#perhaps its to do with how his early memories all have to do with a bow but later on as a soldier he could have learned to use a spear

[what-aboutno]

It's crazy that in early maze days cOwen mentions he doesn't know first aid and he doesn't know how to fish. Like how did you survive as a soldier if you can't use the resources around you??

Also cOwen apperently not knowing hand to hand combat is insane. All his memories after the reunion show him fighting close up, and most of his kills later are close up too. I guess you could say that he remembers this stuff later on but it's still really funny to think about.

[bodhiscurls]

now that we don't talk. ( clark kent )

clark kent has to prove himself that he's loyal, that despite his consistent wandering absences and emergency leave, he can be trusted to be chief editor at the daily planet. and that means having to ask the one person in the world who hates him more than anything to play pretend as his date (his wife) at the next gala. to show the world clark kent is loyal, the picture of stability and did not ruin his only serious relationship he's ever had.

clark kent x nurse fem! ex! reader

themes: slight enemies to almost lovers (i dont think you ever stopped being lovers), angst, angst x2, confrontation about breakup, neighbours setting, fake relationship/marriage, partial resolved ending.

masterlist. (queued!)

its ironic as he stands there now. the door is shut, looks exactly as it always has- looks exactly as his right opposite but this door? this door could very well be the door to hell.

he stares at it under microscopic view, inspecting dirt and the dents and maybe- just maybe if he focused hard enough he could detect if there's ever been anyone else's fingerprint marked at the handles other than yours. anyone else who's had access to early morning breakfast in beds, movie nights and terrible deadlines where clark would have your feet in his lap, sleeping soundly on your sofa as he typed his soul away. he lingers on the memory- not because he misses you, of course but in case you've met someone who could spoil this utterly stupid plan of his.

his teeth sink into his lip forming a little bruise and he's sure he can taste the blood but his mind is millions of miles away, trying to silence the roar of his blood through his veins that pulses with pure panic. he shouldn't be here right now, or ever really, it was a promise he made to you to give you your space and call it what it was- the end of a doomed relationship. just knock on the door, clark, he psyches himself up, just do it, just-

"what the fuck are you doing here?" and he freezes.

it's comical really, his hand mid raised to a knock lingers in the air; the skin never meeting the wood, his heart not beating in sync to yours, an imbalance of some sort.

"oh gosh," he breaths, caught in a trap he's clearly made himself, it didn't occur to him that you might've not been home already and he decides that suddenly this feels way worse than you not answering at all "hey!" and he doesn't know what possesses him but he crosses the distance like you're an old friend, awkwardly wrapping in stiff hug as you feel his palms pat your back gently. it catches you for a moment, to be in his vicinity again after months of pretending like he doesn't exist that you're sure your hallucinating. until the awkward patting becomes a little bit more awkward, bordering into a heimlich smack.

"clark, what the fuck? i will call the cops" and you weasle out of his death grip. your brows are furrowed in what clark remembers as a silent rage- and he holds up his hands in surrender.

"sorry, shit," he swears, "i didn't mean to do that, please wait," and he winces at how your intimidating stare does not waver once.

"what are you doing here?" you repeat with more urgence and the weight of your backbone, letting you know that you should probably absoltuely call law enforcement to deal with him. then again, he's fucking superman and you roll your eyes in annoyance- he can't even let you have a single win. "you're ruining my routine," you stress, fingers coming up to your temple, massaging the growing headache landing.

"routine?" he quizzes, awkwardly crossing his arms across his chest- perhaps if he tucks them in tightly, he'd be less inclined to do something stupid and hug his ex-girlfriend after months of ignoring each other.

"yes routine- where we live our separate lives? where we pretend like we didn't know each other intimately for a year? you know, the one where i have to do my laundry on mondays and you took thursdays even though you know i get off late at the start of the week and honestly, now that you're here i can tell you that that fucks up my schedule clark," you huff in annoyance and he can't focus on a single thing youre saying though he watches your lips move religiously.

"hello?" you wave a hand in his face and he's moulded his feet into the earth outside your front door. he watches how your lips have slowed, how the bottom one juts out in a curious pout as you watch him with like one would watch a snotty child. he suddenly feels the weight of your stare and shrugs awkwardly, mumbling a faint "sorry, i'll take mondays?" and you narrow your gaze.

"what are you actually doing here?" you ask for the third time and clark hears the subtle fatigue and exhaustion laced in your voice that he feels like the worst person alive for a moment- bringing such intensity to you on a rogue tuesday evening after months of ghosting.

"may i come inside?" he asks, "please?" the addition is small and something very dangerously similar to concern builds up in your system that you find yourself nodding, offering no other words and letting the rattle of your doorknob and clunk of your key fill the heavy silence. he notices your work bag the same one he used to carry for you slumped on your shoulder and you're dressed in your scrubs- shit, you've just come off work and he thinks just maybe, that you're worn out from the day you may possibly be more inclined to hear out his silly proposal.

you don't wait to close the door behind him, but rather leave him in the hallway to which clark then locks the door himself. you've dropped your things to the floor and for a second, clark remembers how much it used to annoy him that you couldn't just hang your things up properly- the first of many nitpicked arguements that sent you down a long way of calling it quits. he stands awkwardly, towering over your space where random books are left out, a coffee mug from possibly this morning is littered on your table and random pieces of clothing left all over.

he tries not to focus on the lacy bra that hangs out of your laundry basket on your kitchen table and the burn it scorches his heart with. thats new, he thinks. he would've remembered the purple against your skin and how it felt under his-

"you still flying around or whatever?" you call from the kitchen sink and he pops his head through the little arch and into the space. his brows crease in annoyance at your dismissal and he frowns.

"have you not been seeing me on the news?" he quizzes, surely you couldn't have written him off completely? clark kent may have been a bad boyfriend to you, but superman! he's a man of the people!

"i don't really keep up with you clark if you haven't noticed- and besides, work takes up my time anyways," you shrug and slide him a mug over. it's warm and fragrant with lemon and honey- clark remembers it as your favourite and when you used to drink it, your voice used to dip a lower octave, soothed and a lot smoother at entering his heart and playing house in it.

"so are you finally going to tell me whats going on?" you echo and he immediately drops his gaze to his lap. its his guilty face- the face that you've had to kiss in forgiveness when he missed dinner with you, when he poured his whole heart out into his work and forgot that it was your anniversary, when he apologised at you having to pick up extra hours at the hospital whilst he took breaks from work to play superhero for the day.

"oh no," a small smile plays on your lips and it's so petty but the thought of clark kent having done something wrong makes you feel a little bit better about yourself, "come on superman," you tease, "fess up," and the jokes suddenly not funny anymore- the smile from your face wiped clean when he clears his throat and meets you with earnest swimming in those dangerous ocean eyes.

"i told perry we were still together," and at his admission you pause, the earlier laughter hidden and lurking in your tea as it steams a few milimetres from you.

"what?"

"before i tell you the whole story, i need you to know that i'm sorry, i'm really sorry and i hate how this has turned out-"

"clark, this is nothing new i'm hearing, you realise that?" you roll your eyes, "tell me something different, like why your boss thinks we're together- i've probably met him once at that stupid gala you dragged me to last year," and he lets out an awkward laugh. he remembers you returning home that night, drunk in his big arms as he carried you bridal style back to his place. it wasn't a secret you found journalists boring, slower paced than your nursing duties in the emergency department that you vowed you'd never go there again.

"oh no," you whisper, "if you think i'm going to that shitty dance again, clark you have another thing coming for you, bud," you scoff and he winces. bud. its a new one. it's not darling, or sweetheart, or love of my life but then again for someone who despised him enough to dodge him every single time he's left his apartment to the point that this is the first time he's seen you in months, god he'll take bud anyday. he hopes that when he dies and reaches the gates of heaven- it'll be bud he hears.

"please?" is all he can get out.

"clark," you sigh, "you ruin our five month truce to invite me back to some lame dinner with a bunch of newspaper nerds- one of those newspaper nerds who made me feel like shit for half our relationship mind you," and he lets the digs come, cut him, slice him open and he bares himself bloodied and bruised if thats would it would mean for you to agree to this silly idea. "why?" and its the million dollar question on his mind too.

"perry doesn't think i'm comitted," he releases with a stroke of bitterness.

"perry should win a nobel prize for that revelation but he should also check his ratings," you scoff back and he murmurs in defeat, a little burst of pride swelling at your words.

"yeah well, ratings don't just give you promotions and god, i really want that editor title," he whispers to himself, "and so when he questioned my comittments and random periods of absences- i told him my wife just hasn't been well lately, i am comitted," and he winces as the words leave his mouth.

"wife?" you shout, the outrage bouncing off the walls, echoing a drum of disbelief as you run your hands through your hair in stress. "clark, you better not have-"

"he immediately assumed it was you from last year and i couldn't-"

"you didn't correct him?"

"i couldn't!" and its the raise of his voice that lifts your jaw from the ground and wires it shut. he's been calm this entire time, a nervous resolve and its the first inkling you've seen that he's actually way in over his head and he needs you desperately.

he needs you, your heart calls out, toying dangerously with the strings and you bite down your lip, hard.

"please?" he begs quietly, "i wouldn't have come to you and burdened you with this crap but gosh, i just, i'm in too deep,"

"yeah," you breathe, "too deep," and its a dumb repeat but you just can't wrap your head around it, how fate has a funny way of bringing the two of you back together.

"just one night, i just need you for one night and then we can go our separate ways, i will take the mondays for laundry i will damn well move apartment blocks if you decide you hate me so much more after this, but i am begging you. i don't know what to do," comes his heavy, uneven breaths, "please."

and your lips press firmly into thin lines before you come to his side, awkwardly placing your hand on his shoulder in comfort. it's a fleeting touch and in a different dimension, you probably wouldve chosen his firm chest- his pulsing heartbeat to feel for and let it linger longer than a second, but you don't.

its gone as soon as you start but clark feels it nonetheless.

"fine," you whisper and his eyes light up a dangerous electric blue. "what's in it for me?" you ask, pretending to inspect some dirt under your fingernails and fake nonchalance, like you haven't just opened the door to many bad memories and offered them free residence.

