both know you won’t make it up there in those,” he referred to your heels, playfully scrunching his nose up as he pointed dismissively at the designer stilettos. “Without at least one fall.” He finished, a wry smile on his lips.

You gasped dramatically, hoping to draw the attention away from your flushed cheeks which were a result of the nickname that slipped from his lips.

“So is that a yes?” He asked, a hint of insecurity seeping into his tone.

You nodded. “I would love to be your date, as long as you promise not to let me fall.” He grinned from ear to ear, your face no doubt mirroring his delighted expression.

“I promise.” He said honestly, extending his arm for you – which you gladly accepted.

You didn’t fall over once.

#shawn mendes #shawn mendes imagines #shawn mendes oneshots #shawn mendes fic #shawn mendes fanfic #shawn mendes fanfiction #shawn mendes fluff #shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes oneshot #shawn x reader #shawn x you #shawn mendes x reader #shawn mendes x you

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izanyas · 5 years

Text

and the calm is deep where the quiet waters flow (21)

This one’s rather peaceful before we dive into the Real Big Angst

Rating: M Words: 10,700 Warnings: panic attack, mentions of pedophilia (no pedo happens), the usual trauma stuff

[Read from prologue]

and the calm is deep where the quiet waters flow Chapter 21

Lan Wangji stood in the green shadows, flecked with pieces of golden light, immaculate as always. His hold on Chenqing loosened immediately after parrying the blow it would have taken at his body.

"Wei Ying," he said quietly. He looked surprised.

Wei Wuxian had no mind to examine his tone, however. He drew back into the thick shadow of trees with his heart beating at his throat, and asked, "Was it you?"

Had Lan Wangji been the one to see? Would Wei Wuxian have to threaten him, too, the way he had threatened Jin Zixuan? Would Lan Wangji think he was—

"You're not breathing," said Lan Wangji, and Wei Wuxian saw then that he looked confused and worried, that the creasing at his forehead and around his lips was directed only at what was in front of him now: Wei Wuxian, still-breathed and shaken, standing and holding his flute as if it were a sword. Tendrils of resentful energy stroking the exposed skin of his hands and wrists and neck and suffocating him.

He tried to breathe in; but it was as though his lungs had to try and take in as much air as they could, suddenly, and there was no quieting them anymore. Wei Wuxian grew light-headed, and black-and-grey spots replaced all the color he could see—all the greens and browns of the forest around, all the immaculate white of Lan Wangji's uniform—and he heaved and gasped as if he had just spent minutes in apnea.

He grabbed onto the bark of a tree with his hand. His legs shook under his own weight and made his shoulder hit into the trunk with enough strength that he thought, in a burst of panicked hilarity, of what Wen Qing would say once she saw the bruise there. He felt that Lan Wangji was calling his name and coming to his side.

He should push him away. He ought to ride again the fear that Jin Zixuan's touch and words had dragged out of his guts, to kick him as he had kicked Lan Xichen months ago. But although Lan Wangji touched his shoulder and helped his back against the tree, although his fingers came to the hollow of Wei Wuxian's neck to measure his heartbeats, Wei Wuxian found no strength or desire too.

He remembered when he had been the one to touch Lan Wangji like this while the man had been wounded and choked by grief. Finding the areas of stress and congestion in his neck and his chest and trying to push away the bad blood.

Wei Wuxian coughed. Slick blood filled his mouth and dribbled down his chin, no doubt staining Lan Wangji's own hands. At last, when his lungs shuddered again, the air came to him without making him want to shake.

He closed his eyes when those fingers left his skin. Although summer was hot and dry upon them, he shivered. He listened to the sound of Lan Wangji's own breathing next to him, quiet and full, and found his own matching the pace of it unthinkingly.

Jin Zixuan's words rang through his head ceaselessly. His own hands and face itched where the man had touched him. He tasted bitter grass and dirt under the slick, nauseating blood.

When he was certain that his words would not falter, he asked, "Did you see?"

A breath again, one which Wei Wuxian could not help but breathe in too. Only when he was done expelling it in full—when Wei Wuxian was done doing the very same—did Lan Wangji reply, "Did I see what?"

Wei Wuxian opened his eyes. He blinked quickly under sunlight.

Lan Wangji did not look the picture of someone lying or deceiving him. If anything, he looked to be the one full of questions, and to be holding them back for Wei Wuxian's sake. His oddly sonorous breathing had not ceased.

Wei Wuxian realized that this was for his sake, too; that Lan Wangji must be breathing like this as a way of helping him find his own air.

If he had the heart to smile then, he would have. "Nothing," he said instead. "I must apologize to you again, Lan Zhan. It seems I can't stop embarrassing you every time we meet."

Lan Wangji looked away and replied, "Not embarrassing."

It was a lie, of course, for Lan Wangji was much like his brother: the kind of person to hold back instead of asking, and to offer apologies for a touch even in circumstances where touch was unavoidable.

He always was.

"Where is your brother?" Wei Wuxian asked weakly.

He watched Lan Wangji blink. Even this sort of subdued surprise was beautiful on him, even this much made light catch onto his eyelashes and spread shadows over his cheeks in fine little tendrils. "He has remained with our uncle," he replied. "He did not wish to enter the competition."

"I see."

This part of the forest was thick, much thicker than the small clearing where Jin Zixuan had cornered Wei Wuxian. Trees had grown so close next to one another that only the faintest of sunrays pierced through the canopy of leaves above, and then again, those rays were ephemerous. Wei Wuxian saw them flicker in and out of life over his legs and hands. He breathed in the cool shadows, listened to the buzzing of small insects, watched a bee circle around Lan Wangji's arm, attracted by the bright white of his hunting robes.

He wondered faintly if Jin Zixuan would run after him and try to find him again in spite of his threats. His chest grew cold at the idea; Wei Wuxian's eyes ran again over the space all around him, searching for a spot of gold and white over the green, grey, brown.

Lan Wangji's breathing had gone quiet again, now that Wei Wuxian's resembled something like evenness. He kneeled very properly upon the dirt and grass. His white sword Bichen swept dust when he turned to look back at Wei Wuxian.

He said, "Your body is ill."

"You said so before," Wei Wuxian replied.

He had no wish to be having this argument again.

"You told me that demonic cultivation would harm me. But I am not sick, and I will not renounce it. This… I'm only tired, Lan Zhan."

There was a child-like expression on Lan Wangji's face, something very near a pout. It washed away quickly. "I will not ask you to," he said. "But I have been—"

His words paused. The tips of his ears grew so endearingly red under the delicate line of his forehead ribbon that for a second, Wei Wuxian was speechless.

Lan Wangji made himself speak again painstakingly. "I have… researched the books in the Cloud Recesses. I have found sheets of music. To help."

"To help with what?"

Another moment of struggle, quiet and tense. Wei Wuxian spent it observing the man next to him and breathing in his warm scent of sandalwood, overlaid thinly over the woods, familiar and oddly soothing.

"Quiet the spirit," Lan Wangji murmured eventually. "Calm the heart."

Why? Wei Wuxian wanted to ask.

Why would Lan Wangji do such a thing for him?

For a second the nerves still set alight by Jin Zuxian's presence got the better of him, and fear left its tanguy taste on his tongue again. He tensed over the dry soil, one hand clenched around Chenqing and the other spread overground, ready to lift his weight if he should feel the need to leave. He could not ask what he wanted to know for fear of the answer, and he could not look away either from the sight of Lan Wangji sat on the dirt, staining his pristine clothes for no valuable reason that he could think of.

Lan Wangji was looking back, too. Pale-eyed and statuesque in spite of how ridiculous it was for him—for the both of them—to be in such a position. He had never shied away from looking Wei Wuxian in the eye; never shied, either, from speaking to him or calling him by name. Lan Wangji was not the one Wei Wuxian had struck, once, for insulting his status.

He was the one Wei Wuxian had sought in that moonlit cold spring when he had first been shaken by how the world viewed him.

Lan Wangji said, "I did not bring them with me. I did not know you would be here."

"I like to keep things surprising," Wei Wuxian replied. The words were slow to come to him, yet each of them was easier than the previous. Each intake of care a little fresher and fuller. "But, you're right," he sighed, "I should not have come here. Jiang Cheng asked me to, but I should have better, after what I have been doing."

Lan Wangji's lips thinned. He looked unhappy for a moment, perhaps because he was remembering just why Wei Wuxian's presence made his peers so angry. Light caught onto the tips of one red ear as the leaves above them shifted; and it showed as well the deep breath he took in, the way that his shoulders straightened under the strict line of his uniform, as he readied himself to speak.

As he lifted his head and opened his mouth, Wei Wuxian said bluntly, "Play them to me."

Lan Wangji fell silent, the very first syllable of Wei Wuxian's name vanishing upon his lips. The shadows of his eyelashes moved and shuddered when he blinked.

Wei Wuxian's heart was once again beating right below his throat. His chest felt tight, constricted. "Those songs," he forced out. "For the spirit. Play them to me."

He did not know what Lan Wangji meant to tell him just then—only that he did not want to hear it at all.

Perhaps Lan Wangji understood this. Or more likely, perhaps he at least sensed that Wei Wuxian had no desire to speak at all just then. He looked away, his serious face dipping in shadow, and replied, "I do not have Wangji with me."

Then he sucked in a breath of surprise, for Wei Wuxian had lifted Chenqing toward him.

"Just play," Wei Wuxian said, eyes closed, head resting heavily against the bark of the tree at his back. It was better than looking at every shadow around and fitting the shape of Jin Zixuan's body to it, or that of the mysterious spy who must now be telling tales to all of what they had seen in that clearing.

For just a moment, for just one single moment, he wanted not to think of anything at all. Not the spy now ruining his reputation further, not Jin Zixuan's face as he said Marry me, not the people in Yiling whose survival and freedom were his responsibility.

"Just play, Lan Zhan," he begged.

Lan Wangji said nothing, but Chenqing slid out of Wei Wuxian's grasp slowly, delicately. As if the very touch of black bamboo on skin should hurt if he took it too hastily.

Wei Wuxian did not move even to breathe until the first note of the flute caressed the air. It was an old song that Lan Wangji played first, something aged down to the structure of sentences, barely more than a few alignment of high notes infused with spirituality. He had not doubted that Lan Wangji could play the dizi well, and did not doubt either that should he still have a golden core to be appeased, the spell would have worked to perfection.

This, still was enough: the earthly smells of the forest and Lan Wangji's sandalwoodscent, and above them the sound of Chenqing playing songs from Gusu as if it were meant for them. Wei Wuxian's back loosened against the arch of the tree rather than lean tensely upon it. His hand over the dirt became lax, curving up and away so that his palm did not touch it anymore. His eyelids stopped twitching and allowing in specks of light.

He did not know how many songs Lan Wangji played to him, or for how long. His awareness of anything aside from the sound of the dizi became so thin that it felt like unconsciousness. Memories tugged at him slowly when Lan Wangji played one more, one he could recall hearing in the midst of heat, one he could remember singing to.

When he opened his eyes again, the sun had started setting behind the mountain. Shadows creeped from all over and made the air feel like night already. He blinked slowly, feeling well-rested for the first time in recent memory, and wondering why the sound of the flute had ceased.

Lan Wangji was looking at him. A faint red mark shone below his lips, where the bamboo had pressed for what must be hours.

"The Jin clan has just signaled the end of the competition," he said softly.

He must have heard the sound of the horn calling the cultivators back.

Wei Wuxian was slow to bring himself to his feet. He did not stumble, although his head felt misty and his body languid, but the pull of muscles alone had him shaking. He was hungry, he realized, and weak for it like he was in his youth after hours of running. He could not remember the last time he had experienced hunger not swallowed by sickness.

"We should go, then," he told Lan Wangji, who was still sat on the ground, watching him.

His face had not rid itself of this complicated and hesitant look, but the sight of it did not frighten Wei Wuxian now. He took Chenqing back when the man handed it to him and tied it back to his waist; then he paused.

What little daylight remained around them shone out of Lan Wangji's eyes when Wei Wuxian extended a hand to him.

A foolish gesture it may be, and no doubt one Lan Wangji would reject as he had rejected Wei Wuxian's touch so many times before. Yet he did not blush furiously at the sight of it, like he had on the day Wei Wuxian had jokingly offered to carry him on his back. Instead he grabbed Wei Wuxian's wrist over cloth and not skin and allowed him to help him up.

Chenqing had been skin-warm when Wei Wuxian took it back. He found that same warmth at the crook of Lan Wangji's wrist and in the seconds it took for him to be up and release him. Only long enough to feel a few heartbeats against his fingertips.

"Thank you," Wei Wuxian said. "For everything."

For not trying to attack him, whether with words or with something else. Wei Wuxian had always thought that a day would come when the tip of Bichen's blade would find its way to his neck or his belly, but he was suddenly glad that this was not that day.

The night was deep by the time they reached the edges of the wood. What awaited Wei Wuxian there was not a world of shame, as he expected, but rather Jin Guangshan's lofty accusations of cheating, and a series of rude demands.

That Wei Wuxian should apologize to all the sects present for his hoarding the targets. That he should have handed over the Stygian Tiger Seal, which he surely must have used in underhanded ways. He did not make any mention of anything more untoward, although several times the topic of his monologue threatened to veer in direction of the omega in Yiling.

Whoever the spy who saw Jin Zixuan grab Wei Wuxian's hand and profess his love to him was, they had not yet decided to tell anyone.

It should have been a relief, but Wei Wuxian felt only tenser for it. Jin Zixuan himself was standing by his father's side in a daze; his eyes met Wei Wuxian's only once before he turned away, his face twisted with dark feelings.

It was easy to slip into the absent-mindedness that Wen Qing oft had to shake him out of. The calm that Lan Wangji's flute-playing had procured was close enough to it, in a way.

"Why don't you tell me what you really want, sect leader Jin?" he asked boredly.

He could not even tell anymore which of these men and women was speaking, or in what way. None of them mattered. Jiang Yanli was not even here, having been taken away by Madam Jin before Wei Wuxian even made it out of the woods. Jiang Cheng had not addressed a word to him after seeing him walk out of the woods with Lan Wangji in his steps.

"I want you," Jin Guangshan said, incensed upon his thickly-cushioned seat, "to go back to your sect, Wei Wuxian. I should like to see you grovel to Jiang Cheng so that the boy will accept you, and you learn once and for all what your rightful place is."

"Sect leader Jin," Jiang Cheng spoke then. Fury had colored his face, and Wei Wuxian could see just how tense his jaw was under his skin. "Wei Wuxian will not accept orders from you, or anyone else. I dare appeal to my father's long friendship with you and ask you to let the Jiang clan handle this alone."

"Oh, your father," said Jin Guangshan. He laughed, or at least looked the part of it. "Yes, let's talk about Jiang Fengmian. How many times did I tell him that this folly of his would lead only to madness? It wasn't enough that he was infatuated with that Cangse Sanren, no, he just had to try and revive the thrice-damned memory of her with that boy. And now we see the result standing before us!"

He pointed to Wei Wuxian for all to see, going so far as to stand so that not a soul around could miss who he was talking about.

In the shocked silence that followed, he grew bolder. His weak chin shivered into a smile, his arrogance thickened into the nightly air. He walked around the dais where his precious behind had sat all afternoon, coming out of torchlight and into the same wavering shadow that all here were wrought in.

He stood before Wei Wuxian, taller than him by an inch, his thin body comfortably wound in rich and airy cloth to parry the summer heat. "It would not have surprised me," he said melodiously, "if Jiang Fengmian had ended up marrying the boy himself. In fact, I have long suspected that he was raising him this way for that purpose. If he could not have the mother, then why not have her son?"

"Father!" came Jin Zixuan's voice. It seemed he had been shocked into speaking out at last.

Jiang Cheng must have reacted the same outside of Wei Wuxian's narrowed eyesight, outside of the red sheen that the world had taken in-between him and Jin Guangshan, but he did not hear it. He could not hear anything but the slow, heavy beating of his own blood.

Jin Guangshan sneered. He smiled in self-satisfaction. "At least this time around Jiang Fengmian could not be blamed for lack of taste," he said. "Be grateful that you were born with some beauty, Wei Wuxian. Your mother was no better sight than the pigs in the barns of the Meishanyu sect."

The crowd around them stilled and shivered, far too many among them failing to hide their interest, and although this time Jiang Cheng and Jin Zixuan found incentive to move, Wei Wuxian had enough.

He crossed the last step separating him from Jin Guangshan and spat in the man's face.

He would have done it again, too, if only Jiang Cheng had not reached his side then and pulled him back. Meng Yao and Jin Zixun were samely busy with Jin Guangshan, tugging him away by both arms as if he were suffering a much graver wound than some spittle on his cheek and a bruised ego. Alpha and beta of the Jin sect and others slid their swords out of their sheaths in outrage, and Wei Wuxian only looked once at Jin Zixuan's panicked expression before letting the two halves of the Stygian Tiger Seal fall out of his sleeves.

He elbowed Jiang Cheng away from him. He took each half of the Seal in hand and pieced them together. Cold air slithered over every bit of his exposed skin, and the array in which the prey of the competition were kept broke open. Corpses surrounded the dozens of cultivators, once again under his command, and made them still with sword in hand.