"i'll get you those orchestra tickets you've been after," and for a second, clark thinks he has you. he remembers the tickets just by chance; you always planned to go together but the timing was never right plus they're pricey as hell and only perform once in a blue moon but if thats what it takes for you to agree, then clark kent will bend the world to his will if he has to. he'll probably have to cash in a favour as superman and his credit card but this could be his job on the line.

"you get one night and that's it," you swear and clark thinks he could break out into a full sob of relief, the pride he's swallowed down to stand in the home he used to share with you and beg for a night where he hopes you'll hate him less and make this all alright, god this is only just the beginning.

. . .

he picks you up at eight and this time he does knock on the door.

there's a faint muffle, a shuffle and a violent curse that he recognises as your voice that brings a tiny smile to his face. the door opens with the same puff and urgency and the wind knocks completely from clark's lungs.

"i can't get the zipper up," your flushed cheeks and wide eyes panic as you blow out some air that lifts a few tendrils that escape your updo style. they bounce back on your sweating forehead, taunting. your arm holds the dress up, clutched firmly to your chest as you turn around expectantly, waiting as the chill of the landing bites at your skin.

he ushers you back inside, unwanting to share you with the entire apartment block and he's met with your whine, "clark, don't just stand there, do something!"

"okay, okay," he soothes, fingers finding the metal zipper and making work of it. he drags it out intentionally slow, savouring the way his fingertips dance lightly on your back and it takes him back to all those nights ago where he was blessed to whisper sweet nothings into your skin. you tense underneath him and at the stutter, he retract his hands, tucking them into his sides neatly as you turn around.

"how do i look?" you ask hopeful, steadying your hands on your hips and facing him with that familiar glint in your eyes. he lets out a breath, or what he hopes sounds like one rather than a guttural noise of pure misery because fuck, you look incredible and he was such an idiot to let you go.

"clark, it'd be real great if you could use some words right now, aren't you a journalist- shouldn't you know like lots of them? " you narrow your brows and he stands there speechless. "fine," you mutter, heading in the direction of your kitchen table, reaching for your clutch. the contents including some finishing powder, a travel size perfume, lip gloss and a shit ton of hope to get you through the night.

he still hasn't moved when you return and make your way to walk past him. the trance is broken the second he catches your arm and pulls you back into him. its a stumble where you have to place your hands onto his chest to steady yourself and the intensity of sudden closeness causes you to swallow.

"you look great ," and it's such a lame compliment but the way its lands; dripping with such pure honesty that you momentarily forget all the times you wished clark kent didn't exist. you nod, bashful under his attention and it warms your skin in a way that makes you feel very much unsettled.

"should get you a thesaurus or something," you mumble offhandedly, pretending that he's had no effect on you- like the admission hadn't just burned something new in you and you clear your throat, making your way down the stairs.

its so gentleman-like how clark takes your hand and leads you down each step safely as he glares daggers into the heels that he knows you're going to abandon as soon as the night is over. he walks you to the car, opens the door, even gets so damn close that you still and break free from the trance once you hear the faint click of the seatbelt.

he drives and drives and then you see his workplace come into view and groan. you aren't even given the chance to wallow in your pity, beg him to take you back home because clark is already at your door, opening it and helping you back up. a faint wobble of the heel traps onto some gravel and you almost send yourself flying back, steadying yourself on the roof of the car.

"i think you shouldve chosen something more comfortable," he mutters and you shoot him a look.

"my apologies, i was trying to go for hot wife who's husband disappears from work all the time to take care of her or whatever sob story you gave," you scoff, walking just ahead of him once again and clark stops, which in turn you stop. you mustve miscalculated how close he was behind you, the faint towering of his frame over yours and you almost ramming into his chest.

"hey!" he hisses, looking around cautiously to see if anyones in view, hearing your conversation. its funny how from a distance, you two must look like you're in a lovers quarrell.

"look, you're going to have to act like you like me," he groans, "or this is never going to work."

"this isn't going to work clark, and who's fault is that?" you pull back.

"listen you liked me once before just do it again!" he gets out exasperated.

"was that before or after you dumped me the day before our anniversary?" and its lethal the cutting edge of your words in the air and he lets out a bitter laugh, kicking the gravel under his feet as he takes a few steps away from you to give himself some space.

"clark," you sigh and call out, "fine, i'll behave myself but don't act like this isn't fucking weird," you get out, "i don't know what to do with myself." it's unspoken territory, unfamiliar in so many ways that you don't know what lines can or can't be crossed.

"i'm sorry," he whispers, staring at the floor and then meeting your gaze, "i really am-"

"let's not do this," you squirm and let out a sigh of defeat, "come on, husband," and you hold your hand out for him to take, "let's get this shit over with," and when he interlocks his hand in yours, both your hearts skip a beat in pure delusion.

"how romantic, mrs. kent," he deadpans and you don't know which version is easier- pretending you hate him or pretending like you haven't waited months to find someone so easy to be with again.

"come on big guy, i hope you're prepared for me to lie all night," you promise him, the least you could do is try and entertain yourself, seeing how long you can storytell to a group of people who value the truth more than anything- its so damn ironic.

"oh please do," he agrees, thinking you're feeding into this fake relationship but the grin that spreads across your face, god, clark should've known he was in trouble.

...

"oh my god, it was so romantic!" you gush, "one moment i'm sitting across him eating my pasta, the next moment he's holding up tickets to go to italy and i'm thinking baby what?" you shoot him the most dazzling smile known to man and clark kent thinks what fucking sunshine are you made out of to be this blinding and bright, "and he says its our honeymoon, like its nothing and what did i say baby?" you turn to him, a mischievous glint in your eyes.

he turns to the crowd sheepish, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly as the other is wrapped firmly around your waist, tucking it into his side. "oh i don't know honey," he rumbles into your ear, "i think you tell this story best," but you bite back a laughter and groan.

"oh he's just embarrassed- i said he was insane, like normal people ask- not my clark," and you place a hand on his chest, almost gripping him protectively as you sense the wandering eyes, "he was on his knees, begging," you emphasise. "me to marry him! no- more like demanding i marry him-"

"oh baby, i think you're exaggerating it just a touch," he rolls his eyes playfully before pulling you closer to him, his breath hot on the shell of your ear and his voice dangerously low, "dial it down a bit, doll."

defiance builds in your system at the low timbres sending shivers down your spine and you fake a sigh, "clark has never been one to take no for an answer- it was his third time proposing so naturally i just felt sorry and had to say yes," and you receive an ovation of giggles, coo'ing and coworkers who give clark a look of pure respect. it's weird how all of a sudden you tell someone you're married and that's it- you're part of some new unlocked level of life. clark can't help but feel awful and think he should've done this sooner.

"oh no doll," he draws in a smooth lie, "i think you forget you were the one who asked to marry me first; the proposal needed some serious work on it so i very graciously took over," he confirms, giving himself a lot more credit than the whipped persona you were creating for him.

"is that so? well do you remember the time where you got so nervous you almost pe-"

"excuse me guys," he interrupts you swiftly, "gotta give the wife one more spin before the nights over," and he all but drags you in the opposite direction.

"wait-" and it's perry white who shoots you a curious look. "your ring?" and his gaze flits to your bare hand. clark tightens his hold on it protectively, bringing it up to his lips with a kiss brushing against your knuckles.

"having it cleaned," you melt at the contact, slumping into clark's side like a lovesick fool and he bares your weight. secretly, you regret your shoe choice of the evening, it already swelling up your ankles slightly and clark doesn't miss a beat at holding you up against him. perry nods at you with a smile then salutes clark, who sweats a little under his stare before leading you to the dance floor.

"how long before we make a break?" you ask and clark's surprised you've lasted all but an hour before planning an escape.

"maybe an hour more?"

"clark i don't think i have an hour more," you tell him seriously, "maybe a minute more," and he suddenly laughs so loud, pecking your cheek and you feel the dimpled smile against it. the air melts as he sways you in sync with the music softly.

"what are you doing?" you hiss and his hands travel dangerously low at the small of your back.

"picture," he murmurs into your hair, pretending to move a stray piece behind your ear tenderly "smile," and he spins you just in time for the camera to catch a blur of your grin. clark makes a mental note to steal that photo later, purely for journalistic purposes, obviously.

"you're doing a great job," he speaks low enough for you to hear only. you don't grace him a reply, your smile from earlier slipping off as soon as you hear his adjective use, "uh oh," he raises his brows like you're a toddler throwing a tantrum, "what is it now?"

"nothing," you shrug in indifference but theres a little bit of bark behind your bite, "everythings great," you echo, "just great."

"i get the feeling everything is not great,"

"what would make you say that?" you gasp, he gives you a look- the stare which holds a thousand words, one you know best as "really?" and you decide to give the sarcasm a miss for the night.

"i shaved my legs," you nod slowly as you start to sway in a dance, "i wore the dress, i have doused myself in perfume, and i get a "great"" you press your lips in a thin line, "if we were actually married, that would've been reason enough for divorce," you narrow your eyes.

"honey, i don't think we would've gotten through our vows," he returns just as quick.

"clark, i didn't even know you could read vows nevermind write them- you'd probably bore the audience into some spiel about font sizes and line spacing," you deadpan.

"what do you think i do?" he whips his head in confusion.

"you get bullied by microsoft word and do interviews with yourself," you scoff, "that tells me plenty,"

"and you stab needles into poor innocent kids and steal their blood," he bites back and its a poor attempt to undermine your work as a nurse but you do the unthinkable and burst out a laugh, a pure genuine laugh where you knock your head back, clutching your chest lightly where the amber lit lamps highlight the glint in your eyes. and suddenly clark is taken back to the night where he first realised he was in love with you and the feeling of maybe, that after all this time he never really had fallen out of love with you, he's just not had the chance to show it.

"ah" you breathe out, "that was good," and he settles into the softened atmosphere where he doesn't have to try to be anyone but himself with you. "so what you gonna do about that superman?" you tease.

you don't notice that the music has stopped and pairs are leaving to take a seat for dinner until clark moves his jands from your waist to hold both your hands infront of him instead. you notice him leaning in slowly and you hate yourself for anticipating it, for closing your eyes just an inch waiting to feel his lips on yours but they never come, they settle on your forehead in a sweet tender kiss and you try and hide the frown.

"camera," he whispers again and you nod, the lump in your throat rising as you swallow.

the rest of the night carries on in a blur and its easier to pretend like you're not falling apart when there's people to crowd you at every corner. you laugh, you smile and look at clark kent with all the love you've kept buried deep inside of your soul before you finish up for the night- some half baked excuse about having too much to drink and you let clark lead you out to where he's parked the car.

before he leaves, perry kisses your cheek goodbye and claps clark on the back in approval, which clark in turn beams like a damn headlight, guiding you to a past life where all you ever felt for him was pure radiant happiness.

...

"thank you," he whispers as the car rolls to a stop and you smile- soft and small but its there.

"you're welcome," you try instead because you're all out retorts and you don't know how long you can keep up the walls you've built on sarcasm and locked away hurt. "it was easy being with you," you add, playing with your fingers in your lap as clark kent plays with your heart.

his own drum on the steering wheel as he sits in thought, "its silly," he sighs, "but it just reminded me of how we worked so well," and your heartbeat slows, mind cries out in desperation that you blink away the water that starts to build.

"we didn't," you offer instead, the voice of rationality ending his delusion "and that's why we ended," your words are meant to land with a finality but clark looks over, raw and earnest stretched into the small lines and crooks of his face.

"i don't believe that," he softens, "the way it felt-"

"it was pretend," you cut him off immediately, "you asked me to play a part and i did, you do not get to do this clark, don't make it into something it isnt," you warn.

"i think you're scared," he breathes with a shake of his head, the black curls tousling and blending in the darkness of the night "and it's okay because i'm scared to," his lungs pound as they beg for air but its so still and stagnant in the car that he has to unlock his seatbelt, reach across the controls and shift inwards to face you, to grab hold of your hands and take you to a world where things ended differently.

"i'm not scared," you get out in defiance, "i'm tired," and your words land firm, "we didn't just end clark- you broke up with before our anniversary, so clearly we didn't work that well," you scoff.

"baby," and you shoot him a death glare at the endearment, "i was in a bad place," he excuses, "it was hard balancing superman and clark and it was hurting you-"

"that would've been my choice to stay!" you get out, "i followed you to hell, clark," you grit, the emotion thick in your voice.

"and i got tired of taking you there so often!" he shouts, riled up from the months of miscommunication and resentment, he lowers his tone but you're still on the edge of your seat, "it wasn't fair to make you live through that and i knew you were too kind to not leave," he heaves, "so i made the choice for us,"

"no clark, you're wrong," the tears fall and you let them, "i loved you too much to not leave and you made that choice yourself, so don't come crying nostalgia to me now," you stand firm and tall on your walls though they crumble beneath you, "you did this,"

"yeah," he hangs his head low.

"was it worth it?" your question small as you relax back into the seat, exhaustion taking over.

"i think you know the answer to that," he smiles sadly.

"i think i need to hear it," you press, the words mixing in with the saltiness of your tears as they leave your lips.

"not in the slightest," you sit in the silence before unclicking your seatbelt and unlocking the car door. it takes clark longer than a second to get up and help you out except when you take his arm again, the touch feels like a washed out mellow flame of heat, like its barely hanging on as the sensation tethers between you two.

he helps you up the stairs, at a small distance but his hand still firmly gripped in yours and when he arrives at your door you unlock it, take a step in before turning to him. you surprise him and kiss his cheek lethally soft and gentle, like a sweet caress and he leans into the touch ever so slightly.

"you look beautiful," he breathes, the words he couldn't get out earlier and you smile sadly, lips twisting to the side as if holding back words you need to get off your chest. its what you wanted to hear at the start of the evening, a little bit of a boost to your system- to let clark know he's not the only one who made it out of this alive. but hearing it now, it feels like you're standing at the shore and waiting for the tide to swallow you whole.

"take care of yourself, clark," you whisper before the door shuts on him again.

he wishes he knew how to, and wishes more than anything he'd be able to take care of you too.

riya saying hi: hi !! if this finds you then i'm not on the app right now but i hope you enjoy this as my little parting gift whilst im away for a few days teehee this is not a complete like reconciliation - i did want to do an angst to fluff kind of thing, but i fear this needs a second part to build up to that fluff so let me know if you would like to see that ?? second part would obvs be grovelling clark, i didnt want reader to just forgive him and possibly more fake dating as he figures out how to keep you close to him long enough to make this right. anyways bye love u see ya later babygators 🥺💘💋

[moonstruckme]

Thanks for being patient with me! This is edited on about four hours of sleep so apologies for any errors <3

part 1 │ part 2 │ part 3 │ part 4 │part 5 │ part 6 │ part 7 │ part 8 │ part 9 │ part 10 │ part 11 │ part 12 │ part 13

roommate!James x shy!reader ♡ 1.6k words

Water sizzles on the stove. You reach over to turn down the heat, your side heating from its proximity to the boiling water, before spinning back around to keep speed-chopping onion. This is a result of poor planning. 

It’s possible that some of your nerves could be reinterpreted as excitement. Giddiness, even. You’re finally—finally—doing something to try and repay all the kindness James shows you. You’ve felt like such a mooch, eating his cooking and stealing his time with his friends, but last week had been too much for you to take. He’d discovered the stomach bug you were weathering, and James had completely devoted the next two days of his life to making sure you were looked after. 

Your fever had gotten so out of hand he’d very nearly followed through on his favorite threat (going into your phone while you’re sleeping and phoning your mum), and though you’d done your best to downplay it at the time there are admittedly gaps in your memory wherein you think you were simply too out of it to know what was going on. It’s not a very comforting thought when you’re harboring a humiliating crush on your roommate; you may well have been just as talkative as James always is, you don’t know. At least he hasn’t said anything. 

He had, thankfully, managed to avoid catching it. You’re not sure how he managed what no one on your shift at work did, but you assume it has something to do with all that kale he eats. Which is why you’re doing your best to make the thank-you meal you’re making him as healthy as might suit his standards. 

You hear his key in the door, and a little frisson goes up your spine. 

“You’re early,” you accuse as he walks in. 

“Since when do you know when my training ends?” James asks. You sound like you’re sniping at one another, but as usual the joviality in his tone is unmissable. 

The sounds of his entrance are familiar, perhaps more ingrained in your mind than they ought to be. Keys jingling as he hangs them on the hook, shoes toed off and left by the mat, heavy footsteps headed for wherever you are in the apartment. 

When he finds you in the kitchen, you both speak at once. 

“What happened to your shoulder?” 

“You know how to cook?” 

“Hurt it at training,” James answers, shrugging with the shoulder that doesn’t have an ice pack held to it. He’s probably too nice for it to occur to him to withhold his answer until you’ve given yours, as had been your first thought. “What are you making?” 

“How did you hurt it?” Worry pries at your tone. Your hands have stilled on the cutting board. 

“We had a scrimmage, and I got shoulder-barged.” He gives you a smile, a shadow of the real thing, but gentler. Reassuring. “It’s not bad.” 

You frown. “I don’t know what that means.” 

“Didn’t expect you to, love.” 

“Why do you need to ice it if it’s not bad?” 

There’s a look in James’ eyes that’s wavering between smugness and softness. You balk at the sight of it. “I need to be a bit careful with it,” he hedges, “but it’ll be good by morning. Now, you’ve distracted me. Do you mean to tell me you’ve known how to cook this entire time?” 

“Yes,” you concede with a laugh. “I’ve always said I cook for myself when you’re not around.” 

“And here you are, doing it right before my eyes.” James leans on the counter with his good arm. He looks immensely entertained. “I’m honored.” 

“This isn’t just for me,” you say, looking down to resume chopping onion as your face warms slightly. “It’s for—” Another remonstrative hiss from the stove, and you whip around, moving the pot off the hot part entirely. You’re a bit relieved for the excuse to face away from him. “It’s for both of us. Also, I just want to provide a disclaimer right now that I never said I was good at cooking, only that I knew how.” 

James’ laugh rumbles behind you, just as you knew it would. He’s too easy. You can practically feel the force of his smile hitting your back, like the sunshine brought inside. 

“Here,” he says, taking a couple of steps toward you, “let me help.” 

“No!” You whirl again, stopping him before he can actually enter the kitchen. “No way. James, I’m trying to do something nice.” 

“And it is very nice,” he says, earnest. “It just seems like you could use a hand.” 

“I’ve got it,” you insist. Your hands are up to ward him off, but you put them at your sides when you realize how close they’re hovering to his chest. “It doesn't count as doing something for you if you do it yourself. Anyway, you’re incapacitated.” 

“I’m…” James looks confused, but then he glances down to his icing shoulder. “Oh, come on. I’m hardly immobilized.” 

“For all intents and purposes, you are.” You do your best to infuse your voice with conviction. You’ve found that’s usually the way with James. If you show any hesitation, he’ll turn on the charm and have you eating out of his hand before you know what’s happened. You herd him away from the kitchen. “Go sit down. Dinner will be ready soon.” 

You can’t help but be aware of him as you finish up, knowing he has to hear the sizzling when you accidentally spill things onto the stove or the one mumbled curse you’re not quick enough to bite back. All evidence that you’re not nearly as practiced a cook as James. You can practically feel his grin from a room over. Still, when it's done you’re fairly proud of yourself. 

James is beaming as he accepts his bowl. He hikes his knees up so you can pass between the couch and the coffee table, making a show of sniffing the steam rising from the food. 

“Is this risotto?” he asks, waiting for your little nod before his mouth drops open in astonishment. “You are so sneaky! I didn’t know you could cook at all, let alone fancy shit like this.” 

“It’s not that hard to make.” You look down at your fork as you raise it to your lips, blowing. 

“Sure it is! Loads of people have a hard time with it.” 

“Do you?” 

James grins, caught. You feel your own smile tugging at your lips as you take a bite.

He follows suit, forking a bit of the risotto and blowing to cool it before taking it in his mouth. His eyes dip closed, head lolling back, and he moans. 

“Oh my god, this is good. I’m never cooking again, now that I know you can do this.” 