"Wei Wuxian," Jin Guangshan raged, held in place by his rapist of a nephew and his bastard son; but Wei Wuxian had quite enough of listening to him.

"I think it's time some rules were put in place," he said.

The corpses around them were still fresh, lacking the gruesome decomposition that some of Wei Wuxian's worst summonings during the war exposed, but the effect remained the same. Those who had witnessed him then cowered, and the rest followed suit.

In the very far back, away from the direct line of the spell, Lan Wangji stood next to his brother and uncle. His eyes met Wei Wuxian's.

Wei Wuxian's blood stopped being quite so loud into his head. He heard instead an echo of the flute, a familiar melody pulled from bowstrings and bleeding fingers, as he fought for consciousness in the lair of a beast.

"The people I took from your houses are free now," he said, still staring in direction of Lan Wangji. It almost ached in him, how necessary this exchange of looks felt, when his stomach quivered at the thought of glimpsing just to the left and meeting Lan Xichen's eyes instead. Wei Wuxian turned his head back toward Jin Guangshan rather than risk it. "They are not yours to reclaim. They were never yours to have in the first place. I will not allow a single one of you to see them unless they indicate otherwise, and I will not suffer your demands in any way. Those are the terms."

"You're nothing but a mad thief," Jin Guangshan screamed at him. His finger shook, this time, when he pointed it Wei Wuxian's way. "Who do you think you're speaking to!? 'Terms'? You think I'll negotiate with you, after everything you—"

"Did you know not a single one of them wanted to stay?"

Jin Guangshan gagged visibly, whether for the surprise of being interrupted or because the sight of Wei Wuxian disgusted him enough to.

"You must have noticed that I left some of them behind," Wei Wuxian went on coldly. "Those were the few who wished to remain where they were. I did not take a single person with me who did not wish to be taken."

"Liar," spat Jin Zixun.

"You wouldn't know even if I was," Wei Wuxian replied, glancing fleetingly at him. "You're not in the habit of asking before taking."

Jin Zixun reddened and remained, thankfully, silent.

"My point is that perhaps all of you should be asking yourselves why these people fear the words of a mad thief less than they do the thought of remaining where they are. Although," he added, "perhaps that's asking too much out of any of you."

He looked over them all. He took in the anger and disbelief, the despair in Jin Zixuan and Jiang Cheng.

"Those are my terms," he repeated. "I will not give them back. They are free to do as they wish now, and if they wish to remain with me, then I will protect them from you."

"Wei Wuxian," Jiang Cheng called helplessly.

Wei Wuxian did not look at him, but at Jin Guangshan, who was wiping again with his sleeve the place where saliva had sullied him. "And I am no longer part of the Yunmengjiang sect," he said. "I came here today only as a courtesy to my former sect leader. From now on, he and I are not affiliated in any way."

"Wei Wuxian!"

But the ranks of the hundred corpses narrowed, and Jiang Cheng found himself stuck behind two of them, no longer close enough to reach for Wei Wuxian's arm. His sword Sandu gleamed into the nightly air, slashing at the corpse nearest to him, cutting off its head sharply. It did not stop blocking him or fall from under the influence of the Seal.

Still, Jiang Cheng clenched his teeth. Still he yelled, "Don't you go deciding this on your own! I—"

"Have some decorum," Wei Wuxian cut him off.

Jiang Cheng could not afford to show him attachment now, in front of so many eyes; and he seemed to realize it as well, for his face grew angry. Red blood flushed his cheeks and washed out of everywhere else.

"I'll be leaving now," Wei Wuxian said to the cultivators before him. Many had tried and failed like Jiang Cheng to cut down the Seal-controlled corpses before them. "The spell will lift when I am far enough, and you'll be free to go. But if you follow me—" and the air grew colder still, almost icy over all of them, "—then you will only have yourselves to blame for dying."

To Jiang Cheng, he did not say anything.

He felt the spell break before an hour of riding had gone.

No doubt, people would be riding swords after him now, and perhaps some were already above his head, looking for him in the dark. Wei Wuxian spared not the horse he had taken—one of those he had stolen from the encampment of Wen prisoners ages ago and kept for many of his trips—even when the animal whinnied under the kicks he gave its flanks. He was glad for the cover of darkness, and glad also for the incompetence of those people, who had him under their eyes for so long but dared not lay a finger on him.

This taboo, he often felt, was like a double-edged sword. Keep omega from harm and human proximity on one end, for rumors of hurting one was such a blow to one's reputation. On the other was the madness that took so many alpha and beta when they were given opportunity; the sense of ownership, of possessiveness, which had driven Wen Chao to pinning him to the ground and Jin Zixun to stab Wen Ning through the belly.

For two days he rode with no rest, stopping only when his horse was too weak to go on, keeping the Stygian Tiger Seal in one hand and Chenqing in the other. He would have raised corpses on his way for protection, if he did not fear that their presence would slow him down and give him away.

He did not know whether his being caught would go one way or the other, after all: whether he would be talked to death by some fool in rich clothing or find himself once more at the wrong end of their entitlement.

Wei Wuxian came back to the Burial Mounds under rain and thunder. He was greeted first by Luo Fanghua, who was sewing clothing under the spilling roof of her house even in the storm. She stopped at the sight of him and ushered him inside, kindling the fire there wordlessly, giving him dry robes to change into. Wei Wuxian did not even think of shame as he undressed before her. He felt her eyes upon his bare torso—felt, for a moment, as if each scar there was an anchor for her gaze to latch onto.

The Qishanwen insignia burned into his skin, the marks of Zidian at his back. The vertical line under his ribs which Wen Qing had once opened and sewn shut. The white patch below his right shoulder where Suibian had pierced him, and the rest, the worst of them perhaps, spread like cobwebs under his belly button. The evidence of skin laying misshapen over him.

But Luo Fanghua was not one for gossip. She was never amongst the group who sometimes liked to ask Wen Qing about Wei Wuxian. She stood there as he dressed into the warm clothing, looking severe as always.

"I will fetch maiden Wen," she said curtly.

She did just so while Wei Wuxian sat into a rough-made chair by a rough-made table. They must have been built like so many other items and walls here by the pair of masons from the Wen sect he had brought with him all this time ago.

Wen Qing was fussier than Luo Fanghua, her fingers finding the side of his neck almost as soon as she stepped into the shack, and Wei Wuxian had no mind at all to refuse her, even if he knew—she knew—whatever she found there would be nothing either of them could fix.

"How long has it been since you slept?" she asked him.

"I don't know," Wei Wuxian mumbled.

He could not remember.

Wen Qing sighed. She thanked Luo Fanghua for keeping him warm and dry, although she scolded her for sitting outside in such a heavy storm. She pulled Wei Wuxian upright and walked by his side until they reached the deepest part of the bloodpool cave.

There, he told her of Jin Guangshan's words and how they had been received and encouraged by all. She fed him pieces of some leftover meal in the meantime, heated overfire so that the aroma spread through the bleak space around them. Wei Wuxian grew nauseous at the smell, but he remembered how hunger had felt after Lan Wangji played for him. He ate.

At the end of his retelling, Wen Qing sat silently. She watched over the never-moving body of her brother without seeing him. "Well, you did show them not to mess with us," she said.

"I did," he replied. "And Jin Guangshan wants my head for it."

"I wish I'd been there to see you spit in his face."

A shadow of a smile tugged at his lips; she answered it in kind, her shoulders loosening.

Then she said: "You're not telling me everything."

Wei Wuxian put his half-empty bowl by his feet. He watched the flickering firelight over the walls, the disorganized scrolls and talismans he had written, the wide clay pots full of little white flowers. He thought of the barrels pushed to the deepest end of the cave, where the air was ever-cool, and how long it would be until the liquor there finished macerating.

"Wei Ying—"

"I received an offer," he interrupted. "But it doesn't matter."

He did not precise what kind of offer. Wen Qing was too smart not to guess the nature of it on her own.

"Lan Zhan showed me some music," he told her a while later, as they both once more cleaned and remade the array that Wen Ning was laid onto.

"What music?"

"To calm the heart. He said he'd been researching the Library Pavillion of the Cloud Recesses and wanted to give them to me."

When the darker hours of evening came, the bloodpool cave could only be lit by fire. Wen Qing stood by it with his blood on her hands—he always refused to let her cut herself for the sake of the array—and looked at him with a frown.

"I didn't know you were close to the Lan sect heir," she said slowly.

"I'm not," he replied.

He did not know why he turned away from her scrutiny then.

"He just dislikes my way of cultivation. He's trying to make me stop."

"So does everyone else. So do I, even if I know you don't have a choice. What makes him so special?"

Nothing, Wei Wuxian thought.

Nothing but for how the sight and presence of him was not nearly as aggravating to Wei Wuxian as others'; nothing but for how easy it had been for Wei Wuxian to disarm himself, and allow Lan Wangji to once again play him songs while he was vulnerable.

Wen Qing sometimes played on a short wooden flute. Hers was not meant for cultivation, only for music, but either way the songs which Lan Wangji had played him had not had the effect that they were meant to have, only those that relaxation gave. If he could just hear them again, perhaps he could once more feel hungry without feeling sick.

"I'll show them to you," he said. He felt strangely like he wanted to curve the back and turn away from her again, to hide his face as he spoke. "Will you…"

Wen Qing was silent for a moment. "I'm not as good a musician as you or the famous Lan Wangji are," she replied at last. "But, yes. I'll play them for you. If you want me to."

"Thank you."

So Wei Wuxian showed her the music that Lan Wangji had shown him. Some of the songs became mangled by his poor memory, and others, he could not manage to produce as beautifully on Chenqing as Lan Wangji had while holding it. But Wen Qing listened into the long hours of night, copying him with her short flute, until at last their two playing became a little less awkward. Until his body loosened with fatigue and slumber finally took over him.

He did not show her the song Lan Wangji had played for him in the Xuanwu's cave years ago, though the memory of it was fresh now, and more exact than he could have made it on his own. If he were to think about it, Wei Wuxian would have known this to be more deliberate than he liked to believe, but he did not.

When he succumbed to a handful of hours of sleep that night, he dreamed of hands holding his hands in the tepid shadow of woods. He felt the stroke of a finger at his forehead, collecting blood where his own nails had dragged it out. But he did not feel the crushing fear that he had when Jin Zixuan did it; and those hands were not his blunt ones, but rather the same ones that had broken his fall and cleared his neck and chest of blood.

He woke up gasping before dawn had come; he lay panting over his bedding, sweating heavily through his clothes, guilt laid like nausea at the inside of his lips.

By the time he stood up and went to check on Wen Ning's state, the dream was forgotten.

The villagers at the bottom of the hills did not know who they were.

They heard rumors, of course. They saw the cultivators who came on horseback or by flying on swords and spent the night in their inns, drinking and bellowing for Wei Wuxian's head, for the capture and punishment of the omega thief of Yiling.

The heard of the Yiling Patriarch who lived among tombstones.

But they did not know who he was. Whenever he took the time to walk down the path and in direction of the little houses, Wei Wuxian hardly cared to make his name or status known. He knew as well that the sentiment was shared, and that Wen Qing had to brew many drugs for the days that the omega wished to leave the Burial Mounds—either forever or simply for a stroll—so that they would not be recognized.

So the villagers did not know him when he made business with them, and oft took him for a traveling merchant of some kind. Some were intrigued by his lack of a scent; most were smart enough to put this past themselves and deal in money instead.

The old beta man that Wei Wuxian sold Luo Fanghua's clothing to was such a person. He had been the one to come to Wei Wuxian himself in the first place, years ago, and to comment upon the robes he was wearing.

"That sewing girl of yours could do much better," the beta man was saying now, unfolding and examining the clothes, looking satisfied. "Get her better fabrics. These have been selling very well, even the next town over."

"This is all you'll get," Wei Wuxian replied evenly.

"You do not have the mind for business, boy."

Maybe not. But Wei Wuxian did have the mind to know prudence.

"Young master," said the Wen man who had accompanied him down the sloping path. "Perhaps that man is right, and we should get miss Luo better fabrics."

He was carrying the fruit of their spending that day within a wide basket; seeds for the ever-expanding vegetable garden, stashes of cloth for sewing, tools for the claymakers of the Wen clan. Wei Wuxian looked over the basket rather than look at his face. "No," he replied. "Let's go back now."

The man bowed the head and muttered an apology. Wei Wuxian did not know how long it had been since he expected anger or threats from him or any of his kin.

They never were angry at him, or at any of the people he brought with him month after month.

"How is that liquor of yours going?" the man asked jovially as they started their ascension.

Shut up, Wei Wuxian thought, but by now the words were more habitual than true. "It should be ready in a few weeks," he replied instead. "Don't expect it to taste any good, I've never done this before."

"I'm sure it'll be lovely, young master Wei. It has been quite a while since any of us drank any, and the young ones will not know what to expect at all."

The young ones. This was how he and his clansmen always called the eighty-odd omega now living in the Burial Mounds, never mind that some of them were old enough to be their parents.

Wei Wuxian remained silent for the rest of the journey home.

Luo Fanghua did not thank him for the fabrics, and he did not expect her to, but she did frown. She shot a look at the man who had accompanied Wei Wuxian to the village, heedless of the people now gathered around them and picking their orders from the basket at the man's back.

"I tried," said the man—Uncle Four was what Wen Qing called him. "The young master won't hear of it, miss Luo."

"You should've just taken a young one with you, Uncle," laughed another Wen clan alpha. "The young master can't say no to them."

"What are you two talking about?" Wei Wuxian asked rather snappily.

Two years ago, this would have been enough to shave the smile off their faces entirely. They had been scared of him then, troubled by his scentlessness and the spirits and corpses he made do his bidding. Now neither of them stopped smiling. Their harsh scents laid over the gathering and did not startle any of the others.

Grandmother was here too, weighing the seeds he had brought back, putting a handful of them to her face to see them better in daylight. Wei Wuxian looked around her quickly to make sure she had not brought her burden with her.

He stared again at the two alpha who did not fear him anymore. They were teasing Luo Fanghua still, and the young and severe woman did not cringe from their words or show any other sign of being uncomfortable with their presence.

She met his eyes suddenly. She lifted the pile of fabric his way and said, "I'd like better ones."

"Oh." The tense line of his shoulders fell. "All right," he replied. "Make me a list next time."

For the first time since he had met her, her lips twisted into a smile.

Laughter echoed around them. It seemed the dozen people who had come for their share of the groceries were now shaking as one, looking slyly at one another, elbowing each other playfully.

"See?" the second Wen man said in humor as Wei Wuxian stared at them all wordlessly. He laughed again, once and brightly. "The little master won't say no to them."

"It's no good, no good," replied Uncle Four. "You'll be ruined soon with this lot, young master Wei."

He patted Luo Fanghua's shoulder gently.

He must have said another thing, for his mouth was moving, and she was nodding too, but Wei Wuxian did not hear it. The world around vanished into shadow as he stared at his hand—the muddy garden paths where radishes were grown, the first and oldest of the houses, much shabbier than those built later on by the Wen sect masons, the yellow leaves on trees which had regained the ability to live after he banished the spirits.

Wei Wuxian watched the man's fingers on Luo Fanghua's shoulder. He saw how they tightened and released and left nary a crease on her robes. He felt the world blur around him, sounds and smells and visions alike, as rage tightened in his belly and made blood-taste drown his tongue.

Then there was a hand around his wrist, and the smell of pepper; and Wen Qing's voice said in his ear, "Calm down."

Wei Wuxian gasped in a breath.

Her fingers did not leave him. He focused on that touch in stead of anything else as she spoke, ordering the laughing crowd to disperse, asking such and such person not to dally all day. They left until only Wen Qing and Grandmother remained, and then Wen Qing told her, "You should go rest now. I know you've been tired."

"I am not so young now," said the old woman gently. "But I like to see the young master come back and be with everyone."

Wei Wuxian knew he should say something in answer when her kind eyes rested on him, but he could not think of even one word.

Grandmother smiled at him. "I should find A-Yuan," she said, turning away from them, leaning heavily on the cane that one of the masons must have made her. "Ah, I wonder where he's gone to now…"

Wen Qing's hold loosened. Wei Wuxian took his hand back from her and started walking in direction of the cave. "I'll wait for you before I draw the talismans," he said.

"Wei Wuxian—"

"Later."

He had an idea how frustrated she must be with his silence—how unhappy she always was when he shut in on himself like this, no matter how many times he did so—but he had no wish to suffer her questions now. She had no need of his words to understand what had happened.

She called his name again. She called it twice, in fact, before someone else must have asked for her instead. Wen Qing was more in charge of the gathering of people here than Wei Wuxian ever would be, no matter how many chose to call him young master rather than his name; she left him alone ruefully and went to see what the issue was.

She was the one they went to for help. She handled their finances, said 'no' where it ought to be said, unlike Wei Wuxian. All he ever did was bring them here and then leave again, moved by a force that felt as necessary as it was exhausting.

Wen Qing knew their names.

The cave had an odd-shaped wall in one end, where the rock had dipped and then flattened like a table, leaving room under a wide plateau. Wei Wuxian had used that space as a surface for work for as long as he had been here. He sat there now into a chair, looking unseeingly at the papers left half-written.

There was an array there, drawn and annotated wildly, that he did not want Wen Qing to see. A spell whose idea came to him in that half-awake state where the hours passed like seconds and the seconds like hours. A way to bring Wen Ning back, if all else should fail.