You take another bite to avoid a response. You’re fairly sure the heat from your face could power the apartment for a month. 

James makes a few more over-the-top compliments of your culinary skills, which you deflect as best you can. As always, you eat mostly silently while he chatters, but when you look over your attention gets snagged on his shoulder. 

He’s only using the one hand to eat, bowl resting in his lap while you hold yours up closer to your face. His ice pack sits beside him now that he can’t hold it on anymore. You catch yourself gnawing on the inside of your lip. 

“Does it hurt?” you ask. 

James looks over, following your gaze. “Yeah,” he admits. “Nothing I’m not used to, though.” 

You feel your eyebrows pinch. “You get hurt often?” 

He smiles bemusedly. “It’s rugby, love. Getting a bit roughed up is part of the deal.” 

This doesn’t sit right with you. Though you hadn’t pondered it much before, you realize you’ve sort of been thinking of James, with his muscles and constant smiles and easygoing manner, as somewhat invincible. He seems like such a source of light in the world, it hadn’t occurred to you that anything bad could happen to him. You don’t like the idea of him being hurt. In any capacity. 

You realize this is likely playing out on your face when you notice James watching you. His eyes are soft. “As much as I would love to milk this for attention and maybe a sponge bath,” he says, setting his fork in his bowl, “it’s really not that bad. See?” 

He pulls down the sleeve of his shirt, and the effort to placate you is wasted. You take in a quiet, horrified gasp at the deeply colored bruise on James’ shoulder. One of your hands raises as if to touch it. It hovers in the space between you. 

“That’s not that bad?” you look at James in alarm. “It looks broken.” 

“It’s not,” he laughs. It’s a bit awkward, as close to self-conscious as you’ve ever seen him. “Trust me, I’ve had a couple broken bones in my time. It’s only bruised, and the muscle’s a bit strained.” 

The muscle, you’re noticing now, is quite substantial. Your focus is on the bruise, but the shoulder beneath it is eye-catching as well, hefty and taut-looking, presumably from the strain. That, or James is flexing. 

You raise your gaze quickly to his. Brown eyes tinged with smugness. 

“You’re worried about me.” His lips stretch into a grin. Not your favorite one in his arsenal. “Aw, sweetheart, I love you too.” 

You direct your attention back to your food, face hotter than hot. “I have justification for worry,” you say, the teasing tone you were going for undercut by the unintentional softness of your voice. “You’re voluntarily participating in a sport that seems like it’s trying to kill you.” 

James takes a self-satisfied bite of his risotto. “I don’t know, I was pretty worried when you fainted in my arms last week.” 

You side-eye him suspiciously. “I didn’t actually do that.” 

“Guess you’ll never know.” 

[nimbusclan]

Moon 5 Part 2

[Previous] [Start] [Next]

Moonstar gasps awake, sitting up so fast she rams her head into the thick underside of a low-hanging branch that she and her brother had spent the night taking turns sleeping under. They’ve been doing that, taking turns – who knows what things are lurking out here in the dark, so far from home.

If they can't go back, does it still count as home? 

“Ow…” Moonstar groans, a sharp throb pounding against her skull. What a way to start the morning.

Fogfreckle ducks his head underneath one of the branches, sweeping past the leaves to gaze curiously at his sister. He tilts his head questioningly, mouth open to ask what’s wrong, when the words die on his tongue and his eyes widen.

“Fogfreckle!” Moonstar mews excitedly, leaping to her paws. “You’ll never guess what happened!”

“Your– your forehead,” Fogfreckle croaks. “You… were visited by StarClan?”

“What about my forehead?” Moonstar asks, confused and distracted. She presses a paw against her head to see if perhaps she’s bleeding, but her paw doesn’t come away warm or wet. The rest of her brother’s words filter to her slowly through the dull throb of pain and the fog of the early hour. She pouts. “Yeah, Star– how did you guess so quick?”

“There’s– your forehead. You have a star. A leader’s star.”

Moonstar’s pout deepens. “Well. That kind of steals my thunder.”

“Moonpool, what happened?”

“Moonstar now, actually.” Moonstar grins. “StarClan visited me in my dreams and granted me my nine lives. Isn’t that crazy? I didn’t even have to– there was no–” Moonstar’s tongue can hardly keep up with everything that’s swirling in her brain, the experience of her leader’s ceremony playing back to her as if memory and not just dream. “NimbusClan lives on, Fogfreckle. In us, just like you said. We’re to lead NimbusClan into its new future.”

“‘We’?” Fogfreckle asks weakly, jaw slack with disbelief.

“Of course, ‘we’!” Moonstar laughs, bounding closer to her brother. She feels so full of life, coursing through her like the widest, wildest river. “I wouldn’t be here if not for you, you know that. Besides, what’s a leader without her deputy?”

“Deputy?” Fogfreckle repeats, dumbstruck.

“What are you, a raven?” Moonstar laughs. “Yes, deputy! As leader, I’m appointing you as deputy of NimbusClan, Fogfreckle.”

Fogfreckle swells with pride, pale chest fluffed out as he inhales a shaky breath. “I– yes, Moonstar. Thank you.”

“Don’t get all formal on me, now. You’re my brother first, deputy second.”

“So, we really are still a Clan.” He grins, then the expression fades from his face somewhat. His eyes take on an earnest shine. “Did you… I know you’re not supposed to talk about the ceremony, but… when you visited StarClan, did you… did you see our parents?”

Moonstar smiles gently, heart squeezing painfully in her chest. Dad had told her to tell Fogfreckle that their parents miss him, too, so surely StarClan won’t be displeased if she shares just that much? “Yes. I saw them. Mom and Dad. They told me to tell you they miss you.”

Fogfreckle hiccups, stepping close to push his head hard against Moonstar’s.

“I wish you could have seen them too,” She adds in a whisper, nuzzling into his dawn-warmed fur. The sun is just starting to crest the side of the mountain on its way up, crawling lazily into the sky. Greenleaf heat creeps on silent, soft paws across her pelt. It’ll be humid later, but for now, it’s pleasant.

“Maybe they’ll walk in my dreams one day, too.”

“I hope so.” Moonstar presses one more smile into his fur and then pulls back, squaring her shoulders in what she hopes is a leaderly fashion. It’s only her brother, but she may as well start getting used to playing the role. “Alright, deputy. What’s our first order of business?”

Fogfreckle grins. “How about breakfast? I could go for some eggs.”

“Perfect idea.”

Both cats stretch out their paws and take off, bounding up the mountain.

[Previous] [Start] [Next]

[sun-snatcher]

Elrond headcanons I’ve made that keep me up at night:

i. Elros was the older twin by 2 minutes.

Maedhros and Maglor discerned as such, being brothers themselves, and what with the way the little twins reacted whenever they got into trouble and mischief. 

Elrond might have been the more stubborn between the two, yes, but Elros was the courageous one; some innate elder-brother instinct Maglor could recognise Maedhros in: first to face the burden of punishment and last to lay it down. 

Elrond always dreaded those mere minutes, because it meant he was eternally 2-minutes behind Elros, and because it lent his brother a leverage against him throughout the years they endured growing up together. But he’d only truly dreaded it the most, years after, when Elros had chosen the mortal path.

He had counted the 2 minutes after Elros had died, and then wept as he placed a kiss on his forehead; because, after all these years: 

“At last, Elros, my dear brother, I have finally caught up to you.”

ii. Elrond untintentionally made Círdan (the wisest, stalwart, and most steadily composed of all living Elves) weep full tears over a poorly folded Leaf-boat.

This was at the atelier, in the aftermath of High King Gil-Galad’s funeral rites, where they talked and talked until the sun went down the horizon. Elrond could hardly sit still— an endearingly Mannish trait, Círdan learned early on— and that’s how the Shipwright ended up teaching the Herald how to fold boats out of a banana leaf.

“Oh, dear,” it had started on the first attempt, with Elrond showing him the sad-excuse of a boat, fraying in its green edges, “Show me again, Master Círdan, how do you do it! My craft will surely sail to no shore.”

Then Círdan laughed, because “Indeed, surely, that will hardly survive a ripple, Elrond,” and then his eyes welled with tears, and he bent his head down, and suddenly he found himself crying, unable to stop at all.

He hadn’t wept this hard in Ages.

“Ah, come now, let me show you,” he sniffled, hands trembling as he meticulously corrected the little flaws of the boat. “Forgive me. Artanáro— Ereinion— I remember teaching him too, when he was but knee-high and knew naught but how to scatter sunshine wherever he went. Your boat looks as pitiful as his first try! And, why, for a moment, I—”

He didn’t continue, because there was no need to. 

“Oh, I miss him already, Elrond. How I miss him!” he’d cried. “My dear Ereinion. My darling, dearest boy.”

iii. When at last Legolas finally completed his ship and left with Gimli from Edhellond, crossing the Bay of Belfalas— they had come across a lone, folded leaf boat, bright green and drifting unmoored across the silver crests and falls of Belegaer.

Gimli peered portside (while standing on a box) to point it out. “See there, Legolas! That’s one of them Elven leaf boats, aye? How long has it wandered adrift, you reckon?”

“Long indeed!” Legolas smiled. “Elven leaves are sturdy and crafted to endure. This one was set purposely upon these waters to sail, it seems.”

“A tribute,” the Dwarf mused, eyeing the blown-out candle cradled in its heart. “This far out?”

The elf gazed keenly, South-west upon the distant blue horizon. “Why, perhaps, to the memory of the great star-lit isle of Númenor.” 

[starofmortis]

✧ exile (what a ghostly scene)

. *. ⋆ Anakin / Vader x Reader

summary: you were bail organa’s ward, raised on alderaan with your younger sister. in the twilight of the clone war, you and anakin fell in love. when the war died, it dragged you and anakin to early graves with it — leaving only darth vader behind. even after years without you, he still wants you back. and there is nothing he would not do to bring you back to him. . .

tags: angst, tragic romance, suitless vader, no y/n, gn reader, inspired by the 2020 vader comics & vader immortal, past major character death, mourning, vader needs a hug, resurrection

note: my first reader/second person fic — i’m sorry if the tense is bad ajsjwjwjqjq. i’ve had this in my drafts for soooo long and i finally decided to finish it 🫶

word count: 1k

part 1 of 4

The stars have died, fizzling out into oblivion. All that remains is a charcoal heart that once belonged to Anakin Skywalker.