The sound of steps came to him from the mouth of the cave. He shoved the array under another pile of papers—under bright ideas and bitter failures—and called, "I said later, Wen Qing."

Wen Qing did not answer.

Wei Wuxian looked at the firelit tunnel. No air came in at this time of day to make the light waver, to shake the hundreds of talismans stuck to Wen Ning's body, but he felt cold all the same.

"Wen Qing?" he asked, rising.

But there was no trace of her at the entrance or in the tunnel beyond. No hint of her scent or shadow in the opening where already daylight was darkening. Wei Wuxian went back on his steps, feeling tense and queasy without knowing the reason why; and when he reached the edge of the bloodpool, the sound of shattering clay echoed against the worn-smooth walls. It came from the shelves where he kept seeds and cultivating tools for the moonless flowers.

There was a child there with another pot of seeds in hands, looking dejectedly at the one that had broken around his feet.

Wei Wuxian's steps halted.

The child tried to put the pot back onto its shelf. His hands were small and his fingers chubby, and he could not reach the height of it while pushing up the clay as easily as he must have while tugging it down. The sound of his hurried breathing echoed through the deadly-silent cave; every time he moved, half of his body hid behind the bed on which Wen Ning lay.

He cried, eventually. Little whimpers escaped him as he tried again and again to put the pot back where it came from. His arms shook under the weight of it. His feet stepped onto the seeds already spilled overground, crushing them into dust, rendering them useless. His face grew red and damp by the tall firelight.

"I know you're sulking, Wei Wuxian, but we need to talk about how to control your…"

Wen Qing stopped at the mouth of the cave, her words faltering down, as before her the child trembled with his heavy burden; as Wei Wuxian stood still and silent as a statue between the both of them.

"A-Yuan!" she called harshly.

The child jumped in fright. He let go of the pot in his hands, which did not shatter like the previous but spilled its content everywhere anyway. His tearful face lifted in Wen Qing's direction, and he cried, "I'm sorry."

The very sound of it ran over Wei Wuxian's skin like the clawed little feet of a bird. Tearing it off piece by piece to expose his insides.

Wen Qing was approaching now. She was grabbing Wei Wuxian by the arm and pushing him out of the way gently, speaking to the child again, "You know you're not supposed to be here. Come on, come here."

"Auntie," the child cried, buried to the ankles in flower seeds. His grey eyes caught to light like moths caught to a flame. "Broke it."

"It's okay," said Wen Qing in a choked, panicked voice. "It's okay, A-Yuan, just—come here. Grandmother's looking for you. Come on, you can't stay here."

But the child did not heed her; he looked once more at the mess over the floor and started wailing loudly.

Wen Qing looked at Wei Wuxian, the weight of her worry like a burn against his face, but even this did not burn as much as her touch or as the sound of crying.

He tugged away her hand on his shoulder. He turned his back to her and to the sobbing child. The very fabric of him felt so thin and hollow, a wisp of wind could have carried him away; still he found enough strength for his voice to come out when he told her, "Just get him out of here."

Thinly, so thinly, like talisman paper tearing under the brush. Each cry and each hiccup pulling at him until his fibers came apart.

Wen Qing went about comforting the child in hushed murmurs, quieting him as best she could, carrying him in her arms into the start of the tunnel. But Grandmother had come too, attracted by the sound of the child's sobs, and she 'oh'-ed at the sight of them and took him in her own arms.

She rocked and swayed with him, trying to ease away his tears.

"You're not allowed to come here, A-Yuan," she said in her rough and gravelly voice. "You know you're not allowed. You can't bother the young master."

It was unclear whether the child understood a word of it, but he nodded anyway. His swollen face shuddered when he blink, exhausted after so much crying.

To Wei Wuxian's horror, she faced him next across the cave, holding the child his way. "Young master, I'm sorry," she said, smiling. The child opened his eyes to him again; Wei Wuxian felt his throat burn with the need to retch. "A-Yuan is a very curious boy, he's been going off on his own since he learned to walk—"

"Grandmother," Wen Qing interrupted urgently. "I think A-Yuan should go to sleep now, don't you?"

As if on cue, the boy yawned widely. Grandmother hushed him again as she lowered him to the ground, but she did not leave yet. Instead she ordered, "Say sorry to the young master."

Wei Wuxian wanted dearly to look away, to be buried in stone or laid upon a wooden bed as Wen Ning was, to be unconscious to the world. But he could not tear his eyes from the child's wax-like face; from those grey eyes he had last seen in a mirror's reflection.

"That's not necessary," Wen Qing tried again. "A-Yuan didn't mean to bother anyone, I'm certain."

"Miss Wen, how will he become a good man if he doesn't learn to apologize for what he did wrong?"

Get him away, Wei Wuxian thought. Get him away from me.

There was nothing on his lips, however, save for the urge to throw up.

The boy had to be told again what to do. His weary eyes washed over the dim-lit room, stopping once on Wen Ning's body, once on Wei Wuxian. He dropped the hand with which the old woman was holding his and bowed with all of his back, slurring out a quiet, "Sorry."

Every inch of the room reeked of petrichor after he and Grandmother left.

Wen Qing immediately went to the broken clay pot, picking up the pieces of it, sweeping seeds up with her bare hands to deposit into the one the child had simply overturned. She was pale even with the awkward light of the cave, and her voice was unsteady. "He didn't crush too many," she said. "Not more than we would have lost to frost this year anyway."

"Good, then," Wei Wuxian replied blankly.

She shuddered visibly. She picked up the pot and put it back on the lowest shelf. She spared another second of tidying, sweeping dust away with her sleeve, obviously steeling herself for something.

Wei Wuxian sat on the chair and cut in, "Forget it."

Her lips thinned and whitened. "Fine," she said unhappily. "Then tell me instead why you were a second away from murdering Uncle Four earlier."

"I was not."

"I could feel the resentful energy on you. I'm sure if I touched you now, your veins would be swollen with it."

"Then don't touch me," he spat at her. "This shouldn't be such a hard thing for you to do."

As if he could stand the touch of anyone right then, with his skin moving about him and being picked at by crows. He did not think he could even handle touching himself—if it were at all possible, he would choose not to have skin to touch at all.

But Wen Qing's face softened. Her brow eased out of anger. Wei Wuxian had only a moment to regret that she once again elected not to scream at him in rage.

"I know you don't like them," she said. "I understand. I do."

He turned his back to her, planting his elbow atop the stone table.

"But things have been changing here. One of my family members touching one of the others like this—it's not a rare thing. He didn't mean anything by it, and Luo Fanghua didn't mind. It's natural for them to want for closeness."

"I get it," he breathed.

He didn't need her to tell him how lonely life here was, cut from the rest of the world, watching them leave one by one for hope of a better future. There was no such future for him.

"Wei Ying," Wen Qing called quietly.

He did not tense only because she made sure to step loudly upon stone and straw, to make her clothes shuffle as she walked, to hit a nail to the white jade tassel she always wore at her waist.

She put a hand on his shoulder. "They just want to know you," she said. "The omega, but my family as well. None of them know more than your name and the fact that you saved their lives."

"There's nothing to know about me," he replied.

But he leaned back into her hand. He allowed it to tighten over cloth and skin, almost enough for him to feel its warmth.

"You don't let people know you," she retorted. He felt her look over the trinkets and spells he worked on during each sleepless night he spent here—as few of them as he could afford to, when so many more people waited, hidden, to be set free. "I know this wasn't always the case, that there was a time you would have loved to know them too. I remember when A-Ning first met you, and couldn't stop talking to me about the omega cultivator from Yunmeng who tried to defend him in public."

He shuddered. Her hold on him tightened. "But now you avoid all of them," she went on. "All of us. I know how important everything here is to you, but they don't. Some of them are scared that you're doing this on a whim, that you'll send them back to their houses as soon as you're done."

"Two years is a lot time spent on a whim."

"They don't know that. None of them had ever set a foot outside unsupervised before you broke open their door and asked them to come with you."

And so many refused, too. Even those who had heard rumor of him through their masters, even the few who had expected him to come, who clung to their housemates in fear of him. They looked at him as if were there to eat them, and they refused fearfully.

"Time is an odd thing to experience when you can't see the sun set and rise," Wen Qing said mournfully. "And now they can, but you will not show yourself to them. You will not accept anything, not even their gratitude."

"They shouldn't feel grateful to me."

She did not deny his words. But her hand left his shoulder, and she laughed briefly. He heard her turn around to look at her still-slumbering brother.

That part of the bloodpool cave was so full of his spirit, of his soul, hovering just shy of touching his body; he knew that Wen Qing felt as if she could reach out and grasp it bare-handed if she tried.

"I want this place to be somewhere A-Ning will be happy to live," she said.

So Wei Wuxian nodded. He told her, "I'll try."

Her smile was wordless and tired, but it was a smile nonetheless.

Wei Wuxian hesitated. The guts in him knotted and squeezed together, he felt. "As for…" He forced out, "As for him. A-Yuan."

He could not look at her now, though he felt her scrutiny deeply. "I'll make sure he knows not to bother you," she said. "It's like Grandmother said. He was just curious because we all told him not to come here."

Wei Wuxian suffered a second of agonizing muteness. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth like a last rampart against sickness. "What's his—"

He bit the side of his tongue when his teeth snapped closed; iron-taste spread through his dry mouth.

"Wen Yuan," Wen Qing replied after a moment. "That is his name."

Wei Wuxian's stomach turned. His hand lifted and lowered aimlessly, and he scratched the skin of his own wrist harshly. "Why?" he let out at last.

"It was more or less a common decision. They said that he should wear my name, since I'm the one who brought him back. Did you want—"

"No," he cut her off. "I don't want anything to do with him."

Wen Qing's eyes shone. "I understand."

Wei Wuxian breathed in. He tried to chase away the taste over his tongue and lips, the feel of dirt and grass imprinted upon him. "And I—I suppose it is fitting," he said. "Considering."

He massaged with his hand the clammy skin of his nape, where once a man had panted and groaned and left him damp with spit. Where a great weight hung over him to this day.

This is your place, Wei Wuxian.

Wen Qing's silence felt like a speech of its own. He did not move when she came closer to him, though he was glad that she did not try to reach for him this time.

"You never told me who it was," she said at last.

Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

"And I won't ask you either. I don't need to know, I don't even want to know. If you tell me that you never want to speak of it again, then I won't ever mention it."

It was the sincerity in her, the blunt and austere way that she always made promises, he thought. Those were the things that had made him trust her touch when his back was torn open by Zidian's lashings; when he had lost everything, and thought he was going to lose more, still, as Jiang Cheng slumbered endlessly.

Those were the things that made him tell her, "It was Wen Chao."

Only Wen Qing's face could look so kind and so severe at the same time; only she could reach for him like this and pull out not his entrails or heart, but his livid, breathing soul.

The fall season this year ended in frost and snow.

The trees and bushes of the Burial Mounds lost again the leaves and flowers they had regained after so long. White flakes spilled from the sky endlessly, forcing many of the people living here to spread cloth over the vegetable gardens for protection. Luo Fanghua kept sewing on her doorstep until the day Uncle Four scolded her, telling her that she was courting death; then, looking as ruffled as a bothered bird, she instead started sewing inside.

"She has the habits of an old woman, this one," Uncle Four said fondly. "You'd think she was fifty and not twenty."

Wei Wuxian knew then that his relationship to Luo Fanghua was a quiet and comfortable friendship. That if ever he put a hand on her young shoulder, it was only to convey warmth to her. He never looked at him again and wished to separate his head from his body.

It became more difficult for him to find new people to free. The freezing cold had made much of the land impossible to ride on without risking his horse's health. Many of the houses he did find were empty as well, as if word had gone around at last that the clans' and villages' property should not be left alone for him to steal. He heard no word and no whisper of the great sects in those months, although a fool or three sometimes fancied themselves saviors and tried to walk up the hillpath.

Before that time—when fall was still warm and easy on them—Wei Wuxian opened the first of the barrels of wine he kept in the cool and dark of the bloodpool cave.

He had not expected this to be made into a celebration, though he should have. Wen Qing at least seemed to delight in his stupor when he was made to carry one more of the barrels outside, to the wide tables they had dressed under setting sunlight. He was ordered to sit by several of the omega; he was told not to move at all and simply wait to be served food and wine.

"We cooked all afternoon for this," said a man Wei Wuxian remembered skinny and underfed in his house near Qinghe. His face had filled and become pink with the sun.

"Here, try this," said another, whom Wei Wuxian had freed among the very first, whom he expected to see leave any day now, but who never did.

They drank in his honor. They talked and laughed around him into the deep hours of night, with only torchlight beside them to light up their frail hands. A few grew tipsy with the sweet liquor and started yelling, and Grandmother spoke once to shush them for the sleeping child's sake, spreading cold over Wei Wuxian's skin.

But it was the only time that day that he felt less than fine. And the liquor was good and mellow, and burned pleasantly as it went down his parched throat.

There were no stars above them. They could have believed themselves lost to the endless dark.

In those months, life came to an uneasy balance. The omega he could find were rare, but the people who bothered him were rarer. The reserves of food they had grown the year over were enough to sate every stomach and more, and whatever they lacked in the manner of necessities, they could buy with Luo Fanghua's skills as a seamstress. People from the village started ordering for their clothes to be made by her. Her name became that of a renown craftswoman there, although she never set foot down the hill herself. She seemed proud of it too, as much as she could show it anyway, with how severe her young face always was.

Then Wei Wuxian woke up one chilly morning, in the deepest of winter, with cold sweat stuck to his skin. He shoved away the blanket laid over his body. He blinked against the haze of unrest that felt always like steel bar behind his eyes.

He looked to the dying fire by his side and met a pair of white eyes.

Shadows shifted over the walls. Whispers of wind crawled in through the opening of the cave, where some weeks ago Wen Qing and he had put up a curtain of thick furs to parry off the cold. The white eyes stared at him unblinkingly as he recalled how to breathe.

"Wen Ning," he said weakly.

There was no response from the man himself, but it felt as though a barrage had broken.

"Wen Ning!"

He crawled into the space of the array, staining his knees with crusted blood, grabbing the pale and black-veined hand hanging out from the side of the wooden bed.

It was cold, it had no pulse, but it moved. It clenched around his own fingers. The heavy spirit that had hovered there for months was gone, absorbed at last by the body it belonged to.

"Wen Ning," Wei Wuxian said over and over again, pushing brown hair out of Wen Ning's lax face with one shaking hand, holding him with the other. Each call of his name seemed to bring a little more life to Wen Ning's now-pale eyes."Can you speak? Do you recognize me?"

He knew not how long he spent kneeling there, asking the same questions, calling the same name. But light had filtered under the furs suspended by the entrance; the fire had died and left only smoking embers; and Wen Ning's mouth opened, and his voice came out like the rasping of wind into deep mountain gorges.

"Young master Wei," he said. Surprised and child-like as he had been in Qishan years ago.

Tears came to Wei Wuxian's eyes for the first time in years, but they were not sorrowful. They fell down his cheeks and nose and landed saltily on his lips, where the stretch of a smile pulled widely at him.

"Yes," Wei Wuxian said roughly. His voice shook over the next few words, shook as the sound of footsteps reached him, as Wen Qing's voice called for his name in the tunnel leading here. He held Wen Ning's hands tightly enough to hurt; he promised him, "I'm here."

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#mdzs #mo dao zu shi #wangxian #lan wangji #wei wuxian #fic: and the calm is deep where the quiet waters flow #featured

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yourfaveisyanderematic · 5 years

Text

Boiling the Frog

When you leave things up to me, you get Horrible, but I suspect you already knew that :3c

You hated nail polish. The whole process of manicures, in fact, seemed like a frustrating hassle, far too much effort for a result that would only chip in a few days anyway, something that was…girly, in a way you instinctively shied away from. Your friends would admire your hands and complain that leaving them bare was a waste of good genetics, but you were perfectly content to simply regard their nails with vague admiration and leave things at that. When would you ever need to learn, anyway?

“Fuck.” you swore under your breath as your hand trembled, moving the brush in the wrong direction and ruining the coat yet again. Reaching for the rubbing alcohol and undoing everything for the umpteenth time was the last thing you wanted to do—you’d already been at this for over an hour—but entertaining the idea only reminded you of the last time you’d given into the impulse. You saw his face in your mind’s eye, clear as day, the handsome cheekbones and elegantly styled light hair framing cold grey eyes that betrayed no hint of emotion but communicated profound disappointment all the same.

“Even young girls can do this properly, it’s one of the first things they teach each other. How is this so difficult for you?”

The mere memory of hearing him say the words made your heart wobble. You scrubbed at the fresh paint with new fervor, erasing the thought of having to actually hear them again with each stroke. You’d do it right. You could do this right. It was easy.

You’d never paid attention to the routine before, but in only a short time you knew it intimately. You knew how to push your cuticles back (an intimidating process that drew blood the first time you tried it) and to lay a clear base. You knew how long to wait between coats and how to brush them for the best consistency and coverage, and you knew to coat the undersides of your nails with the topcoat to keep them from chipping for longer.

Only a month or two ago, if someone told you you’d learn to do all this for some guy, you would have laughed in their face. You tried not to think about that, just pushed past the fatigue of making such tightly controlled motions for so long and tried again, watching the rainbow flecks of the micro glitter swirl against deep blue in the wake of the brush. It was a good thing you were on the very last nail. There wasn’t much time before you had to go to work, and Kira hated to be kept waiting.

You waved your hand in the air in an effort to get the last coat to dry faster, capping the bottles with your free hand and putting them away. These, too, had a particular order to be in, and you weren’t sloppy enough to forget again. Everything had its place.

Time to go. You took a glance at yourself in the mirror, adjusted your slacks and dress shirt, and made for the door, stepping into the hallway.

“Kira? I’m ready to go,” you called for your boyfriend (it still felt a little weird to think of him as that) and made your way down the stairs. Yoshikage Kira waited for you near the front door, standing between you and your shoes, making a show of adjusting his tie even though his appearance had never been short of what you’d call ‘effortlessly immaculate’. It was enough to make you straighten your shirt again, a little more nervously this time, even though you’d already confirmed you looked professional enough moments ago.

Kira gave you a very obvious once-over as you came to a stop in front of him, finally reaching forward to redo the button at the very top of your shirt. The sensation of his hands, close enough to your neck that you could feel their warmth, was enough to make your breath hitch, but he graciously ignored it.

“That’s all anyone else should be seeing of you. You look very professional.” He raised his hand, a wordless invitation (or an order, something in your head whispered) and you complied, resting your hand in his. He tilted his hand, letting the light catch your fingers from all angles, regarding your work in complete silence. You couldn’t help but hold your breath.

“Very nice.” Your heart fluttered at the words, so simple yet rarely heard from him. “I can see you’ve been improving with practice, I told you this wasn’t hard. Although…” a frown creased his thin features, “I’m not sure about the color. Don’t you think the glitter’s a little childish?”

You felt your heart sink. “But…you said it was fine, when I picked it out.” This was stupid. It was your nails, it should have been fine if you liked it. Ever since your relationship began, however, it became increasingly obvious that Kira was far more sophisticated than you were. You found yourself acting in response, changing how you dressed and even what you cooked, a childish compulsion to please him, to live up to the standards he set for you.

“For work? When you wanted to buy this I assumed it was for a night out or the weekend, so I didn’t raise any objections.” He eyed the clock overhead. “You don’t have any time to change it. Come on; traffic will be terrible.” He stepped aside, letting your hand fall out of his grasp as you stepped into your shoes. Without another word, Kira opened the door and walked you to his car, letting his arm rest around your shoulders in a way that was almost possessive.

But I don’t want to change the color, you thought but didn’t say.

—

“…and that’s how I got Sato to start putting his laundry away!” Suzuki, one of your coworkers, finished her latest spiel about her adventures in childcare, sitting back for your reaction with an expectant grin. You gently nudged her to move her leg, letting you finish filling out the form, and gave a noncommittal hum of acknowledgement. Lunch hour was only ten minutes away but really couldn’t come fast enough.

“Everyone kept telling me ‘oh, once he’s got the habit it’ll be so hard to change’, but once you know the trick it’s actually really easy,” she wound a brunette curl around her finger with a knowing smile. Suzuki was a nice enough coworker, older than you and modern enough to work despite being a mother, but she had a frustrating ability to carry on a conversation almost entirely one-sidedly, and learning to tune her out was almost a prerequisite for your job.

“It’s just boiling the frog. All you need is patience.”

The strangeness of the phrase made you pause, and you watched her grin broaden as you stared up in incomprehension. “‘Boiling the…frog’?”

She clapped her hands, loudly enough to draw looks from others in the office. “Funny saying, right? I picked it up on a trip to America. Basically, instead of trying to do everything all at once, you change things gradually, one at a time, and wait. They get so used to things that they’re doing everything you want, and they don’t even notice the change! Next I’m going to do it with vegetables. You’ll definitely want to do things like that when you’ve got kids of your own!” she gave a knowing wink, despite the fact that you’d never once expressed the slightest interest in children. She opened her mouth to continue some other story about parental wisdom she wanted to pass to you, and you went back to work, hearing her voice muffle into a background drone that was almost musical.

A shadow loomed over you, breaking into your thoughts. The next thing you registered was that Suzuki’s presence had mysteriously vanished from your desk, freeing up a good third of the space.

Kira loomed over you, beautiful even in the fluorescent lights that flattered nobody. His hand came over your own, stilling your pen.

“What are you doing? Lunch has started. Hurry, we’ve only got an hour and I want to have Saint Gentlemen’s.” Normally you would have objected—not even Suzuki would interrupt you in the middle of work, and there were only a couple lines left on the form—but Saint Gentlemen’s was popular, and missing out on lunch would put Kira in a bad mood. You put the pen down and stood up. It felt bold to grab Kira’s arm as the two of you walked out, but he didn’t pull away this time; when you looked up at his face, you realized it must have been because he was distracted, glancing over his shoulder with an unreadable expression.

“What’s wrong?” You waited until the two of you were alone in the elevator to ask. You hated to look like you were gossiping. He took a deep breath.

“It’s nothing, really…I just dislike two-faced people, who smile to your face but laugh at you behind your back. I’m so glad you’re nothing like that.”

You watched the lights on the display slowly count down, itching to press but unsure if you should. “Like…did something happen?”

He looked at you out of the corner of his eye and then reached out, once again holding you close.

“I don’t want to upset you. We’re about to have lunch, I’d hate to ruin the mood.”

Memory flashed. It was Suzuki he’d been staring at.

“Was it Suzuki? Did she say something about you?” The elevator doors opened, and Kira stepped out with you, holding you tight against the crowd flowing out the doors into the warm sunshine.

“Actually, it was about you. She’d been laughing with some friends on her break, while you were still working. ‘They’re so gullible,’” Kira repeated in a high-pitched imitation of your coworker, “‘Did you see their face when I joked that their work was worth the promotion? I trust the part-time hires more!’” His face betrayed no emotion, but you felt your stomach twist as you began to rethink every compliment or comment she ever told you in a new light. Was that really how she felt? Why didn’t she say anything? She—

Kira took your chin in his hand, turning your face to meet his. Something like amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re so easy to rile up. Didn’t I tell you I didn’t want to ruin your mood? Forget about it. You aren’t even friends with her.”

I thought I was, you thought but didn’t say.

—

“You’re lovely to look at, and so intelligent. You’re just so…unpolished. Only with my help can you really shine.”

Those were the words Kira said to you that first night you began dating. You would have laughed, but you could tell by the conviction in his eyes that he was completely serious, so you played along, even if you didn’t have any idea what he was talking about.

As time went on, however, you began to realize just how right he was.

You were careless. Time and time again you’d found yourself locked out of the house or missing your wallet, for Kira to look—with you in hysterics—only to produce the missing item from a pocket you must have forgotten to check. You’d misplace laundry, and Kira would have to buy you new clothes.

You were naive. Suzuki was the first of your silent bullies you learned about, but she wouldn’t be the last; it seemed like everyone at the office was undermining you somehow, and if Kira hadn’t been acting as your silent guardian you’re sure you’d be the office fool still. It had been enough to make you quit your job from the stress, though Kira had been more than gracious enough to keep you at his home to recover in peace.

You were hysterical. Too often you got yourself worked up, imagining that Kira said something hurtful, that he was trying to control you, that he told you this or that or locked you in your room. It was in the moments of clarity that followed, moments that swept you up in shame and embarrassment, that made you realize that you’d imagined it all. The stress of being the hunted at your job, of everyone being against you, was threatening to turn you against the one man truly and unconditionally on your side.

Kira had been so patient. He helped you through it all, tolerating both when you hurled insults at him through the door he you locked to the moments of weakness when you sobbed like a baby into his chest.

“Structure,” was all he would say in those times. “Structure is what will put your mind in order and make you stronger. You’re very close, you just need me to help you a little more.”

He was right. It was only when you knew you were following his lead that you really felt safe, that you could wear that coat or follow that recipe without being sure that you were somehow making a mistake. The agonizing hours that he was gone (“I still have to work to support you, dear,” he said with a smile as you opened the door for him to leave) were almost suffocating. Those rare, rare nights when he was out for longer than normal were the worst, when you genuinely felt that you were going to die.

Even so, it was with numb incomprehension that you watched him crush pills from an orange prescription bottle and tip them into the pot he stirred. He caught your eye and smiled reassuringly, turning the label away from your view.

“To help you sleep tonight,” he offered as explanation, “I have to work late, but I don’t want you to be up all night worrying for me. You’re fine with it, right?”

The idea of being awake and by yourself was awful. The idea of being drugged—unconscious and vulnerable to whoever happened by—was borderline unbearable. No, you felt the word push behind your lips, but you couldn’t make yourself say it. You nodded slowly.

Kira tilted his head, a satisfied smile that made your heart flutter with pleasure. If it made him happy with you, if it made you less unmanageable, maybe it couldn’t be that bad. He gestured to the dinner table, where a small bottle of nail polish waited. You could see your reflection in its pearly pink sheen as you approached.

“A new shade was released at the department store today. I’d love to see it on you; we have enough time before dinner’s ready.”

You looked at the label, some high-end brand you would never buy on your own. Killer Queen.

“It suits you, doesn’t it?”

#yandere jjba #yandere x reader #yandere kira #Kira's a real bastard in this one gotta say #by me

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theeternalspace · 5 years

Text

In Memoriam 18

Summary: The metal tree had always fascinated the Prince.

Only, it wasn’t a tree.

And, as it turned out, he wasn’t really a Prince. Instead he was… a side of someone’s personality? He doesn’t remember Thomas, or the other sides, those who call themselves his friends. He doesn’t really remember anything, not even his own name, no matter the efforts of Patton, Logan or Virgil. He must venture back into the Wardrobe door, back to the metal tree in an attempt to recover his missing memories and regain everything he has lost.

But perhaps some doors are best left closed for a reason. And perhaps some personas should remain in the ground where they have been buried.

Story Warnings: Sympathetic/Grey Deceit Sanders. He is trying his best you guys. Anxiety. Self doubt and self loathing. Fantasy fighting. Verbal fighting. Threatening behaviour. Blood and injury. Memory loss. Drowning. Near death.

Previous || Next

Spring had come to Narnia.

The snow was melting under foot as Roman moved through the forest, white vanishing almost before his eyes, bright green shoots poking up everywhere as the grass began to renew itself. On the tree branches above, he could see countless leaves starting to unroll themselves as they began to shake themselves into new life. It wouldn't be long before the flowers followed suit and soon enough where once there had been an endless expanse of white, there would be a riot of colour as life did what it did best.

He could hear plenty of signs of animal life as well, birdsong in what had previously been a foreboding silent forest, the merry call of one bird to another. They filled the air as he stumbled through the trees, searching for the edge of the forest. Creatures rustled in the undergrowth all around his feet, the whole area alive with the best that this world had to offer.

It was all very lovely, hopeful, inspiring. Renewal and regrowth, the passing of the seasons and so on and so on.

It also wasn’t what he had come here to see. Roman didn’t have time to care about the miracle that was happening here, his attention fixed only on finding his way out of the trees and to the windswept barren hilltop that would hold the stone table. Where hopefully, he would find Virgil, and at long last they could talk. Assuming, of course, that he hadn't been an utter fool in allowing himself to trust Deceit. Assuming that the side he literally knew as a liar, was telling the truth.

If he wasn’t, Roman would just have to pay him another visit, one that was far less friendly than the last one.

Until then, he would hold onto the hope that he had been right to trust him and that Virgil would be found at the end of this adventure. As soon as he made it to the hilltop Roman could have summoned one of the talking horses to aid him, he could have ridden the length of the imaginary world as fast as he could in order to reach the stone table and finally confront Virgil. He could have used that time to talk to them, thank them or try and work out if Deceit had changed anything else in the world, if there were any further surprises lurking in wait for him.

There wasn’t time for that. He had no desire to talk to anyone else, to cover another few pages of the story in a journey, not right now at least. He needed to simply find Virgil. Nothing else came close to mattering but finding Virgil.

Trees thinned in front of him, the thick trunks growing steadily less in number until he could see the fields. Spring was doing its job here too. The grass was already thick, while dozens and dozens of daisies blooming over the carpet area in front of him, brilliant flecks of a warm white that was so different from the snow. It was a thing of beauty and Roman barely noticed it, his gaze lifted higher.

In the far distance, he could made out of a series of hills rising up in the air, lining the horizon. The one near the middle of his point of view was taller than the rest, a couple of jagged black lines pointing up into the sky from it. The silhouettes of the stones. Even if Roman called a horse now, it would still take him hours to travel that distance and that wouldn’t do.

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, evenly. Mentally, he reached out across the Imagination, letting himself stretch out, feeling all the invisible little points where he had sown this world together. They all responded, snapping to attention at his whims and humming with gentle energy. He could distort the reality of this world with all these threats wrapped around his fingers, he could change whatever he wanted to. Right now, what Roman wanted was to get from point A to B in the least possible time.

It was cheating but by this stage Roman no longer cared. They had been fighting for so long now, they had struggled against the odds and waded through so much trouble, it was beyond time that they finally got their happy ending. Or a happy pause at least, and Roman knew that sooner or later another dramatic event would pop up, another dilemma for them to face. Hopefully they would be able to face it as a family once more, they could be a united front and guide Thomas through whatever life had to throw at him this time.

But that was in the future. That was a problem for another day and just because Roman knew another day would come, that didn’t mean he had to spend all his time worrying about it. Instead, it meant they had to enjoy the quiet moments. Like right now. Roman was going to enjoy this moment - or maybe the moment after it, when Virgil had completely forgive him and everything was good again. Everything would be good again. It had to be. He pulled on some of the invisible threads in his mind, weaving a new pattern in the fabric of this world, a simple little symbol just for a moment, just to get what he needed.

He stepped from tree to hill in a single bound, the edges of reality shimmering and creasing slightly as Roman simply moved from one area to another. Just for an instant, for that moment between breaths, the whole world seemed to fold in on itself, so that in that single second of time, there really was nothing between the two points, as if the two important landmarks simply bumped up next to each other.

Roman took another step, feeling the world exhale and stretch back out around him, the knotted pattern slipping lose as the world reverted to how it had been before. Fields of daisies returned to the land between them, animals and birds repeated exactly where they had last been, flying as though nothing had even happened. Just a little hiccup in the world and everything was as it should be once more.

His legs felt wobbly for a moment, a little waver as he sought to find his balance all over again. The sensation would pass soon enough, once the rest of him caught up with the fact that he had managed to move miles in a split second.

Large, upright pillars lined the top of the hill, a stone circle that looked as though it had been there for hundreds of years. They were worn with age, one or two crumbling away, bones of fingers clawing towards the pale blue sky, bleached almost white by the endless winter sun. In the middle rested an enormous flat stone, polished to a near gleam, supported by four square, short stones, each bearing an equal weight.

It was a powerful place and a powerful sight, but Roman’s attention wasn’t on the stone circle but at the other person within it. There, with his back to him, hood pulled up as he stared out over the sprawling landscape was a very familiar figure.

Virgil.

Roman had done it at last. He had found him and they could finally talk. It was fitting, perhaps, that it should be here, that they should talk around this table when so many other stories had been told here too. Perhaps not stories they had ever actually taken part in, but the history of this world was carved into these stones. They remembered things that had never happened. They would remember this too.

He was going to have to be very careful, was going to have to approach this with skill and guile. Just rushing in was not the way to do it and he forced himself to keep breathing evenly, to actually take in the surrounding area just in case. Roman frowned a little as he stared at the stone table, for a moment focused on that and not the purple clad figure perched on the edge of it.

It was still intact.

One giant slab of stone, impossibly large. It was a stunning piece of craftsmanship but it shouldn’t be here in this state. They had reached the end of the story. The White Wizard had been defeated, peace had been made, spring had returned to the previously ice clad land. The happy ending of the story was all but dancing across the world with every passing moment.

The stone should be cracked in half, broken under the weight of a good deed.

Even though Roman didn’t consider Virgil a traitor, he still had sacrificed himself for the greater good. Virgil had risked and given up everything he cared for another. He had done the right thing and that should have been enough for the story which was still playing out for them. The stone needed to crack for the story to end, things had to slip into their predestined place. The stone should have cracked, Roman had expected it to crack and he was in charge once more, his energy and power filled this world.

Unless Virgil didn’t consider it a worthy enough sacrifice and his guilt was overwhelming the story, fusing together what was meant to be made in two. It had to be a truly powerful guilt to be that strong but if anyone could feel self hate that strongly, it would be Virgil.

Roman couldn’t take the silence any longer, the horrible thoughts that were running through his mind, dozens of little rats in mazes, each clawing at themselves as they tried to find a way out.

“Virgil?” Roman called softly and Virgil had to know he was there, he had to have heard him coming. If not the little pop as he appeared out of thin air in a manner akin to a Dark Side, then surely the sound of his breathing would have tipped him off. It was hard to sneak up on the literal embodiment of anxiety.

The other man jumped, flinching as he slipped off the table to spin around to look at him, eyes wide and for one grain of sand slipping through the hourglass, his expression was unguarded, everything Virgil was feeling burning in his eyes. They stared across the stone table at each other. Roman felt as though the very air had been stolen from his lungs as he looked into Virgil’s eyes, taking in the pain and agony that was reflected there. Roman had been right - the guilt was so strong here, strong enough he could almost reach out and touch it in the air around them. There was an ocean of regret in Virgil’s gaze, a pain that seemed to sink deeper and deeper, the longer Roman looked.