The boy from Tatooine is unreachable now, trapped inside the twisted soul of Darth Vader. The galaxy’s beloved Hero With No Fear is gone. With the rise of the Empire, the Jedi and their sympathisers will be erased from memory. A clean slate to start a new era.

Three years after the creation of the Empire, Darth Vader stands alone. His tower on Mustafar is isolating; its strategic position is a constant reminder of that day. His injuries still hurt sometimes: phantom itches on his now metal legs; scars from his burns that did not fully heal. The medical droids say he is lucky — the fire could have done more serious damage, and he could have been forced to rely on a suit keeping him alive for the rest of his days. Instead, the ebony coloured mask and suit he wears are to conceal his identity. A precaution so that Anakin Skywalker can fade from people’s tongues and memory, leaving the tyranny of Darth Vader in its place.

The weight of his failures is not the heaviest burden. Darth Vader drowns in his anger and grief. He was not strong enough to kill Obi-Wan Kenobi. He was not strong enough to save you.

(All things die. Even stars burn out.)

You were the stars in his sky, his light in the dark, the silvery moon to his blazing sun. So tender and kind. Perhaps your heart was too good for this world. Perhaps, it was your weakness all along. (How could peace ever love a dragon?)

Since you met, you had been Anakin’s sun. You anchored him; guided him home. You were his destiny. And, without you, the galaxy had turned cold. The fiery world outside, all hot air and lava fields, only stood as a reminder of his failure. He’d lost you. After everything Anakin had tried — surrendering himself to the dark side, betraying the light — he could not save you. Time had not quelled the pain.

Vader wonders if you would still recognise him. His copper hair has grown longer (he remembers how you used to cut it for him after he returned from another mission, and you’d giggle as you braided thin locks together), but his face hides behind an obsidian mask. You always loved the blue of Anakin’s eyes, but now they are blazing amber.

Mornings are the only time Vader allows himself to dwell on the past. It is when he finds himself alone and does not have to hide.

Vader recalls how you arrived on Mustafar like it was yesterday. (You haunt him every waking moment.) He could sense your conflicted emotions as soon as you disembarked your ship. Vader wasted no time approaching you, drawing you into his arms (where you belonged; where you were safe). His lips reconnected with yours, fitting together like puzzle pieces as he kissed you hungrily, his hands settled on your hips to keep you close.

You and Anakin had met after turning nineteen. He and Obi-Wan were called to Alderaan to protect the Queen and Viceroy from an assassination attempt. Being their ward, you had been there the whole time and quickly formed a connection with the young padawan — your relationship had blossomed during the Clone Wars.

He rested his forehead against yours as you spoke. “I heard terrible things. Tell me none of it is true.”

Vader hadn’t replied immediately and instead drew his head back to look at you. He would tell you any sweet lie if he needed to as he fought to quell the anger flaring in his eyes. “What have you been told?”

“Obi-Wan told me—”

Vader’s grasp around you tightened protectively. “Obi-Wan is alive?”

“He said you’d killed Jedi. Killed younglings.”

“You must not believe him, my love. He’s a traitor.”

It wasn’t the answer you sought, and you took a step backwards out of your husband’s grasp. “What have you done?”

“I did this for you. To save you.” He cupped your chin in his flesh hand and whispered your name. “I love you.”

Your eyes trained into his. There was no denial, no remorse in his stature; his only regret was letting Obi-Wan tell you anything.

He repeated his words. “I did this for you.”

From the shadows of your cloak, you drew a blaster. Only a small, weak thing. Vader watched your hands tremble. He did admire your courage. “Fix this,” you demanded. “Please,” you begged.

Anger flickered in Vader’s eyes. He had never seen you unimpressed with him. With an easy glide of his hand, Vader used the Force to knock the blaster out of your grip and pin your arms by your sides

“I am stronger than the Chancellor now,” he explained desperately, drawing you to his side. “I can overthrow him. Then you and I can be together; we can run away — just like you always wanted to.”

(But you didn’t. He lost you. Some might call you a traitor — Vader maintains that you were misguided.)

Three years later, regret still festers inside Vader’s hollow soul. There must have been a way to save you.

He misses you endlessly: craving your touch and the sound of your voice. (There is nothing Vader desires more than to have you back in his arms.)

Part of him wants to forget. To cast his memories of you into an abyss; to put the past behind him. But it is an impossible task. You are too well tangled into his soul. You haunt him. (And you’ll haunt him until his death.)

Today, there is no time to focus on you. A new morning brings meetings and training. You were Anakin’s Achilles Heel — but Darth Vader shows no such weakness. As Vader sits on his throne, reading over mission logs and other updates from the spread of the Empire across the galaxy, he receives a message: he must make his return to Coruscant immediately. (Your memory pulls him under the ocean again until he can no longer breathe.)

[hoiststowline]

radio silence [w/ ultra magnus, ratchet, & sunstreaker]

ultra magnus isn't the fondest of communication via technology, but respects its resourcefulness in moments when he cannot speak with you physically. there are often times when he's knee deep in paperwork or too far distance-wise, and opts to check in with you at intervals when he knows school or work would not be an obstacle. he has your schedule committed to memory, and expects and even anticipates changes or unplanned events so when you do go radio silent, so he can justify it. you don't need to tell him where you are at all times, he isn't in charge of you, but appreciates your messages to say you'll have your phone off for an hour to study, or are heading to work.

however, most messages he sends are typically answered immediately by you, because of how few and far between they are. just checking up on you if he's been away from you for a prolonged stretch of time, when he has a moment to himself. now, he's decided to send you a text that he has returned to base and his mission has concluded, updating you accordingly. but you don't reply, leaving him to question if perhaps you've been caught up at class, or decided to pick up an extra shift at work.

he allows a two hour-grace period. magnus doesn't worry within these cycles, because things happen and he could never fault you for circumstances beyond your control. however, he'd had a long talk with you about the dangers of what lurks and associating with him, romantic or not, and if he doesn't know you're okay after those two hours, he's searching for you. about halfway to your house, you call him, some drowsy slurring to your tone. "you're not almost here, are you? I fell asleep, and I just woke up-" as long as he knows you're okay, but now he must account for unprecedented so-called 'naps', as it is finals week, so you kindly told him. "not a problem," he rumbles, relief flooding his words. "I'd still like to see you, if that is alright."

ratchet is less forgiving to radio silence, as most of his time is spent in front of a computer and is often flooded with your messages. you sometimes send him things that make no sense, swept up by exhaustion as you text him well into the night and into the early morning, until he threatens to block you so you can get some rest. he loves this way of communicating with you throughout the day, it's easiest to check up on you whilst at work or class, and you can respond whenever you have the chance to. he likes this form of communication, though nothing actually tops getting to speak to you in person.

he vaguely has an idea of your work/school schedule, though he trusts you are doing something productive when you aren't spamming his inbox. it's not out of disinterest, he understands better than anybody the importance of not hovering over his s/o, though with what he's kindred with, it leaves room for worry. some unwarranted radio silence is enough to escalate his concern regarding your health, and when your replies are either negligible or sparse, sorry not sorry, he's on his way to your place. ratchet will try calling you once, and that's your only chance to fess up and tell him just what is going on and why you were suddenly not answering his messages.

there is a short, but impatient grace period with ratchet. he knows you like the back of his hand and realizes when you aren't quite acting like yourself, whether that be lively, withdrawn, or somewhere in the middle. he convinces himself that something must be amiss or you are in some sort of trouble, and leaves no room for disagreement or input from others. he's taking matters into his own hands and coming to look for you, come hell or high water. though he doesn't vocally portray it in most cases, he is very protective over you and couldn't live with himself if something happened to you and he neglected the signs. he respects your boundaries but knows your character, and can gather context clues when something isn't quite right.

you sent sunstreaker your work/class schedule once, and he scoffed at it. he couldn't understand why you would assume he would ever need such thing, displaying disinterest by your offering. after you'd left that day, he saved the timetable to a data-pad and stored it in his subspace, never telling anybody about it because it was simply none of their business. especially you, you don't need to know that he secretly worries about your well-being now that you're tangled up with the autobots.

messaging with him isn't as frequent as it is with ratchet, but it's not as sparse as with magnus. you often have to initiate the conversation, [he has, but his typical messages are usually to ask what you're doing and if you wanted to go for a drive] but he will carry a rapport with you, never wanting you to feel as if he wasn't there for you. sunstreaker won't say it out loud, of course, so it must be conveyed through message in a cryptic method and just prays that you sympathize with his emotional constipation. in full agreement, he prefers to speak with you face-to-face, but he will take what he can get and he's totally fine with that. not really. if it was up to him, he'd be hanging around you all day long, but his schedule and yours prohibits that.

there is no grace period with sunstreaker. don't bother, if you've gone radio silence on him after a pretty steady conversation, he's already on the highway, headed straight for your house. he'll grumble about it and complain if nothing really is wrong, but he's the one who couldn't stop thinking about the fact that you must be injured or unwell to have stopped so suddenly. he understands that you get caught up in things, as he does frequently, but he'd promised to be transparent as long as you would be in return. messages like 'i'll be away for a bit' or 'talk to you asap' are very common between you two.

if the silence has gone on for a prolonged time, perchance he didn't get to check his inbox right away due to responsibilities and was replying to you late. but it isn't at an odd hour so, to him, there is no grounds for you to not answer within a reasonable time frame, a million to one scenarios are running through his processor. "why didn't you answer my message?" when you finally get the chance to call him, after getting hung up at work, he picks up on the first ring. following explaining why, he ex-vents but stifles his exasperation to ask about your day. as long as you were safe and sound, that's all that mattered.

[callme-holly]

Hi!! Could you do a Dallas winston x reader fic where the reader is someone who is half asleep and mumbling random stuff. Then they start to just babble to Dallas about how they loves him and wants to marry him while laying in bed?Just a cute little fluff fic

Thank you!! Love your fics!! 💕💕

𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 [𝐝𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫]

𝐚/𝐧 : another kind of messy one but im getting back into the flow y'all

The room was silent, save for the sound of the rain hitting the window pane and the hum of Hank Williams playing through the cheap speakers down in the bar. It was late evening, perhaps even early morning, and the bar wasn’t as crowded as it had been a few hours before; still, Buck liked to have his music blaring no matter how many patrons occupied the place. 