Okay, maybe he hadn’t known Roman was there. But he knew now. No going back.

With a brisk shake of his head, Virgil let some of his hair fall back over his face from where the air had brushed them aside. The bangs returned to their accustomed place, strands covering and protecting his eyes slightly, dark locks obscuring them. Despite that, Roman could still see far more than Virgil no doubt wanted him to.

Virgil looked away first. His hood was still pulled up over his head, fingers lifting to nervously play with the string as if he wanted to just tug on them until his whole face vanished within the darkness of the hood.

“Hey Princey,” Virgil rasped, voice sounding almost painful, as if he had been crying or screaming recently and Roman really didn’t want to know which.

“Virge...”

Now they were standing there, Roman felt almost lost for words. And Roman never felt lost for words.

He had practised of course. He had rehearsed all manner of things to say to Virgil. He had considered how best to appeal to his sense of loyalty, how to beg him to still be friends. How to prove that he had forgiven Virgil in turn, that really he didn’t think there was anything to forgive him for. How to thank him for being the better, stronger, man and doing what needed to be done. Virgil had saved him and Roman needed to show just how grateful he was for that.

All the grand plans, all the great declarations, the gestures Roman had spent so much time practising, they all crowded up in his mind, each wanting to be said over the other until it was impossible for him to actually focus on any one of them. He wanted to say so much and yet now he couldn’t seem to say a thing, whispers of thank you, forgive me, of how awesome you are and how lucky I am, swirling around and around in his mind like water circling a drain. Except there was no handy hole at the bottom for his thoughts to slip out of, no safety valve for them to move through.

None of those came out of his mouth. Instead, what he said was far simpler, two words that echoed from his heart.

“I’m sorry.”

Virgil looked back up at him, expression guarded, wary. Something seemed to flicker in his brown eyes, a hint of an emotion that fled before Roman could get a proper read on it. He lifted a thumb, biting at the nail for a second before swallowing, expression shifting into something that was very obviously, deliberately blank.

“Why would you be sorry?”

“I could make a list,” Roman replied, still fighting to keep his voice even. The urge to shout, to beg and plead and go to any length in order to make sure Virgil listened and understood was still burning brightly in his mind, a flickering flame that refused to go out. He wanted to climb onto the table and scream at the top of his lungs so that every animal in this world would hear what he had to say, so that everyone would know just how much he cared. Roman wanted to break into song and dance, a musical number to show his extreme emotions, something completely awesome.

All the sort of dramatic behaviour that Virgil hated in fact.

This was meant to be about Virgil, for Virgil. The least he could do was have this conversation on his terms and try and do it in a way that made him feel more comfortable. He had to reach out in a way that Virgil would hopefully understand and accept. Virgil deserved nothing less.

“Let’s start with the big one. I’m sorry I asked you not to do it.”

Neither of them needed to mention exactly what it was, they both knew, the memory of that moment hanging over them like those dark storm clouds that Virgil had adopted as a personal symbol. Roman still shuddered to remember how he had behaved, how ghastly he had been to Virgil, and all for nothing. No, worse than nothing. Virgil gave a one shoulder shrug in response, still trying to appear dismissive, uncaring.

He wasn’t nearly as good a liar as Deceit.

It was almost laughably easy to tell how badly he did care, how the expression of relief was growing more and more obvious by the moment even as Virgil fought to keep it under control. Roman was glad that Virgil wasn’t a good liar, that he was honest even when he tried not to be. There was some merit in his old theory that Virgil was a side representing Honesty. He couldn’t bend the truth as well as any of the others and yet when it came down to it, his true thoughts would always shine through.

“I mean it Virgil,” Roman insisted, when it became obvious that the other side wasn’t going to say anything further and he couldn’t just leave it at that. He had to keep trying, had to make Virgil see how truly sorry he was. “You saved me and I should never have tried to use what we have against you.”

“You were just doing what you thought you had to. I’m sorry too, that I didn’t listen. It should have been your choice but because you made the one that I personally thought was wrong, I just... ignored you. I’m sorry for that.” Virgil replied and no, that wasn’t what he wanted. He didn’t want or need an apology back and he certainly didn’t want his actions justified. What he had done in that moment had been wrong, pure and simple. It didn’t matter what Virgil had been trying to do, he still struck a low and terrible blow when he shouldn’t have.

“You did the right thing. I was so wrapped up in the idea of heroes and villains. I guess at my core I’m not so different after all without my memories. I still see things in black and white, whereas you see all the grey in between. I saw myself as the villain and I couldn’t understand why you wanted to bring back someone who had been so horrible to you for so long. Someone who hadn’t behaved like a Prince and never gave you the chance you deserved.” Roman paused for a moment to catch his breath, the words almost falling over themselves in their haste to be said. He had no idea how long he had, how much Virgil would listen to and he couldn’t afford to waste a single second.

“I...” Virgil trailed off, a conflicted expression on his face. His hands were no longer playing with the strings of his hood, Virgil shoving them in the pockets of his hoodie instead, as if forcing them to be still. That had to be an improvement right? Virgil was no longer bursting with restless energy that had no proper outlet. His hood was still up however and Roman wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not.

“I didn’t exactly behave like I deserved a chance Ro, you know that. You remember that now,” Virgil told him softly, a resigned tone to his voice. As if he believed he deserved all those years of semi isolation. No, this wasn’t going well.

“I still should have given you one. We were kids, that doesn’t mean I should have decided you were dark and be done with it. Nothing you did ever warranted the way I treated you. I remember that. I guess... some part of me still doesn’t understand? Why you picked... me... over him?” Even as Roman said the words, he knew he hadn’t expressed himself clearly, that he hadn’t said exactly what he meant. Just like Patton had once said, words were tough. It would be easier if Virgil could just see inside his mind, see all the emotions and floating thoughts and understand them all. Maybe even translate them for Roman himself, because he certainly didn’t get everything inside his own head.

“You think I would have just left you like that?” Virgil looked horrified by his own words, an expression of heartbreak on his features and no, no, that was not the reaction that he had wanted.

Roman was making a complete mess of this.

“No, I just meant... we were horrible to each other as kids sometimes. And then as adults. I guess what I meant was... if it was the other way around and I had the chance to skip all that pain and just have my friend without any other complications... I’m not sure I would have been as strong as you. As brave as you,” Roman admitted, voice dropping to a near whisper as he finished.

It was a shameful thing to admit, but he had made up his mind to be truthful, to lay all his cards on the table. Virgil deserved to know everything, the good and the bad, and that included his own darker thoughts. Would he have thrown the memory orb? Roman liked to think so, wanted to hope so. But he didn’t know for sure, he couldn’t know for sure. The thought of being able to save Virgil from the pain of the past was a tempting one, Roman couldn’t lie about that.

As well as not having the guilt which always simmered in his mind whenever he looked at the anxious side and thought about all the time they had wasted. All the bad choices Roman had made which had caused Virgil to be isolated. Or the ones Virgil had made himself, which had also led to him being alone and miserable. They had both made bad choices.

It would have been far too easy to decide that Virgil would have been better off ‘reset’ so to speak but it wouldn’t have been the right choice. And that wouldn’t have been his choice to make - just as it had been Roman’s choice to keep his memories. He could have eaten the Jelly again if he had wanted to, could have wiped himself clean out of choice, and Virgil had given him the ability to do that. Roman didn’t want to, and he was pretty sure that Virgil would have done the same thing. He had to remind himself of that. It wasn’t up to him to play God like that, to decide what Virgil did and didn’t remember. Roman was still just glad he had never been placed in that situation, that he had never needed to do the right thing.

“It wasn’t bravery,” Virgil replied with a brisk shake of his head, refusing to accept the compliment. “Stubbornness maybe? Stupidity? I was so scared...”

“And you did it anyway. That’s bravery to me Virgil. Even when I was an absolute monster and threatened to destroy our friendship. I should never have done such a thing.”

“It’s fine Roman,” Virgil insisted, in a voice that Roman could clearly tell meant it wasn’t fine. It couldn’t be just fine, just like that.

Some deflections Roman could accept. Some excuses for his own behaviour because he wanted to think he hadn’t been all bad. That moment was not one of them. That was not a moment he could let slip by without any further comment. Virgil needed to know how badly Roman regretted saying what he had, as well as what had compelled him to threaten that in the first place.

“No, it was cruel and wrong of me Virgil. I tried to use our friendship against you, that isn’t something that can just be waved away with a ‘it’s fine’. It deserves a proper explanation for why I behaved like such a beast. Even without my memories, even when I was doing my best to be what I thought was a better version of myself, I still... sunk to such terrible depths. I just. I...” Roman swallowed heavily and it was harder than he expected, to explain himself.

It meant cracking his own heart open and laying everything on the line, knowing full well that Virgil could still reject it all. He would be well within his rights too, there was no hard guarantee that he would accept it. Roman could be brave though, he had to be brave because the potential reward was more than worth it.

“Why did you use that threat?” Virgil asked after a moment. He kicked at the ground with the tip of his shoe, tiny flecks of dirt flying up into the air around them. “Was it just because.. I dunno, you knew how pathetic I was? How needy?”

“No!” Roman took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment and this was far more painful than even he had ever imagined. No less than he deserved of course, but it still hurt to think that Virgil thought of himself in such terms. That he thought that Roman thought of Virgil in those terms.

“I said it because it was the worst thing I could think of that could happen to us both. I... you were the most important thing in my life Virgil, you were my rock without my memories. You were my hero. I was ashamed of who I had been, and I thought I could do better, for myself, for Thomas and for you.” He wasn’t really sure if this was making any of it better, but it was all he had left to offer, his honesty. Roman could remember his thought process, as clear as day, he could remember how sure he had felt that this was the right thing to do, that rejecting his past was the obvious answer.

“Oh...” Virgil didn’t seem upset at least, a more thoughtful expression on his features as they stood there, eyebrows pulled into a faint frown.

“And you still mean the world to me. You’ll still my hero,” Roman added firmly, the thought belatedly occurring to him.

“Wha... oh come on Roman, you don’t need to say that kinda stuff now.” Virgil’s cheeks were undeniably red now, the blush obvious even though the pale foundation he liked to cake on. Roman couldn’t help but wonder if the reason he put it on was to try and avoid situations like this, to keep his edgy reputation. To pretend that he didn’t care. After all, it was Virgil that had refused to say ‘I love you’, that had instead insisted it should be ‘an understood’ thing - and he had said that long before he had been accepted, before they had realised just how important he was and how much they cared. Virgil had cared, right from the start.

Virgil could try and deny his feelings on the outside all he liked. He could pretend he was cool and emo with nothing else going on if he wanted but it was far too late for that to be believable. Roman had seen him horse riding, he had seen him laughing around a campfire and most importantly he had seen him going full feral and claiming victory in a snowball fight by any means possible. There was so much more to Virgil than the disinterested edgy persona he tried to show to the world. Virgil might have wanted to try and scare them for his own reasons, or because he felt like he had no other choice but that didn’t change who else he had been.

More shame on Roman for being fooled by it for all these years.

“I mean it,” Roman said firmly, moving around the table as he spoke. His eyes never left Virgil’s face, the other side seemingly frozen in place. It gave Roman courage, knowing that Virgil wasn’t moving, that he was letting Roman get closer. He was allowing him to bridge that gap between them at last.

At least it wasn’t a repeat of the fiasco with Deceit.

Disbelief was still evident on Virgil’s expression, warring with hope, as if he couldn’t quite allow himself to feel either fully but was unwilling to settle on one emotion or the other. It was better than Roman could have dared hope, especially after he had explained his feelings so poorly at the start. It was something to work with, something to work on and that was the important thing. That was what Roman had to focus on, doing his best to make sure his expression remained open and warm, that there was nothing in it that would make Virgil panic.

Roman didn’t say another word until he was in front of him. Slowly, he reached out, hands finding Virgil’s own and drawing them out of his pockets.There was no force to his movements, no pressure as he slipped his hands into the anxious sides own, Roman giving him every opportunity to pull away if he wanted to. Virgil made no attempt to move, simply stood there, eyes wide. Roman’s fingers entwined with Virgil’s, idly noticing how pale and cool they were in comparison to his own, more tanned ones. The subtle differences between them all never failed to fascinate him.

This wasn’t the first time he had held Virgil's hand but it was by far the most important one. He had screamed the last time they had held hands - so had Virgil, but that was beside the point. What mattered was now. Smiling at Virgil and holding his hands now. Roman took a deep breath and spoke from the heart.

“You’re my best friend. I can think of no worse punishment than being denied your company Virgil. From being denied your conversation. Even when you are the gloomy one, you’re still my best friend. There is no shame in that. Please... please forgive me and stop hiding? If you want to. I miss our evening chats, I miss our arguments over the dinner table, I even miss you insulting me and pointing out all the flaws in my latest idea because once I remove those flaws I always have something that is so much better than the previous effort. You make not only me, but everything better, just by being there. Come home?”

There it was.

His heart laid bare with his innermost thoughts offered up on a silver platter to Virgil. Roman trusted him though, trusted that he wasn’t going to get a stab in the heart as a result. No matter what happened, he knew better than to think that Virgil would ever be mean for the sake of being mean. All those times he had been cruel, had scared them, it had been because Virgil was scared himself, or because he felt it was the only way he could be listened to. That didn’t make it right, what he had done, but it did explain it a little bit at least. And here, there was no need for him to do any of those things. Even if he refused to come back home, Roman knew he wouldn’t be needlessly cruel about it. It would hurt beyond the telling, but he wouldn’t be mean.

Roman had to believe that.

#sanders sides #in memoriam #aca writes #long post

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janeofcakes · 5 years

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FJW: Chapter 17

** Here it is, friends, another chapter! It took longer to edit than I thought and I was going to post last night, but pain reared its ugly head. I couldn’t move and passed out on the couch and didn’t rise til morning. In any case, I hope you all enjoy it! Cheers. **

Roughly two hours later, Sherlock sits on the sofa with his legs up and a plate of scrambled eggs on toast in his lap. His bandaged foot is propped on a pillow and he is no longer tipsy, but his brain still isn’t as sharp as it typically is. He is, however, ravenous and eats his breakfast without objection. John pulls his chair over to sit across from the sofa and eats with his flatmate. He swept up the bedroom and binned the glass after setting up Sherlock on the sofa. He also cleaned up the loo and bloody footprints, grumbling about pigheaded twats who keep secrets from their doctors the whole time and loudly enough for Sherlock to hear. Breakfast came after and took half the time to make.

“So when do you expect Mycroft to return Rosie?” John asks around a bite of toast and jam.

“Not until evening, I’m sure,” Sherlock replies, about to pop a piece toast with egg into his mouth. “Believe it or not, my brother adores being an uncle and clears as much time as possible to spend with his niece.”

“Well,” John laughs, “I don’t remember much about him yet, but Rosie must be quite the charmer to get through to him.”

“She has uncanny abilities,” Sherlock smiles. They share a laugh, but Sherlock cuts his off quickly and his smile fades. John creases his brow and is about to ask what is wrong when his flatmate startles him with a pleading voice full of desperation. “Please don’t take her from me.”

John’s jaw drops. Whatever he might want to say, although he has no idea what it would be, simply will not come. John is struck completely silent with shock. He stares into Sherlock’s imploring grey eyes and wonders what possessed him to even think such a thing. Why would he take Rosie from her home and her father? What kind of monster must Sherlock think him?

“What?” John finally finds his voice. “Why on earth would I…”

“You’ll want to move out,” Sherlock interrupts. “Get on with your life.”

“But why…”

“She doesn’t belong to me, John. You are her father. If you leave, she will go with you. It only makes sense.”

John gapes, unable to believe what his flatmate is saying. And every word, every word brings the man pain far worse than anything he suffered in the morning. John sets his plate aside and leans forward in his chair, elbows on his knees.

“Sherlock, you adopted her,” he swallows. “You raised her. You are her father.”

“I’m not. She’s your blood.”

“You are her father in every way that matters,” John insists. He pauses for a moment to watch his flatmate thoughtfully. Anger flashes through his eyes and he works hard to keep it from his voice when he speaks. “Is this because of Mycroft? Has he convinced you I’ll want to leave?”

“No!” Sherlock shouts, but reins himself in quickly. He looks away from John to the floor. Clearing his throat, he places his plate on the side table and shifts uneasily. “You may stay as long as you like, but there will be...others. Dates. Maybe marriage. You can’t stay after that. You will have to leave.”

“Oh,” John’s voice is little more than a whisper. He stares at his sad and flustered flatmate. It’s all so clear to him now. Sherlock is in love with someone else. Someone he wants to marry. Dates. Others. Marriage. Sherlock is trying to explain how things changed while John was asleep and how they will change again.

God, John can’t believe his own stupidity. It took him so long to really see it and understand. How absurd would it be to have him living in the flat once Sherlock is married? Where would he even stay? Rosie has her room and Sherlock has his. How did he ever convince his partner to stay away from the flat? Why has Rosie never mentioned anyone? Maybe Sherlock goes to see his lover when he leaves for cases. God, John’s very presence and Sherlock’s generosity are probably jeopardizing the relationship. John needs to leave. He needs to move out now so Sherlock can get on with his life. John shakes his head and covers his mouth with one hand.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he begins. He looks at the man. “I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“I’ve spoiled everything, haven’t I?” John takes his hand from his mouth and sighs. “You’ve put your whole life on hold for me and I’ve been too stupid to see it.”

Sherlock doesn’t say a word. He simply gapes at his friend just as John did moments ago. The doctor looks back with wide eyes, tears pricking at the corners. He leaps out of his chair and drops to his knees in front of the detective, taking his hands in his.

“I understand, Sherlock, I do. My waking up was the worst thing that could’ve happened.”

Sherlock’s jaw drops, his eyes blink wide with shock. He looks absolutely horrified. John shakes his head in dismay. Everything Sherlock had tried to tell him, and Greg too. A lot has changed. John blinks back the tears and presses on.

“You have someone else, another life. You were going to be a family, the three of you, and then I came back in to fuck it up. I won’t stand in your way. I won’t. You are Rosie’s father and this is her home. I would never take her away from you,” John pauses to swallow down a sob. He inhales deeply, but his breath catches, giving him away. Sherlock’s expression softens into one of sadness and sympathy and...confusion? John shakes his head again. “I’ll move out. Rosie can visit me on weekends or holidays or…”

A traitorous tear breaks from John’s eye and trickles down his cheek. Sherlock’s eyes spark in recognition and he pulls his hands from John’s suddenly, as though every fingertip is burned by the doctor’s skin. John’s face falls. His heart stops. The crack that formed in it earlier slides open and his heart finally breaks in two. Sherlock Holmes is the other half and he has lost him.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” John’s voice breaks and he lowers his head in shame, unable to look Sherlock in the eye. He shouldn’t say it, he shouldn’t, and he doesn’t even realize he is going to until the words are out of his mouth. “I love you. I love you so much, but I won’t get in the way. I won’t…”

John gasps and his head snaps up. Sherlock is staring at him, his mouth closed, expression unreadable. Now John is the one who is horrified, tears running down his cheeks freely. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. In fact, he had just resolved never to say those words. There is no sense in complicating matters. Sherlock is in love with someone else. John’s feelings make no difference. God, he’s such an idiot. He has to fix this. Sherlock has his life and John doesn’t want to make things more difficult. He’s already done enough.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I didn’t mean… I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not fair to you,” John scrambles to his feet. “You weren’t meant to know that. You have someone and I would never ask you to choose. I’m not! I would never… Oh, fuck.”

John turns on his heel and is about to pop up off the floor, but an iron grip with long fingers wraps around his wrist and holds him fast to the spot. He looks over his shoulder at the hand grasping at his own and slowly raises his eyes to Sherlock’s face, expecting anger. But Sherlock’s features are soft, his eyes fond, and his lips curled ever so slightly at the corners. He tugs on John’s arm as if imploring him to sit on his knees again and, without even thinking, he does. John turns to face his flatmate and falls to his calves before him. Sherlock pulls John’s hand into his lap and closes it in both of his own. He squeezes it tightly, enveloping it in the warmth of his touch.

“There is no one else, John,” he says quietly. “I told you before.”

“But you said dates,” John replies in a whisper, “and marriage.”

“For you, John. I meant that you would meet someone once you had settled back into your life. I thought you would want to marry again.”

“I do,” John breathes and Sherlock goes silent with the gravity of those two words.

For a long time, neither of them say a word. They simply search one another’s eyes and faces. Searching for the truth in the crinkles around his eyes, the green and gold flecks that make the grey come alive, the way both of their faces brighten when they see one another. John can feel hope welling in his chest, filling with such joy and light. The force of them springs from his fingertips. So strong is it within his body, he thinks Sherlock must be able to feel it too. And he does. Sherlock is glowing, absolutely glowing.

John licks his lips, trying to summon up the courage to speak. Sherlock’s gaze slips down to said lips and back up, but Sherlock’s eyes are dark with doubt when he meets John’s again. He shakes his head and John mirrors the motion, already frustrated. He knows exactly what Sherlock is going to say and doesn’t want to hear a word of it. It’s rubbish, the lot of it.

“John…”

“No. Don’t you say it.”

“You don’t love me. You don’t want any of that.”

“You don’t think I know what I want? That I don’t know my own mind?”

“You don’t.”

“That’s shit and you know it.”

“It’s true that you have remembered a great deal, but you don’t know everything.”

“I know enough.”

“No, John, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do!” John shouts, ripping his hand from Sherlock’s grasp. He rises to his knees and rests his hands on the sofa cushions, supporting himself as he leans close to Sherlock. They are at eye level now, John’s face up close to Sherlock’s, intruding in his personal space and staring at him with a level of intensity the detective has not seen in those stormy blue eyes for quite some time. John’s body is as tense as ripcord and it is all oddly...sexy.

“What are you afraid of?” John shouts, dispelling Sherlock’s distracting thoughts. “What do you think I’ll find out? I remember your sister nearly blowing my head off. I know you broke me when you faked your own death. And then you waltzed back two years later expecting everything to be the same, but nothing was the same.”

John pauses to catch his breath and shake his head, but doesn’t back down or give Sherlock a chance to react. Suddenly, he is shouting again.

“I remember the wedding! And the bloody pool!”

John pulls back swiftly, startling Sherlock enough to make him lean back in the sofa until he is pressed against the cushions. His eyes are wide, expression full of surprise and trepidation. John is on his feet now, pacing the floor like a man possessed. He wrings his hands as he speaks, balls them into fists and then goes back to wringing.

“That’s when I first knew it, Sherlock. I knew I was going to die and I looked at you and knew I would do anything to save you,” he stops on a dime and turns to face his flatmate. His voice is quiet, calmer when he continues. “I knew I loved you at that moment, but I would never say it. I denied it, to myself, to everyone. You didn’t feel the same way and you never would. You were married to your work.”

“Oh, John,” the voice is so quiet John almost isn’t sure Sherlock said anything at all. Still, he approaches and drops to his knees again. His fingertips rest on the edge of the sofa, his face tilted up to look at Sherlock’s. His eyes are soft and his voice steady.

“Do you want to know how I felt at the wedding? At my own wedding?” he wets his lips and Sherlock nods minutely, hanging on every word. “Lost. Like I had the right time and place, but the wrong person.”

Sherlock lets out a slow, sad sigh and tilts his head in what? Pity? Understanding? John isn’t sure, but he keeps talking anyway, confessing, knowing he’ll never have another chance as long as he lives.

“And you gave that speech. You played that song. And I knew I was wrong about you. All wrong,” John shakes his head and touches Sherlock’s long index finger with the tip of his own. “You did feel it. You felt everything. Everything I did. You loved me. And I’d just gotten married and fucked it all up.”

He looks down at Sherlock’s hands and traces the back of one with his finger, not daring to risk more than that one point of contact.

“I missed my chance,” he whispers. He meets Sherlock’s eyes again, inhales deeply and lets it out. “When you told us about the baby, I was surprised and happy...but sad. I wanted us to be the happy couple, the expectant parents, the new family.”

The detective is still and silent. His eyes shine with tears like sparkling puddles of silver light. His cheeks are tinted pink to match his lips and the color continues to rise, just beginning to reach his temples. John’s gaze lowers, following the same flushed skin on Sherlock’s neck down into his shirt collar. He looks incredible. His curls askew, his lips parted ever so slightly.

The silence seems to go on for hours. Finally, John swallows audibly and takes a chance. He slides his left hand off of Sherlock’s and slowly brings it to the man’s face, where he cups his cheek, index finger resting lightly on his cheekbone. John’s thumb strokes over the soft skin of Sherlock’s cheek and receives a quiet gasp. John’s gut reaction is to pull his hand away, and he almost does, but he could swear Sherlock leaned into his touch just the tiniest bit. The corners of John’s mouth twitch up and he hopes - god, he hopes he’s reading this right - but he’s not willing to risk it and keeps his distance.

“I’m sorry,” is all he says. Quietly, sincerely.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock breathes. It’s a deep, low whisper in the still air of the flat that takes John’s breath away. All he can do is watch as those beautiful lips part again and speak words he has longed to hear for so long. “I love you.”

Outside, the noise of London echoes through the air. The rumble of engines, click of footsteps from a myriad of walkers on the pavement, the door to Speedy’s creaking open and closed, a construction worker yells up to his mates on the other side of Baker Street, the very door to 221 clatters loudly as Mrs. Hudson closes it on her way to Tesco. John Watson hears none of it. All he can hear, or even think of, are the words just whispered by Sherlock Holmes.

John lets out a breath his didn’t realize he was holding, but remains completely motionless otherwise. He is suddenly consumed by the notion that he must be dreaming, unable to believe that what he just heard from his flatmate’s lips is true. But suppose it is. John’s lips part just a skosh and his eyes widen into an expression of silent surprise. His hand is still pressed gently against Sherlock’s cheek and the detective is definitely leaning into the touch now. John finally blinks once, twice. His disbelieving mind begins translating what his sense have told him and he stares, eyes glued on his flatmate. He twitches at the feeling of Sherlock’s touch at his own cheek. The detective wets his lips and sighs, his face easing into John’s hand even further.

“Mmm…” Sherlock hums softly as if looking for the right words. “I have always loved you.”

John breathes a long “oh”. It sounds like a sigh or maybe a prayer. It is so soft Sherlock scarcely heard it. John studies his face with a look of serenity on his own. He tilts his head, matching the curve of Sherlock’s hand, revelling in its warm touch. Oh my god, how he has longed for this. He stares at the detective through the haze of his mind, still unable to believe this is happening.

“My god, I can’t believe this. This...this is amazing,” John mumbles and wets his lips. “Is this a dream?”

“No, John,” Sherlock chuckles quietly. John’s mouth curls as he watches his flatmate’s matching dimples deepen with his growing smile. “You aren’t dreaming.”

John turns his head into Sherlock’s hand, his nose nearly touching the man’s pale wrist. He inhales deeply, closing his eyes. Then exhales slowly through his mouth and kisses the fragrant and now humid skin gently. Sherlock smells likes biscuits and cherry blossoms and a musky scent that must be his and his alone. John wonders how he never noticed it before. It is intoxicating. He can’t speak for anything prior to opening his eyes in hospital, but they have certainly been close enough since then. How can it be that John has never before taken the time to just breathe in the scent of his flatmate.

Sherlock swings his legs around and John leans back out of the way. When the detective’s feet touch the ground, one is on either side of the doctor, his body between those long legs. They looked into each other’s eyes, searching, asking, answering.

Sherlock leans in and their foreheads touch, their noses brushing together, his breath drifting over John’s lips. John lifts his chin so his lips ghost over Sherlock’s. He lets his eyes slip closed. He wants to feel everything, memorize every detail of this, their first kiss.

John tilts his head a bit more and gently presses his lips to his flatmate’s. Soft and warm and wet. They move against his and his hands float up to rest on Sherlock’s hips. God, it’s amazing. Better, more intimate than John ever imagined. He has waited his whole life for this kiss. He can’t remember most of said life, but of this one simple fact, he is certain.

All too soon, Sherlock tilts his own chin down, parting their lips but keeping their foreheads together. He opens his lips just enough for air to pass between them, his breaths coming faster than usual. The feel of it over John’s lips is heavenly and John wants to taste him. His lips, his tongue, his skin. He wants to glide his fingers over every part of his body, every beautiful inch. What if Sherlock knew his desire goes that far? What if John admits it? The man may love him, but that doesn’t mean he wants the physical as well. Does Sherlock feel things that way? It could still be too late to pursue that kind of relationship, if such a thing was ever possible. Sherlock did stop the kiss after all.

John swallows hard and tries to quiet all the thoughts spiraling uncontrollably in his mind. All questions. Questions about this man, his flatmate, his only true love. But no memories. How can he expect Sherlock to start anything with him when he can’t remember where they’ve come from?

“John,” Sherlock’s deep whisper brings John’s every thought to a crashing halt. His big hands cup the doctor’s jawline When had he done that? But slowly slide down to lie flat on John’s chest as he speaks. “John, I…”

“Shh,” John shushes. Certain he knows what the detective is going to say, John tries to stop him, wanting to hold onto this moment a bit longer. As long as he can.

Sherlock pushes at his chest, pushing him away. John lets out a sigh of regret and pulls back, letting his hands fall from his flatmate’s body. He opens his eyes to look sadly toward the floor. He sits back on his calves to give Sherlock plenty of space. Neither man touches the other any longer.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”

“John,” his deep voice is firm and demanding. John can’t help but raise his gaze to look at the taller man. What he sees is nothing less than earth-shattering.

Sherlock is disheveled, wrecked. His cheeks are still pink, his grey eyes dilated just enough to tell John it is from desire or pleasure and not something else. He scooches to the edge of the sofa, placing his hands on John’s biceps and urging him up on his knees again. Sherlock leans forward so their faces are close once again, his hands rubbing down John’s arms to his elbows and back up again.

“Don’t apologize, John,” he says sternly. “There is no need.”

“Sherlock,” John shakes his head, but he never manages to finish. Sherlock’s next words make him incapable of any coherent thought.

“I have wanted, dreamed of kissing you from nearly the moment I met you,” he tells him in a tender voice, “I only love you more each day I know you.”

John can scarcely believe his ears. It can’t be. Sherlock cannot possibly mean that the way it sounds. But what other way is there to mean that? John opens his mouth to speak, but remains silent when his flatmate’s finger touch his chin lightly.

“May I kiss you?” Sherlock whispers. “Please.”

“Yes.”

The word is a fleeting whisper on a breeze, dandelion seeds floating through a blue sky. Sherlock does not hesitate in closing the distance between them, his soft lips pressing firmly against John’s. They are hot and...active is the only word that comes to mind. They move slowly, luxurious and wanting, tasting and savoring. Very thorough, like the man himself. There is no one else in the world in this moment in John’s mind. Everything fades away, down to this man and this kiss. God, this kiss.

John lets a gasping breath pass through his lips, opening them ever so slightly without a thought. The detective follows suit and breathes into John’s mouth. They share the very air in between, from one mouth to another, heating their lips and cheeks as the breaths come faster. Sherlock slots his own plush lips above and below John’s lower lip. The doctor takes in a sharp breath and nearly moans from the pleasure of it. His hands are on Sherlock’s chest, his thumbs tracing small circles over the solid pectorals beneath. John sighs onto Sherlock’s lips wanting, needing to rip open the thin fabric under his fingers and touch hot skin. He wants to touch every inch, to burn his hands with the heat of it.

John feels the light nip of Sherlock’s plump lower lip pressing again his own and lets out a breathy sigh. His left hand slides down a few inches to circle its ring finger around a puckered pebble of a nipple. Sherlock gasps loudly and pulls his head back just far enough to stare John in the eye. The grey irises are but narrow rings around pupils blown wide. John can see his own reflection in those small, black mirrors. It holds his focus for a fraction of a second before he broadens his gaze once again and takes in all of his flatmate’s features. Sherlock looks surprised - at John or at himself - John does not know. The detective is also pleased. Most definitely pleased.

Sherlock’s brows climb up his own forehead as he licks his lips, closing them for only a moment before panting out quick breaths again. His hands stroke slowly down John’s back to his waist, his hips. John’s ring finger continues to brush over the detective’s hardening nipple. His pupils grow and he lurches his head forward to catch John’s lips with his own. This time the kiss is more urgent and intense. John lets out a low growl that turns into a moan when Sherlock’s lithe tongue swipes across his lower lip.

The taller man pulls away to look at his flatmate again, checking that all is well. John looks back at him with half-closed lids.

“Okay?” comes the sensuous baritone. John can feel it vibrate through his body and exhales breathlessly.

“Yeah,” he nods, swallowing hard. “Yes.”

When they meet again, Sherlock’s tongue slides easily into John’s mouth and licks at his tongue. John responds in kind, winding and gasping. Sherlock clutches at his ass now, pulling their hips together. John nearly comes the moment their erections rub against one another, separated by only a few layers of thin fabric. He licks into Sherlock’s mouth with fervor, tangling his fingers in those gorgeous dark curls. He bites gently at the detective’s lips, which elicits a most delicious moan, and they wind their tongues, tasting and sighing and breathing hard.

John drops his hands to lift the bottom of Sherlock’s shirt and doesn’t stop until it is over his head. He drops it on the floor and takes those ridiculous cheekbones in both hands. Pausing for a moment to look deeply into his flatmate’s eyes, John swoops in for a quick, teasing lick on his lower lip. God, Sherlock tastes incredible. John wants to lose himself in it, in the sensation of touching Sherlock’s gorgeous, lithe body. His own mutinous body would love nothing more than to let go, but it has to last longer. John wants it to last so much longer. Forever.

Sherlock lunges at him suddenly, knocking John to the floor. He lands with a clunk, the half-naked detective heavy on top of him. Sherlock doesn’t hesitate, even when John lets out an “oof” and a puff of breath. He is kissing John’s jaw, his chin, his throat. He gives a little bite where John’s neck and shoulder meet, and a lick, and then sits up abruptly. He has a leg on either side of the doctor, straddling his body. He scrabbles at the waistband of John’s boxer shorts and yanks his t-shirt up to his chest. John pushes up on his elbows to crash their lips together, only to be interrupted by his own shirt whisking roughly over his head. As soon as it’s gone, both men have their hands and lips on one another, kissing and mouthing and biting. They both pant into the other’s mouth, sharing the very air between them, the air from the other’s lungs. The kisses are fast and desperate. Nothing is enough, never enough, and almost too much.