Dallas let out a soft grunt as he shifted beside you, jostling you slightly in the process and pulling a low, sleepy whine from your lips. His arm tightens around your middle, dragging you closer so that your head rests against the crook of his shoulder, and his chest vibrates slightly with quiet laughter at your reaction. 

“Stop complainin’ every time I move,” he grumbles, letting his head fall back against the pillow once more with a muffled thud. “Ain’t my fault you trapped me here.” 

You sigh heavily as you nuzzle further into him, too exhausted to care what he might think about the action. Your head is fuzzy, your limbs heavy, feeling like lead weights weighing your entire body down.

“Shut up…” you mumble tiredly, but it comes out slurred with fatigue. You’re not exactly sure how you ended up in bed; the memory of Dallas practically carrying you up the stairs is vague and a little hazy. You can barely focus on his words anymore. It’s hard to think when his arm is around you like this, his hand slipping under the fabric of your shirt, trailing up and down your back idly, warm and comfortable, his skin rough against your own. 

He smells like beer, and smoke, and leather, and it’s something  you could never grow weary of. In fact, you could spend the rest of your life wrapped up in him and not mind at all. His fingers run over your spine lightly, sending shivers down the length of your body, and you feel yourself drifting off.

“"Dal... Will you hold me like this when we're married?” 

Dallas freezes, his entire body tensing up, his hand faltering slightly in it’s movement. “What?” he mumbles, his voice low and gravelly.

Your eyes flutter open as you blink sleepily up at him, pausing for a moment before repeating yourself, almost as if he hadn't heard you the first time. “When we’re married, will you still hold me like this?” 

He stares at you for a second, his brow furrowed in confusion, before the realization washes over him. He goes to pull away, looking almost horrified at the idea, but the way you hum in disapproval makes him think otherwise, and he settles back against the headboard once more. 

“Married?” he echoes dumbly, and you nod, the action lazy and half-hearted.

“Mhm… Married. You know, when you settle down and get a nice house together or something…” You trail off, yawning widely, and Dallas’s lips twitch upwards into the beginnings of an amused smile.

“Like hell I would.” he snorts, his hand continuing its pattern on your back once more. “I don’t do marriage, doll.” 

Your brow scrunches up in confusion, and you roll over so you’re pressed against his side, eveloped in his warmth. “Why not?” 

It’s a good question. Dallas doesn’t know why. Marriage has never been something that’s ever crossed his mind; he’s never even been in a committed relationship until now. Besides, settling down just isn’t his scene...

“I don’t know, baby. Just… not my thing.” He shrugs, and you huff in disappointment, your breath hot on his skin. 

“You’re boring.” You slur, and Dallas chuckles as he tucks your hair behind your ear, his other hand coming to rest lightly on your hip, toying with the waistband of your pajama pants. The heat of his palm is comforting in a way you’d never expect from him, and there’s something about the moment that’s so tender and so rare that you can’t help but melt. Only after a long night would you get him like this: quiet, relaxed, and content. You can’t help but wonder how people see him as heartless and unfeeling, and you find yourself wishing they could see him this way—this peaceful, this happy.

“I ain’t boring,” Dallas replies defensively, but his tone is strangely soft—or as soft as he can manage. “Settling down would make me boring.” 

This time it’s your turn to shake your head in disagreement. “Not boring. Not when you do stuff like this.” You're too tired to know exactly what you're reffering to, but you’re sure he gets the idea.  “It’s nice.” Your voice becomes quieter and softer by the word, and it’s only a minute or so later that your breaths even out and you drift off to sleep, leaving Dallas to watch over you silently.

[writeonwhiskey]

act like you love me: ch 12 (18+ MDNI)

a/n: bringing a doctor here to fix somebody's heart 🤗. word count: 5.4k tracklist: Gone Away, Piece of a Puzzle [ master list ]

12 - Curtain Call

TWO MONTHS LATER

The temporary KBS hosting gig is in full swing and the work is relentless. It’s not the same as acting, but the pressure is just as brutal—smiling on cue, reading off teleprompters, and learning how to bounce off a co-host who’s been doing this for years. But the producers tell you that you’re a natural.

Your weekdays start with morning meetings and live rehearsals, followed by hours of afternoon filming. You learn the crew’s names, how they like things done, and you adapt quickly.

Your weekends aren’t much of a reprieve either. You spend your time studying guest bios, binge-watching their work, scribbling down notes.

It’s exhausting. Most nights you fall into bed too tired to even dream. But that’s exactly what you need right now—to be tired. To be consumed. Because the alternative is silence. And in the silence, your mind always finds its way back to Hyunjin.

To the way he used to catch your eye across set.

To the quiet moments you spent alone.

The way his fingers caressed your skin.

The way his lips whispered your name.

When the memories come, it’s an onslaught—not just a single glimpse of your time with him—you relive everything from start to finish. And it takes a toll on you. It makes you second guess the decisions you’ve made, makes you wonder why you fought so hard to push him away.

Time was supposed to make this easier, but time just keeps passing and he’s still everywhere.

But still, you’re trying.

Trying to forget him.

Trying to let go.

It feels impossible most days, because you never know what will remind you of him. You could be scrolling on your phone and see that his name is trending. Or an Instagram photo could pop up on your feed, like when the Arena Homme+ shoot dropped with that picture of him—laid back, staring straight into the camera like he could see you watching. You must have looked at it for hours.

It was like reopening a wound.

You found yourself wanting to call him, to tell him it was all a mistake, that you changed your mind. But, you couldn’t.

This was your choice.

You’ve made your bed.

Now you have to lay in it.

ONE MONTH LATER

The press junket for The Heir and the Innkeeper is chaos with crews from half a dozen publications crowded into the lobby of a rented studio, trying to get lined up in some kind of order. You’re the first actor to arrive and you silently curse yourself for always being early. Perhaps Hyunjin was on to something with all that, because this is nerve wracking.

Photographers are snapping pictures of you as you stand, alone, near a wall. You take out your phone simply to look busy, and thankfully after they have a few shots, they seem to lose interest.

Now you just have to wait for the others.

You remind yourself to stay calm, no matter what today may have in store for you. No matter what Hyunjin says, how he looks, how he makes you feel—you have to keep it together. You were the one who said it couldn’t be more than what it was, that your career had to come first. And he reluctantly accepted that. So whatever ache you’re still carrying around, whatever feelings still claw at you now, that’s on you.

You walked away.

You can’t want more now.

“y/n!”

You turn just in time to be swept into Han’s arms. You wrap your arms around his neck, hugging him tightly as he lifts you off the ground a bit.

“You look like you’re in timeout over here by yourself,” he laughs, setting you back down.

“It’s one of the cons to always being on time,” you tell him.

“How are you?”

“Right now? I’m tired, I’m hungry, and wondering how long this is going to take.”

He reaches into his blazer pocket and hands you a granola bar.

“I could kiss you right now,” you say, taking it from him and ripping open the wrapper.

“Not in front of the camera’s,” comes the familiar voice of Minho on your other side. He gives you a firm pat on the shoulder in greeting.

“I missed you too,” you mumble, covering your mouth as you chew.

“I am quite miss-able, I’ve heard.”

As you catch up with Minho and Han, a few other cast members start to trickle in and with each new arrival you feel your adrenaline and anticipation grow, knowing Hyunjin could be the next to arrive.

There are now stylists running around fixing collars, producers checking clipboards, and camera crews moving to the different rooms to get set up. As the buzz of the room continues to build, your eyes scan the room, searching.

And then—he enters.

And suddenly, you realize you failed to adequately prepare yourself to see him.

You knew he would look good. He always does. But holy fuck does a tailored grey suit with a dark shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, make your mouth water. His hair, slightly longer now, is styled but a little undone like he didn’t try too hard. And knowing him, he probably didn’t.

Your initial thought is how you could have possibly thought walking away from that was the smart thing to do.

He stops for a moment to talk to someone, but his eyes roam across the room, stopping only when they land on you.

You offer a small smile and nod, then abruptly avert your gaze.

You stay rooted beside Minho and Han, barely registering what subject the conversation has drifted to. You tune in just as Han makes a remark about an interviewer and the outfit she’s wearing and assure yourself it’s okay not to fully engage.

Hyunjin approaches a few minutes later and you immediately stiffen in his presence. He hugs Minho first, then Han and they exchange brief greetings. For a moment, you wonder if he’ll hug you, too. But then his arms are around you.

Your breath catches as your eyes flutter shut of their own accord, and for the first time in months, you inhale deeply—like your lungs finally remember how.

“How are you?” he murmurs, pulling back.

You can’t bring yourself to answer right away. Can’t even look at him directly. You’re too thrown by how natural he seems. Calm and collected. Like the pain you thought you shared might only be yours now.

“I’m okay…you?” you ask softly.

“Good. Ready to get this day over with.”

“Will it be as bad as I’m imagining?” You attempt to sound as casual as he does.

“Worse,” he chuckles. “You’ll be worn out after the second one. Just watch.”

A Production Assistant comes to corral all the actors into one of the backrooms. You’re seated with the full ensemble for the first interview. They place you and Hyunjin on a plush, velvet bench while Minho, Han and J.Y. Park take the seats behind you.

The questions start light—funniest moment on set, favorite scene, who messed up the most takes. The vibe is energetic, friendly. But you feel the heat of Hyunjin beside you the entire time.

When the chemistry question inevitably comes, the room seems to lean in, awaiting your answers.

“You two were electric,” the host says, gesturing between you and Hyunjin. “How did you build that dynamic?”

You glance at him and offer a professional smile. “We spent a lot of time with the script. We talked about our characters a lot, worked with the intimacy coordinator. It was all very collaborative.”

Hyunjin smiles beside you and gives a firm nod of agreement.

The next round pares down to just the two of you. You’re guided to a smaller room—a faux-living-room setup with two chairs angled toward each other, a small coffee table between you, and a bank of lights behind the camera.

As you settle into the chair across from Hyunjin, the air feels different. Tighter. Quieter.

The interviewer is gentler this time. She asks about the evolution of your characters' relationship, the emotional weight of certain scenes. You talk about the arc of falling in love slowly, the subtle build of tension, the heartbreak at the end.

But somewhere between the questions, your answers start to feel less like performance and more like confessions.

When she asks what you learned from your characters, you hesitate.

“I think,” you start slowly, “that sometimes connection catches you off guard. You don’t always get to prepare for it. And if you’re lucky, you learn not to run from it.”

It’s vague, but it will have to suffice.

“And you, Hyunjin?”

“Sometimes you meet the right person at the wrong moment, but if you both want it, you can work through it…” he trails off before continuing. “Ultimately, I think a lot of what Jae-hoon goes through, though, reminded me that it’s important to be present in the moment, even if it’s just temporary.”

The interviewer nods.

You want to turn and look at him, but you refrain. Everything he’s said today, if you allow yourself to read deeply enough into it, signals that he has in fact moved on.

And you know exactly why you don’t feel happy about that.

But perhaps it’s exactly what you deserve.

A few hours later you’ve lost count of how many interviews you’ve done. Each one bleeds into the next with each reporter poking at the same themes.

“Your chemistry with Hyunjin was incredible, did it come naturally?”

“There’s so much tension between your characters—was that a challenge to film?”

Despite it being quite tiresome and your throat hurting a bit, it’s a fun experience. The first of many, you hope.

Eventually, the final camera crew begins to pack up. You sink into a chair, letting your shoulders drop for the first time in hours. You hadn’t realized how rigid you were from sitting with perfect posture this entire time.

You glance up to see Hyunjin off to the side, deep in conversation with J.Y. Park. He laughs softly at something, running his hand through his hair.

He seems so much lighter than the last time you saw him.

You should be happy for him.

“Hey,” Minho’s voice pulls you out of your daze. “You coming to dinner?”

You blink. “What?”

“Dinner,” he repeats before rattling off a list of who’s going. “…Chan might come too if his project wraps in time. You in?”

You glance across the room again. Hyunjin is still talking, but he’s watching you now.

It doesn’t feel the same as those across set looks you once shared, though. There’s no expectation in his face. He’s no longer inviting you in.

You sigh. You’re tired…but you do want to go. Not because you think it’ll fix anything, necessarily. Not because you’re holding out hope for a grand romantic moment. But because you’ve been running on empty for weeks now, void or better yet avoidant of emotion, and being around him actually forces you to feel something.

“Yeah,” you say, rising to your feet. “I’m in.”

You’re seated at a long table tucked into a corner of the restaurant. On your side is Han, Changbin and Seungmin. Across from you is Minho, Chan, and Hyunjin.

You find yourself wishing that Felix, Jeongin and Yuna were here, but work commitments are keeping them away until closer to the premiere. It feels incomplete without them. Still, it’s nice. Being with everyone again feels like slipping into a version of yourself you haven’t been in a while.

“How was the KBS gig?” Chan asks.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him since the wrap party, though he did call you after your first episode aired to congratulate you.

“It was probably the longest eight weeks of my life,” you answer honestly. “But it was an invaluable experience—thanks again for the recommendation.”

“Of course,” he shrugs, smiling. “I told you you’d be good at it.”

“I’m still learning how much I’m capable of.”

He laughs. “If they renew us for a second season, you’ll really get to find out. Some of the writers were—”

“Sorry,” you interrupt, brows furrowed. “Second season?”

“It’s not set in stone, but with the press buzz surrounding this already, it could be likely.”

Your gaze drifts instinctively toward Hyunjin, heart beating faster.

His expression is unreadable.

You can’t tell if he’d be open to that.

You don’t even know if you would be.

Minho jumps in with a question about whether or not his character would return, allowing you to sink into your thoughts.

You try to imagine being on set with Hyunjin again—spending long days together and the potential for intimate scenes…his lips on yours. Going through that again would be torture, feeling like you do now.

“So,” Changbin says beside you, bumping his elbow lightly against yours. “You survived your first press junket.”

“Barely,” you murmur, grateful for the shift in focus. “How have you been?”

He leans back in his seat, throwing an arm over the back of your chair. “Busy. I don’t think we’ve had a day off this entire month.”

“We?” You arch a brow.

“I go where he goes,” Changbin shrugs.

“You guys are really cute,” you tease.

The entrees arrive and the clink of utensils fills the space between conversation. You let yourself fall into the familiar comfort of Changbin’s company, letting his quick wit and easy charm pull your attention away from the conflict in your chest.

But it doesn’t last.

During a moment of silence, Changbin follows your gaze as it once again drifts across the table for a quick peek.

“Do you miss him?” he asks, low enough for only you to hear.

Your head snaps to face him, eyes wide.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Not really…it’s just my job to be aware of who has their eyes on him.”

You clear your throat and take a sip of water, glancing at Hyunjin again. Fuck—you can’t help it.

Hyunjin is now mid-conversation with Chan, but his eyes flick to yours as if he feels your stare.

“You remember when the three of us had dinner in his hotel room?” Changbin asks. “The night when you spilled red wine all over my hoodie and he tried to cover for you and pass it off as modern art?”

You smile softly at the memory and nod. It was one of the last nights the three of you spent together before shit went south.

“I don’t think I’ve heard him laugh like that since.”

You don’t respond to that. You just chew the inside of your cheek as something settles low in your stomach.

You’d told yourself a hundred times why it could never work—why keeping your distance from Hyunjin was the smart, professional thing to do. You’re still a new face in a cutthroat industry, still carving space for yourself in a country that doesn’t hand out opportunities to people like you easily. You’re still afraid to become the story instead of having the freedom to tell one through your craft.

That hasn’t changed.

But somewhere along the way, in the time you’ve spent without him, those fears lost their bite. Because when you look at him now—when you remember the way he made you feel seen, challenged, adored—you realize none of those things matter as much as you thought they did. Not if it means losing something that felt so real.

And, given what Changbin said, maybe Hyunjin is just putting on a front. Maybe he has become a better actor, like he said at the wrap party.

After the meal winds down and the check is paid, everyone starts filtering out. You stand on the curb with them, hugging and getting in your goodbyes. As you dig around in your purse to find your phone and call a ride, you realize it’s not there.

“Shit,” you mutter. “I left my phone on the table.”

Minho, Han and Seungmin hesitate as they get into their car, but you assure them it’s fine. Chan and Hyunjin nod, telling you they’ll wait for you.

You head back into the restaurant, scanning the table for your phone but it’s already been cleaned. You find your waitress to ask about it, and she suggests checking with the hostess.

You’re relieved when she produces it from beneath the counter.

“Thank you so much,” you tell her, accepting it with a small bow.

When you make it back outside, you’re expecting to see the others but only Hyunjin is left standing there.

Your heart jumps.

“I told Chan he could take off,” he says softly. “Can we drive you home?”

You’re taken aback at the offer. Nothing about the last several hours has led you to believe he would ask something like this. He seemed content with the separation.

As if on cue, Changbin pulls up to the curb.

“W-why?”

Changbin exits the car and walks around to open the back door.

“Because it’s late and…” he trails off, looking down at the ground. He lets out a deep sigh, shaking his head as he lifts his gaze to you. “And it didn’t feel right, letting you leave alone.”

You look at Changbin and he’s staring back at you expectantly.

“You getting in? Or do I need to give a speech on why this is a good idea?”

You glance around the mostly quiet street, pulse fluttering beneath your skin. No cameras. No fans. Just the three of you.

“Changbin can take you alone if you’d prefer,” Hyunjin speaks up again. “We just want to make sure you get home safely.”

“N-no,” you say before you can stop yourself. “It’s okay.”

Hyunjin nods, gesturing toward the open car door. You climb inside and he gets in after you. Changbin shuts the door, and the car is dead quiet until he clamors into the driver’s seat. He takes off down the street, turning on soft background music to fill the silence.

The lapse in conversation doesn’t feel uncomfortable. But every second ticks by with a tiny ache, like something important is waiting to be said but neither of you know how to start.

“Chan was right,” Hyunjin says suddenly, and you turn to face him. “You were really good on the variety show.”

“You watched?”

Changbin snorts. “Every episode.”

Hyunjin clicks his tongue in annoyance.

You laugh softly, but it warms your heart to hear that.

“How’s the new film going?” you ask.

“I have bruises everywhere,” he groans. “I don’t know why I agreed to do my own stunts.”

“Your mouth wrote a check your body couldn’t cash.”

“Oh, I’ll cash it,” he replies with a grin. “Just might have a few fractured ribs by the end of it.”

The tension in the car lightens. There’s something lingering between you—an unresolved topic that needs to be addressed—but it no longer feels like a weight holding you down. Not quite an elephant in the room. A ferret, maybe.

As the ride continues, you talk more freely—jokes and stories about the projects you’ve been working on. It feels easy. But your skin is tingling just from being this close to him. Alone. Well, mostly alone. Changbin doesn’t count.

The car slows to a stop and for a moment, no one speaks.

“Thank you for getting me home. It was really good seeing you both,” you say.

“Of course.”

“Anytime,” Changbin adds as you reach for the door. “But…you’re not inviting us up? You couldn’t have missed us that much.”

You pause. Hyunjin throws a look at Changbin then looks at you.

“D-did you want to come up?” you ask quietly. “I mean, I’m okay with it if you guys don’t have anywhere to be. I’ve got tea. Or beer. Or…whatever.”

“Sure,” Hyunjin says, almost too quickly.

“Can I park here?” Changbin asks, already shifting into reverse.

“Yeah, just even it out and you’ll be fine,” you reply.

But as you and Hyunjin step out, Changbin rolls down the window.

You both turn to stare at him.

Changbin wiggles his eyebrows and laughs, then rolls the window back up before taking off down the street. Leaving you both standing there, staring slack-jawed as the disappears around the corner.

Hyunjin palms his forehead with one hand and pulls out his phone with the other. “I’m so sorry, y/n. I had no idea he was going to do that. I’ll call a ride.”