Sherlock breaks away from John, planting both palms on his chest and shoving him to the floor. His back hits hard and so does his head with a sharp thunk. They both stop, still as statues staring at one another with eyes wide in surprise. Sherlock swallows and wets his lips.

“Are you all right?” he asks solemnly in a very quiet voice. John blinks once, looking back at him, still startled.

“Yeah,” his tongue darts across his own lips. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

They continue to stare, neither one moving a muscle. John looks at his flatmate expectantly, raising his brows in curious anticipation. Sherlock gazes down at him, a little smile playing over his lips. He drops onto John’s body again, his beautiful cupid’s bow setting to work on the doctor’s ear. John melts under his touch, his body. It’s like heaven. God, his chest feels so hot and smooth pressed against John’s. His taut belly brushing John’s when he takes a breath. John holds tight to Sherlock’s shoulders, arching his neck when those lips move down his jawline, to his throat.

“Oh god, Sherlock. God,” John closes his eyes and just...feels. He curls his fingers around the man’s shoulders - much broader and more toned than he expected. John never wants to let go and he keeps his hands on them as Sherlock mouths his way to John’s right nipple. He licks a stripe over it and twirls his tongue around it as it stiffens. “Christ, Sherlock!”

John’s eyes snap open and look down at the man on his chest. Sherlock gazes up from beneath his long lashes and smiles wickedly. John can’t stop watching his tongue as it curls and teases, and he knows it. The detective swirls his tongue around John’s nipple again and again, lapping at it, kissing it. The doctor moans and buries his hands in Sherlock’s soft curls He finds himself repeating his name in a hushed tone, like a prayer.

Sherlock mouths and licks his way across John’s chest to his left nipple, already a hardened pebble, and lavishes attention upon it. John squirms beneath him until he pinches the pink, slightly swollen right nipple. A bolt of lightning cracks through John’s body and he straightens like a board in an instant. Sherlock ceases his ministrations and sits up, still straddling John.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Perfect,” Sherlock replies with a sultry grin. He traces imaginary shapes drawn on John’s skin, down his stomach to his belly and the waistband of the boxer shorts he wears. He pinches the fabric between his thumb and index finger and inches the garment down, but stops before it goes too far, before he can’t turn back.

“John,” is all he says. He meets John’s eyes, studying, asking, seeking permission. The tip of John’s tongue darts out and licks his lower lip as he nods once.

“Yes,” he whispers and then the words flow from his lips like water in a stream. “Yes, Sherlock, please. I want you. Need you. I love you. I…”

“Shhh,” Sherlock coos, bending down to kiss John sweetly. He whispers against the doctor’s lips. “We can do this. If you want to.”

“But do you?” John asks in a soft voice. “Sherlock, do you really want this?”

Sherlock pulls back a little to look at him. John wears a very serious expression. He cups Sherlock face in both hands and searches it. The detective can see his very soul shimmering in dark blue eyes.

“Do you… Do you really want this? Do you want me? Please, I need to know.”

“Shhh…” he shushes again. He traces small circles on the jut of John’s hipbone with his thumb. The motion is fluid and comforting, reassuring. John blinks slowly and gazes at his flatmate, full of love and sincerity. He opens his mouth to speak, but Sherlock covers his lips with long fingers. “I love you, John. Yes, I want you. I want to touch you. I want it all. Everything.”

He bites his lower lip and slides his hands down John’s body to hook index fingers into his waistband. He pulls them down slowly, his eyes devouring every new bit of tanned skin revealed. He exhales audibly when John lifts his hips, allowing Sherlock to slide the boxer shorts to John’s thighs. His prick bobs on his belly with arousal, its slit already leaking.

“Oh my god, John,” Sherlock breathes, touching John lightly with his fingertips. His flatmate shivers under his body and reaches for him. Sherlock leans over his cock and John finds his shoulders with trembling fingers. John’s head thumps on the floor again, falling back in utter ecstasy.

Sherlock licks the wet slit clean and angles his grey gaze up to look at John. The doctor lifts his head and meets the detective’s sultry gaze. Sherlock sort of smirks and wraps his lips around the head of John’s cock.

“Oh god!” John moans. His mouth is wide open, his steady stare watching everything Sherlock does. He breathes heavily, unable to move for the tingling. He feels it over his whole body and absolutely loves it. He buries his hands in Sherlock’s dark curls as his muscles twitch. “God, Sherlock. Fuck.”

Sherlock smiles around John’s cock and veritably tickles its rim with his lips. He takes in a bit more and swirls his tongue around it, swiping over the slit every few passes. John whimpers quietly and holds carefully to the lush curls between his fingers. God, he can’t move. He can’t speak. He can’t think. How the hell is Sherlock so good at this?! Okay, so he can think something. That, and Jesus Christ! Admittedly, John really has no recollection of his own sexual repertoire, but he most definitely believes - at this moment - that nothing in his past has ever approached this, not even close. This is pure fucking transcendence. Just seeing that gorgeous cupid’s bow around his dick nearly sends him over the edge, not to mention what his flatmate is doing with it.

John should stop watching. He knows he should stop watching, lest it all end too quickly, but he cannot tear his eyes away. He doesn’t want to, even if it will be his own undoing. John groans loudly as Sherlock takes more of him in his mouth.

“Oh Christ, Sherlock. Fucking...fuck.”

John is completely breathless, his body boneless, save his fingers gripping the detective’s soft curls. Sherlock looks back at John with those dark, sly eyes and smiles again before he begins bobbing and licking and sucking. His lips start to make the most obscene noises as they move over John’s cock and, once again, the doctor nearly loses it. So overcome by desire and pleasure and emotion, John pulls on the curls clutched in his fingers. It isn’t a hard tug, but Sherlock’s body goes entirely rigid and his mouth stills instantly - all things drawing to an immediate halt.

Shit. Idiot, idiot!

“Fuck,” John curses, already berating himself. Sherlock lets John slip from his lips and moves back up to face him properly, nose to nose. “I’m sorry. That was out of line. I overstepped and I won’t do it…”

He shamefully raises his gaze to meet his flatmate’s, but trails off as soon as he sees him. Sherlock’s grey eyes are completely blown, the corners of his mouth turned up into a very pleased and mischievous smile. His expression suddenly brings to mind the cat John’s family had when he was a child. She would corner a mouse and stare it down with the same look in her eyes, wiggling her hips before pouncing. A small movement catches John’s attention. Was that a shimmy of backside he just saw in the corner of his eye?

Sherlock springs forward and crashes their lips together in a searing kiss. His hands pin John’s up overhead as he licks into his mouth fiercely. Then the kisses slow and those glorious hands slide down to worship every part of John’s body with feather soft touches. Desire and need pulsing through his entire body, John grabs at Sherlock’s pajamas bottoms clumsily. His tingling fingers shove them down and then latch into the waistband of Sherlock’s pants. John pauses for a moment, giving Sherlock every chance to refuse.

“Do it,” he growls in a low whisper.

John pushes them down without hesitation. Sherlock’s hard and leaking cock touches John’s the moment the pants are gone and twitches in response to the hot skin it contacts. Both men inhale sharply and stare at one another, communicating through the gaze the share, saying a million words at once with only that one look. They begin to move and thrust in tandem, luxuriously, perfectly, as if they had done so countless times before.

John’s mind goes blank. He thinks of nothing - his past or future, what Sherlock means to him or what he means to Sherlock - nothing. Because he knows. He can feel it in every fiber of his being. Sherlock’s every touch, every word, every breath tells him all he needs to know. This man is his. Has been since long before John’s addled brain figured it out. Sherlock Holmes is his detective.

John gasps when his thoughts are interrupted by a hot curling sensation in the pit of his stomach, quickly followed by an earth-shattering orgasm. He cries out as he spurts between them, once, twice. Another spurt as Sherlock comes and they cry out together. Bodies tense and frozen with pleasure, neither man can move. Sherlock pants John’s name in little puffs of air that brush across John’s face. It sounds like an oath, a promise. His.

John’s hands slide up his detective’s sweat-slicked back and around to hold his beautifully flushed face between his palms. Sherlock does the same and they share an intense gaze. Sherlock’s eyes, his whole face softens and he tilts his head, letting out a slow breath. John’s eyes shimmer with tears, his lips quirked into a smile. They join in a tender kiss that ends all too soon in favor of breathing.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice is airy and full of emotion. He breathes against John’s mouth and then pulls back to meet his eyes with a very serious gaze. John feels the pull of dread in his stomach, but he needn’t have worried. “I love you, John. I have never loved anyone else and I… I want to spend my life with you. Marry me.”

The sitting room is silent, save John’s gasp and the heavy breathing both men are trying to control. John gapes, stalk still. He is suddenly awash with memories of feelings and affectionate smiles and looks that lasted a little too long and looks he wasn’t meant to notice but did, all shared between himself and the detective. His detective.

“Sherlock, I…” he pauses to see, really see Sherlock’s sparkling eyes, brimming with love and sincerity. He tilts his head and smiles. “I’d love to.”

Without another word, their lips comes together once more and they thunk back down to the floor.

***

Roughly an hour later, after they have both showered and donned proper clothing, John walks from the en suite into the bedroom. He stops almost immediately when he sees the figure of his flatmate seated on the bed, head bowed in thought. Or regret? Shit. Shit!

John moves closer, biting his lip and holding his breath. He crosses to the bed and sits carefully next to his detective, trying not to jostle him. Sherlock is perched just off the center of the bed, but its king-size allows plenty of room for John to sit without touching him. John licks his lips, not wanting to have this conversation or hear the words his flatmate will inevitably speak.

“Sherlock?”

“I’m sorry, John.”

“What?” his mouth goes dry. “For what?”

“That...proposal,” he answers, his voice dripping with disdain. John’s heart sinks.

“Oh,” he says quietly, sadly. It’s all he can bring himself to say. He can feel tears pricking at his eyes and tries desperately, but inconspicuously, to blink them back. He will not shed them in front of Sherlock Holmes… He doesn’t want him. He doesn’t… How can he get out of this room? He can’t hold them back for long. He’s not even sure he can stop them at all. He blinks again, half-dozen times and very fast. It’s not working. God, he’s crushed. Every part of him demolished so absolutely. He has to get out of here. Tea! He’ll offer to make tea and get the fuck out.

“Right. I’m sorry too. I’ll make us some tea,” John would have launched himself off the bed and out the door, but Sherlock’s fingers wrap around his wrist so quickly and hold him fast to the spot. John turns in the detective’s direction, keeping his head down.

“No! John, please,” there is panic in Sherlock’s voice. “Please, we need to talk about this.”

“Oh god. Sherlock, I can’t. I just can’t right now,” a tear slips from John’s eye and runs down the cheek not in the man’s field of vision. John almost gasps and bites his lip hard to stop it, closing his eyes tightly. More tears fall traitorously and he quickly turns his head away from Sherlock, tucking his chin to his chest. When he speaks, he can’t keep the pleading from his tone. “Please, let me go. Please. Just please let me go.”

“John,” Sherlock’s voice is firm but gentle. “John, look at me.”

“Just let me go,” he whispers, his words breaking. There is a long pause and Sherlock’s grip does not ease in the least.

“I am sorry I was so forward, so thoughtless and presumptuous,” he begins cautiously. “I...I was overwhelmed. And stupid. So stupid. It was too soon, too bloody fast, but I just couldn’t… There is so much for you to rediscover. You don’t even have your life back. I can’t ask this of you now. I’m sorry.”

“But I do,” John tells him, forgetting his tears and looking at Sherlock with wet but determined eyes. “I have my life back. You are my life. Rosie is my life. I love you both and I’ll never give you up. The rest of it be damned. I don’t care if I never remember it all. I have the two of you and I will never leave your side again.”

Sherlock doesn’t speak, but does sigh and tilt his head a fraction. His fingers slide away from John’s wrist and touch the smooth skin of his face once again. He cups that beautiful face and wipes away tears with his thumbs. They stay this way for what feels like forever. John’s whole body is vibrating and he is positive his heart will burst if Sherlock doesn’t say something soon. As if he knows, as if he can tell, his flatmate takes pity on him and parts his perfect lips.

“I love you, John Watson. Since the moment I met you, though I never thought I’d admit it. I never thought I would love anyone, but you defy all logic. I feel like I have always known you. Always loved you,” a small smile plays over his lips, revealing matching dimples on pale skin and squeezing John’s heart. “I dreamed of you before we even met. Complete defiance of logic. John Watson, will you be my husband?”

“Yes!” John breathes, his voice catching around a sob. “Yes, I will marry you, Sherlock. Oh god, yes.”

He falls into Sherlock’s arms and hugs him tightly. When he looks into his detective’s grey eyes again, he presses a soft kiss to his mouth and lingers taking in every sensation and scent. And he feels it. That thing that has quietly eluded him ever since Sherlock died. Ever since he married Mary. Ever since he awoke in hospital. John Watson is finally found. He is finally home.

El fin.

** And there it is, folks. the final chapter is in the books! I hope it didn’t end too abruptly. I was going to have Rosie come home and the three of them gather in a real family moment, but I felt the characters speak to me (as corny as that sounds) and so this is how it ends. Although, I suppose I could be persuaded to write an epilogue...hmmmm... I hope you loved the story and thank you, thank you all for sticking with me and for all the love and encouragement you have given me. I have some great ideas for more stories and a couple of one shots, so stay tuned in to JaneOfCakes! Much love.

@echosilverwolf @technicallywiseoncns @vvaticancameoss @cow-mow @philliphooper @whodwantmeasaflatmate @swissmissing @gloriascott93 @kingdomofbrokenhearts @srebrnafh @thetranslucentwallaby @britishaccentfan @plasticstrawsmuggler @spazzz32 @absentmindedsstuff @shuukichan @annecumberbatch @maeliandmyself @welcometomyharddrive @dischorde @superwholockpotterincamelot @red-pen-revolution @wtgilsa @ladidragonuniverse @louise175dk @melmey-fanfics

#Sherlock Holmes #Sherlock #sherlockholmes #sherlock fanfic #john watson #johnwatson #johnlock #Johnlock fanfic #hurt sherlock #season 4 #S4 fix

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homesoutofhuman · 6 years

Text

Your sinner, in secret pt 2

Warnings (for all parts): sex, daddykink, swearing, boss taking advantage of an employee, age-gap, d/s dynamic.Honestly though this part is relatively tame I think.

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His resolve lasts until he sees you again, sitting at your desk wearing headphones and humming along with a song while you shred more documents. John moves nearer, noting the buttons of your cream blouse are undone, showing more of your skin than you probably intended. He breathes deeply through his nose, trying to stay calm as you lean over to grab an errant piece of paper, giving him a grandstand view of your cleavage.

You do not hear him approach of course, as if you did you’d never be singing. After yesterday’s encounter with him you’d felt strangely energised, doing yoga after work and carefully picking out your outfit ready for the next day. The devil whispered in your ear as you dressed in the morning, making you leave a few too many buttons undone to give your boss a good view of what you’ve got to offer.

And you would offer it up him freely. Despite his outward appearance of sullen grumpiness you find yourself drawn to him. His assertive ways are attractive, you even respect him for pulling the file trick on you, even if you did lose a few years of your life while it was in progress. It had all been worth it to see the look on his face when you’d called him ‘Sir’, deliberately coquettish. You knew you were dreaming, there was no way in hell you could get under the skin of such a mature, self-assured and successful man, but it was fun to imagine little ways you could try.

John creeps up to you lifts one of the headphones away from your ear, talking close so you can hear.

“Good morning Y/N”

You let out a little scream, making him chuckle, he lets go and the headphone snaps back against your ear with a sting, it’s not unpleasant, and even less so when you wrench them off, rubbing at your ear and find him watching you with warm eyes.

“Morning Mr Wick…” you reply, taking in the full gorgeous view of him. You swear his chest looks even wider today. “Sleep well?”

The question is innocent, prompted by the fact you notice his eyes look slightly tired, a few creases on his cheeks that weren’t there before. It definitely wasn’t due to the fact you’d been studying his face for wrinkles and concluded he couldn’t be the age you knew he was, and that Google must be lying. You’d done a little late night surfing on your new boss, finding several articles written years back about a ‘young and exciting up and coming lawyer’. Now they described him as a ‘powerhouse’ or a ‘beast’ in the courtroom. It kinda made you wonder if he was the same in the bedroom.

John’s reaction to your question looks guilty, and you almost think you see him blush, although that seems extremely out of character.

“Late night...prepping for a case…” he mutters, eyes suddenly dark again and you wonder what you said wrong.

“Can I help?” you ask, a little too eagerly.

John sighs, looking impatient. “You think you, a...what are you...third year law student? Could help me...who’s has years in the game?”

“I didn’t mean…” you feel your pride smarting again and struggle to hold back tears which suddenly threaten to appear. “I just thought I could help research.”

John snorts. “You are not here to think. You’re here to do exactly as I tell you, and so far you seem to be struggling with that concept.”

You shake your head, not daring to speak. You would rather die than cry in front of him. Luckily for you, John is done with the conversation, moving on to his office, so you take the opportunity to run to the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face in an attempt to pull yourself together.

He’s mean. You mutter. A fucking asshole. You say out loud to make yourself feel better. I don’t like him. The last one doesn’t really ring true

You work a few more hours until lunch, when you look up and find John standing in front of you. Without his jacket in just his shirt he looks a little softer and more approachable, his dark hair falls across his eyes and you shift in your seat, he looks delicious.

“Hungry?” he asks, as if reading your thoughts and you nod.

“Want me to go and get you lunch?”

He shakes his head. “You don’t know what I like...come on..”

He walks off as if just expecting you to follow him and of course you do, hurriedly grabbing your bag on the way. He walks fast with long strides and you’re almost panting to keep up.

He takes you to a deli and requests a sandwich order so precise you’re glad it wasn’t your task to fetch it, seeing as it involves about 8 ingredients in a particular order.

“So what happens if they put the tomato on top of the lettuce, do you throw it back in their faces?” you ask playfully if a little cautious from his mood before, ordering a plain bagel with cream cheese for yourself.

John looks at you slightly hurt. “No...I’d just make them to do it again until they got it right. That’s what I’m going to do with you.”

You feel yourself growing hot at his tone of voice, low and unrelenting, right in your ear like a caress.

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Not yet…” he replies in the same velvet tone that holds both a threat and a promise at the same time.

He hands you your food but all hunger had disappeared, leaving you with nothing but the desire for him.

You expect to take your sandwiches back to the office but John motions for you to sit down. He places himself opposite and chews his food, regarding you thoughtfully.

“You’re not scared of me. I like that.”

You hide a smile and start your own lunch, his voice is softer and he seems ready for conversation.

“You are intimidating, but more from your reputation than anything else. Personally, you seem not too bad…”

“Not too bad?” John echoes, smirking around a mouthful of bread. “You are quite bold for your age.”

You open your mouth to apologise but he waves it off. “It’s a good thing. I saw your application you know? I was the one who suggested picking you for the internship.”

You’re shocked and hardly know what to say. “Wow. Thank you...honestly...this is almost like a dream come true for me..”

“Shredding documents and fetching coffee is grunt work, not a dream.” corrects John, softly stern. “But we all had to do it. Believe it or not a long time ago I was in your position, taking abuse from my superiors. I vaguely remember how difficult it was.”

You giggle a bit at the thought of a young John Wick. “I can hardly imagine you young…” you mean that you can’t imagine him naive, with long hair and cheap clothes taking orders, but the words come out wrong, and you see you may have hurt his feelings.

He leans across the table, so close you can see the amber flecks in his eyes, the streaks of grey in his beard. He is beautiful, warm, so solid and masculine it makes your stomach flip over with want. “Do you really see me as that old?”

You shake your head dumbly. “I mean...no...John.” you dare to call him by his first name but he doesn’t even flinch, focused on your face, his eyes flicking to your mouth, awaiting your response. Having the full weight of his attention on you is like facing down a wall of fire.

He nods, almost to himself. “I’m not dead yet Y/N….you’d be surprised the things I can do..”

I wouldn’t you think, as your mind starts running wild with obscene images. The way he is looking at you gives you hope, gives you a strange feeling that he wouldn’t be completely averse to your interest.

“What is this John?” You ask, looking from your lunch which he bought you, around to the cosy ambience of the deli, the sounds of coffee being made and people chatting happily. “Is this a date?”

He snorts so loudly you see you have amused him.

“A date with an old man...is that how you’d see it? Are you just staying here because I’m your boss?”

You chew your lip thoughtfully. “Why don’t you ask me out on a proper date?”

“I don’t really go on ‘dates’” he replies, not questioning the fact he would ask you out, making your heart beat rapidly. “Why, would you say yes if I did ask you on one?”

He is looking at you with guarded eyes, but with enough interest to show he is demanding an answer.

You tilt your head and pretend to consider it. “Would you tell me about the case you’re working on?”

He smiles then, amused that you’re trying to exploit his interest for your own gain. “For an hour. Then in return you can tell me about yourself.”

“Any other conditions?” you ask.

“It depends how the night goes…”

You sigh, this seems like a dream, and you’re worried about how it makes you look, less than professional, and a little desperate, but you cannot deny your attraction to him, strong and inescapable. It’s like being tied to the tracks with a speeding train bearing down on you.

He almost seems to read your thoughts. “It’s usual for lawyers from the office to discuss business over dinner, don’t worry, you won’t become the subject of any gossip, and if you did, I would shut it down immediately.”

He leans forward and touches your hand, his long fingers sure but surprisingly gentle. “Don’t be afraid…”

You place your hand over his, making him blink his eyes with surprise. “I’m not afraid John.”

He rubs his other hand over his mouth, still watching you closely. Your actions are so unexpected it fascinates him.

#john wick x reader #john wick x you #john wick imagine #your sinner in secret #lawyer john wick au #shit balls i just spotted a major typo sorry

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chezzkaa · 6 years

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Numb pt 1

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Lumberjack AU

Pairing: Ryan Haywood x Reader

WC: 2500+

Relief comes in the form of a fresh pair of socks. After clomping into the lodge for what feels like the millionth time that day you kick off your boots; the old offending pair lying discarded after being immediately shed in favour of something far thicker and obnoxious with pompoms. Soggy and sad, you can see those left abandoned creating pools by the door over the top of the one mug you’d insisted on keeping unpacked for occasions such as these. You haven’t touched the sandwich, stale bread adorning the sodden cardboard the gas station had graciously wrapped it in, tomato looking suspiciously like sludge and avocado even more like something you’d find between bathroom tiles. It doesn’t bother you though, and it’s nothing a monumentally sweet cup of herbal tea can’t fix for the time being. You just needed to make it to dinner.

It’s through the steam that you smile; hope as warm as the fire roaring in the hearth, mood impervious to the dampness of falling snow. It encases the edges of the splintered window frames, closing in as it lines the sills and topples every now and again from the roof with a shudder. And though empty walls wait with bated breath, ready to bare the pride of their new owners, you can’t bring yourself to start unpacking. Empty cupboards beg to be filled, closets eager to be lined and bathrooms desperate to be stocked - all screaming for some form of progress despite knowing you intend on offering none. Not yet, anyway.

Crates are jammed in every free corner, staircase blocked with a barrage of suitcases while furniture is left littered with packages and the promise of a nap. Even the room you’ve claimed as your own, the largest in all respects and the one you rightfully deserve after picking up the keys and moving across the country early and alone; has only the bed made. And, if someone were to clamber over the mountain of belongings at the foot of the stairs and traipse through the hallway lined with linen, they’d see a wardrobe harbouring piles of clothes and a carpet fashioned into a maze of mismatched books and boxes.

But you’re too involved in the moment to worry about everything you need to do, enraptured in the peace of a promising beginning. A fresh start is just what you need. A new place in a new town where no one knows your name. Where memories can be buried in the snowfall, and a future career can be forged in tree trunks. Here, you’re Y/N, no more and no less. Y/N, a woman who really needs to get on with the rest of the evening.

A gentle sigh escapes into your mug, a soft hum that’s swallowed with the remains of your tea. Aching feet pad against the rich wooden panels lining the floor, slowly easing you into an evening free from the bustle of a choking city. Void of the demands of people, or the hollowness of a house you’d come to refuse as home. Another comfortable breath comes as a jumper is pulled over your head, fabric softly tugging against your skin like caressing fingers. Even your laces cause little trouble, boots done up in no time before you’re out the door, nose buried in the cream fluff of a scarf.

The crunch of fresh snow starts off your journey into the town centre of Motbury; leading you down the damp wooden steps and onto the small stone path tracing through your new garden, property lined with thick pine trunks and shivering greenery. Late afternoon sun rays drift lazily through the branches, dusting the world with a pleasant yellow glow you can’t help smiling into. A quick glance backwards says goodbye to the lodge and its characteristic grooves, to its tattered log exterior and triangular peaks, sharp supports and clusters of windows. To the stone columns you swear you’ll coat in fairy lights and markings, the wagon wheels you’re certain you’ll never get around to moving, and the mound of firewood stacked haphazardly against the side of your new home.

---

The first store you enter welcomes you with open arms and a comfortable heat, gentle jingles of the bell above the door seeing the man behind the cash register’s head lifting. He smiles through a dark beard flecked with greys, hair a mess with the numerous passes his tattooed fingers make across it. Still, the expression sees a face creased with age brighten, bearing the same cutting lines that accompany his front door. He greets you with a casual hello before returning his attention to the two figures in faded uniform on the opposite side of the checkout, nodding along to their stories.

From the back you can’t make out much besides their thick, fur trimmed coats and working boots - but the guns holstered to their sides tells you enough. The shorter of the two, of who is at least a head below the man on the right, runs a hand through brightly coloured hair, diffusing icy blues and mousey brown roots. The tension marrying between his broad shoulders explains the concern twitching restlessly in his fingers, nerves conducting the gentle incessant taps of his toes. Such apprehension is mirrored in the flash you catch of the other man’s expression; muted red curls trimmed neat, freckles splotching pale skin.

The pair hears your entrance, turning too late as you disappear into the aisles with a small cart, eyes intent on the slip of paper decorating your palm. Murmurs still snake across the floor, your back growing warm as their voices brush against it. Snippets of conversation follow; questions about family and comments about the upcoming forecast. A conversation that refuses to linger on the missing posters plastered to the windows, and a warning about getting the store secured before the raging weather hits. Boisterous laughter finally defrosts the room that’s slowly been icing over with their worries, and it joins the selection of bread you sift through, loaves and rolls scattered with seeds accompanying the vegetables you’ve collected on the journey through the store.

None of the other bodies in the cosy space seem to mind the presence of the police, all wearing gentle expressions and comfortable shoulders. It puts you at ease, the usual nagging concern that bounces in your chest at the sight of law enforcement ebbing away. From the corner of your eye the quirk of a tall man’s lips sees the pressure stringing down your neck thaw, close enough for you to hear him chuckling at the conversation overtaking the front of the store, his amusement tumbling into the butcher’s display. His head shakes within the palm his chin rests against, smile turning into a grin. Then a large, callous hand pushes back loose strands of sweeping sandy blonde, impatiently forcing red plaid sleeves back up to the crook of his elbows.

And then you see it, something that makes your heart leap and pulse race, breath catching with a stifled gasp - there’s a special on steak. You beeline for it, now close enough to feeling the man’s warm laughter caress your side. Gathering a few packages and dumping them into your cart, you return to the sausages, of which the blonde seems to be struggling with. He holds two varieties in his hands, glancing from one to the other, utterly perplexed. You can see the difficulty, considering the options before making a decision.

“Pork and sage are always a good choice,” you offer helpfully, reaching in front and collecting an identical pack to the one he’s debating.

“You couldn’t be more right,” he replies after a moment, turning his incredibly blue eyes to you. The twitch of his lips widens into a smile, discarding the losing flavour and placing the winner in his basket. “You’ve just made dinner a hell of a lot easier.”

“Just doing my duty.”

“Your country thanks you,” he chuckles, and your stomach leaps.

Intending to respond with a witty remark you’re almost certain won’t be nearly as clever as you hope, the words die in your throat with the crash fracturing the air; as sudden as the tumble of cusses emanating from the front of the store. You both whip your attention to the shattering of glass and the fuming voice of the shopkeeper, frustration buried in another person’s giggles. “Oh c’mon, Jeremy! That’s the 2nd jar this week!”

“Shit,” responds the man you assume to be Jeremy with a groan, “I’m so sorry Geoff.”

“I should have you bloody arrested for this.”

“I could do it, Geoff,” interjects the taller man eagerly, giggles eventually subsiding. “Just say the words. Please. Ask me to arrest him. God damn it Geoff. This is all I’ve ever wanted. Please have me arrest Jeremy.”

You can’t hold back the sniggers, joy dripping through the fingers you hide your lips behind. The stranger beside you joins in, shaking his grinning face yet again. Far taller than you, he stands on his tiptoes, peering over the shorter shelves. “There go the complimentary chocolates.” He rocks back on the balls of his feet, wincing. “Damn it. Geoff always has the one with little hazelnuts inside.”

“What a waste,” you gasp, hand clutching your scarf in an action he mirrors. “Does this happen often?”

He glances at you, surprised. It takes him a moment to realise that he doesn’t actually recognise you, having accepted your conversation and comfortability as a form of familiarity. “All the time. That pair make a mess everywhere they go. I’m sorry, I’m being rude. You’re new here?”

“Just moved in,” you reply, brushing away his disappointment in his manners, “I bought the lodge up the road.” You shake the hand he offers, dwarfed in his firm grasp. “I’m Y/N. Figured I’d collect some supplies before my roommates arrive.”

“Ryan.” He smiles, a lopsided, carefree expression that leaves him looking younger. “I’d tell you that you’d get used to them, but you really don’t. 2 years and the short one’s still a pain in my ass.” He laughs, warm and rich. “I don’t let him in the shop anymore, he’s always breaking stuff. But I won’t take up any more of your time.” He gives your trolley a pointed glance, assessing it’s contents and then your stature. “It looks like you’ve got a lot of hungry mouths to feed.”

You offer him a shrug, rather enjoying his company. “Not for a few more days. I moved in early to sort out some paperwork, pick up the keys and make sure everything’s set up. I’ll probably end up shopping again in a few more days. They’re animals.”

“The lodge, you said?” He’s quiet for a moment, thoughtful and tracing the paths he knows so well in his head. “The one on the outskirts, went extremely cheap?”

“Suspiciously cheap,” you correct.

“By the tree line?”

“That’s the one.”

He dives into his pocket while you’re speaking, sawdust trembling from the patches plastered against his pants. Rummaging around, he discards a number of crumbled receipts into his basket before pulling out a business card. “Here,” he insists, pressing the laminated piece into your expectant palm. “I run the local carpentry store; ‘Hay Woodworks’. A place like yours is gonna require some fixing up. We try to keep on top of the scratches around the doors and window frames - nah, don’t look so scared, it’s just animals trying to find shelter in the storms - but it’s always best to be safe. One good gust and the whole thing can cave, even with the newer buildings. I’d be happy to help out, even if it’s just to check the property out before the storms hit. I’ll sort you out with anything.”

Your eyebrow quirks, testing the waters with a timid snatch at opportunity. “What about a job?”

He considers this thoroughly, picking up one of your hands and studying it, folding it over in his own. Finally, he lets it drop, lips pursing to the side. “What’ve you worked with?”

“Mainly statement pieces and decorations,” you reply fondly, thumb tracing one of the many callouses that’d stained your hands years ago, skin tattered with scars. “But I’m good on a ladder. I used to work in my Granddad’s shop when I was younger and we’d go out and fix up houses. I haven’t carved in a while, but I’m all about new beginnings right now.”

He’s lips tug into a broad grin, welcoming and infectious. “I think I could find something for you to do. It’d be hard work, but swing by the shop tomorrow and we’ll see what you can do. I’ve got a couple of fix up jobs lined up for the coming few weeks, I could do with a hand once I know what you’re capable of.”

You’re beaming as you thank him, potential rushing through your mind with the excited shake of your hands. Eventually you pry yourself away with his insistence of having taken up too much of your time. Venturing further into the groceries, you throwing a few well-timed glances back at him, Ryan staring intently at his shoes before shaking himself, tearing away from your line of sight at the call of his name. During your interaction the commotion taking over the front of the store has died down, cheerful warmth still radiating in spite of the cold rattling against the exterior walls.

“Hold on, Michael,” comes a voice over the shelves a few minutes later as you’re leaning into the milk fridge, overwhelmed with the hum of freezer elements, unable to discern it’s familiarity, “I just want to check something first.”

“Go for it, J,” encourages Michael, hearing the bell jingle as he pushes open the door and says his goodbyes to Ryan, gusts of freezing wind playing with his curls. “I’ll be in the patrol car with my ass pressed to the heater.”

You pay the conversation no mind, finally having picked up enough produce to keep a small family fed for a week - or your roommates satiated for at least 3 days. Making your way to the checkout, the voice comes again, curious and careful. “Y/N?”

Spinning, you find yourself facing the small, bright officer, deep brown eyes widening in disbelieving joy. He’s stronger with your name this time, excited. “Y/N! Since when do you shop up in the mountains?”

“Jeremy,” you breath, shock coursing through your veins, “oh my god, is that really you?”

“Jesus,” he chuckles incredulously, both embracing for a long moment before he holds you out at arm’s length. He can’t quite comprehend your existence, drinking in the sight of his long lost friend. “It’s been, what, 2 years? How’ve you been?”

“Alright,” you admit rather hollowly, blinking a few times to stay on track. “What’re you doing here?”

“I work here now.” There’s pride in his voice, chest puffing up and finger jabbing the patch adoring his breast pocket, a similar one on his arm. “I was transferred here after we stopped working together, you’re looking at Motbury’s detective chief inspector.”

“You’re kidding.” You laugh, elated and vaguely aware of Ryan paying for his groceries, returning the wave he throws you from the door. Another billow of wind, ice nipping the tip of your nose. “You finally got your promotion.”

“You bet your ass I did, and a haircut.” His fingers skim the colour that’d made him so unrecognisable, and your heart feels instantly lighter.

“It looks great.”

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