“Don’t,” you say, stopping him. “We should talk and clear the air before the premiere at least.”

He looks up from his phone to study your face. “Are you sure?”

You nod.

The elevator ride up is long and silent, the weight of all the things left unsaid shrouding you. When you finally reach your door, your fingers fumble with the keypad. The lock whirs on the second try.

He steps inside after you, slipping his shoes off beside yours. You move ahead, flicking on lights, trying to ignore how your heart is sprinting.

“Make yourself comfortable. Do you want a drink?”

“Tea’s fine,” he replies.

You retreat into the kitchen to make the drinks. As the water boils, you lean your palms on the counter and exhale slowly.

Hyunjin is here. In your apartment. Quiet and stable and maybe still waiting.

And maybe that’s what he’s been doing all along—waiting for you to decide he can cross your line one final time.

You close your eyes as the kettle begins to rumble behind you.

Things could still go wrong. The timing is still messy, and the stakes are still high.

But you’ve lived without him, and now you know…the risk of heartbreak doesn’t outweigh the cost of never trying.

When you join him in the living room with the tea, you find him standing in front of your shelves, eyeing your Lego Landmark Collection. This feels like a reversed déjà vu, reminding you of the first time you were in his suite.

“You put all these together?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say, handing him a cup.

“You must have far too much free time,” he teases gently.

“I wasn’t exactly rolling in acting gigs before,” you laugh it off.

You sit on the couch. A moment later, he does too—closer than he needs to be but not touching. Still, you can feel the warmth radiating off him anyway.

“So…” he says.

“So…” you echo, both of you smiling faintly at the awkward symmetry of this moment.

“I didn’t think I’d still feel like this around you,” he says.

You glance over at him. “Like what?”

“Like I’m going to say something I’ll regret.”

That’s all it takes for your eyes to burn, tears rising before you can stop them. He’s still waiting. For you.

You were the one who ended it. If there’s any chance at rekindling this flame, you have to take the lead.

You turn away for a moment, blinking rapidly to keep the waterworks at bay. When they’re under control, you face him again.

“I wish there was a script for this,” you begin softly. “I’m sorry for pushing you away like that, Hyunjin. I wasn’t thinking about how it must have felt for you, and I hate that. I wish I handled everything so differently.”

“But you don’t regret it?”

His eyes hold yours—those warm, patient eyes that have always been gentle with you. There’s safety in them.

“I do,” you whisper, dropping your gaze.

A beat passes.

“Did you ever think about calling?” he asks, catching you off guard.

You smile sadly. “Not just calling. I thought about showing up at your fucking doorstep and I don’t even know where you live.”

He lets out a sudden, surprised laugh, head tipping back. The sound cracks something in you and you feel that old gravity pull again.

“Why didn’t you?” he asks, reigning in his laughter.

“I couldn’t…” you inhale deeply. “After everything…I didn’t think you’d want to see me. I made such a fuss about ending things. I felt like I had to be strong enough to follow through.”

His expression shifts to something softer. “And were you? Strong enough?”

“I thought I was. But after a while, it stopped feeling like strength and started to feel more like punishment.”

He nods, slow and thoughtful. “You told me not to make it harder than it already was. I wanted to come to you, but I thought me staying away was what you needed.”

A lump rises in your throat, heart twisting. “It was, in a way. I don’t think I could have come to this realization on my own if you hadn’t.”

“And…what does that mean for where you’re at now?”

The question is gentle, careful, but his eyes flick to your lips for the briefest second. Your body reacts before your brain can catch up.

That small, familiar gesture is so subtle, but you know what it means, what it leads to.

You shift toward him, closing the space until your knees graze his thigh. He doesn’t move away.

“I don’t know about the big picture right now,” you admit softly.

He hesitates this time, shifting away, and your heart sinks.

“You have to be sure, y/n,” he whispers. “I can’t do the uncertainty.”

“I know,” you whisper.

He finally shifts, facing you now too. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t put your career first…but don’t put me last again, either.”

You blink back tears and nod slowly, your bottom lip trembling as you bite it. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says, reaching out to cradle your cheek in his palm. His thumb brushes just below your eye, and the contact shatters the last piece of restraint.

“I want you, Hyunjin,” you say, voice trembling but true. “I still want my career, too, of course, but…what would any of the success in that mean if I don’t have you by my side? I just don’t know how this works at such a public level.”

A smile tugs at his lips. “I can call my publicist right now.”

You laugh, nuzzling your face against his palm. “Maybe not just yet. But, yeah, eventually. If you want that, too.”

He leans in resting his forehead against yours.

“I’ve always wanted that,” he murmurs. “I just needed you to be okay with it. I also need you to know that nothing between us will ever come before your dreams. That I’ll protect what we have—always. I have far too many people on speed dial.”

You laugh, eyes closing. You know he’s serious. After the stylist incident, the way those headlines disappeared almost overnight…

“So, are you sure?” he asks again, voice low as his lips hover just above yours.

You don’t hesitate this time.

“Yes,” you whisper.

His lips are on yours in the next instant.

The kiss is slow at first, tentative, but there’s nothing uncertain in the way his hands slide to your waist. He pulls you onto his lap without breaking the kiss, your body fitting to his like you never left. Your fingers tangle in his hair, lips parting as the taste of him floods back in—familiar, intoxicating, needed.

It deepens quickly, months of aching pressed into every breath, every touch. His tongue slips into your mouth, and you moan softly, grinding against him instinctively. The low, broken groan he lets out in response sends a pulse between your legs.

You reach for the hem of his shirt, tugging it over his head in one swift motion. His skin is hot to the touch, the defined lines of his chest still just as breathtaking as the first time. Your palms run over him, memorizing him again.

He pulls your shirt off next and kisses down your throat, tongue dragging lazily across the hollow of your collarbone before his teeth graze it lightly.

“You’re still mine?” he whispers.

Your breath catches. “I never stopped being yours.”

His mouth crashes back to yours, urgent now, his hands roaming under the band of your dress pants. You wiggle them off together in a rush, laughing through your kissing when you nearly fall off his lap. He catches you, always steady.

“You’re perfect,” he breathes as his hands slide down to cup your ass, fingers digging in. “So fucking perfect.”

You shift against him again, grinding over the bulge in his pants. He’s already hard, and the friction draws another low sound from deep in his chest.

“I need you,” you whisper. “Please…”

He lifts you effortlessly and you direct him toward the bedroom, your mouth never straying far from his skin.

When he lays you down on the bed, he strips the rest of the way, then climbs over you. He trails kisses down your stomach and both of your thighs.

“God I really fucking hope this isn’t a dream,” you say, watching as he settles between your thighs.

His eyes flick up to yours, brow quirked. “Have you been dreaming about me? Coming back to claim your pussy?”

All you can manage to do is nod as you thrust your hips upward, wanting to feel his mouth on you again. He chuckles softly before delivering a long, slow lick up your slit.

You gasp, arching your back, hands reaching for his head. You grip the strands and press his face against you. His mouth is all hunger now. Tongue firm and slow at first, then teasing, then relentless. He knows what you like. Knows what makes you cry out.

He hasn’t forgotten anything.

“Wait—I want you in my mouth, too,” you say, pulling him up again.

You switch positions so he’s lying on the bed, head resting against the pillows. You straddle him backwards, your knees framing his face, ass perched right above his mouth.

“Fuck,” he breathes. His hands slide up your thighs, gripping your hips. He pulls you down onto his mouth, his tongue parts your folds and dives right back in.

Your moan trembles of you as you lower your head to take his cock in your mouth. The taste of him on your tongue again makes you moan even more. His hips twitch at the vibration, but he doesn’t stop his task. His tongue circles your clit and your thighs tremble around his head. He palms your ass, not letting you move too far away as your hips rock back and forth against his face.

You take more of him in, cheeks hollowing as you suck, swirling your tongue around the head, then down the trace a vein along the underside.

You’re lost in each other. Tongues flicking, exploring, teasing. Hands gripping and restraining.

You rock your hips harder, grinding down against his face as if the man doesn’t need to breathe. Your moans grow louder, each one muffled in your mouth as you take him in deeper and deeper.

When you tighten your grip and start stroking him in tandem with your mouth, he groans so hard into your pussy that it makes your whole body jolt, thighs quaking around his face.

You pull your mouth off him with a wet pop, panting. “Fuck, Hyunjin—don’t stop, I’m so close.”

Your orgasm crashes down on you, hips bucking against his mouth as your thighs squeeze around his head. You clench your eyes shut and ride it out, pleasure coursing through every nerve ending as he moans into your release.

You’re still trembling when he flips you over in one smooth motion, lining himself up, cock already soaked in your slick and spit.

“Gonna come,” he mutters. “Need to feel you, jagi.”

He thrusts forward with one long stroke and your body welcomes him back like a soldier coming home. His hips snap to yours, fast, rough, and so fucking deep.

“Hyunjin—” you gasp, nails digging into his back, not expecting another orgasm to rise so quickly.

He presses his forehead against yours, nodding his encouragement. “Again.”

It doesn’t take long for either of you. His jaw clenches as he groans your name. You continue thrusting your hips up as you come together, holding him so close it hurts. He buries his face in your neck, body shaking, breath coming out in ragged bursts.

And then, everything stills.

You lie tangled together, limbs heavy, heart’s racing. You run a hand through his damp hair, and he presses a kiss to your shoulder.

You bring his mouth back to yours and kiss him again—deep and slow. There’s no rush. You have him. He has you. And for the first time in months, it feels like the world is finally right again.

a/n: shout out to seo changbin as cupid because our leading pabo's need him. thank you all so much for reading. just the epilogue left now! [ read the epilogue here ]

taglist: @hwangjoanna / @hanniesbubuwife / @straycat420 / @tsunderelino / @dessianna1 / @akindaflora / @tirena1 / @krayzieestay / @ehstay / @spookiesakura / @aria-again / @sakuraseyebrow / @brekkers-whore / @sailor--sun / @velvetmoonlght / @mocharacha

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Five - Linen | Series Masterlist

Summary: Now wed, Rosaleen's duty starts now, and even though what she and Aemond expect are aligned, their feelings are not | Word Count: 6.7k~ | Warnings: canon-typical sexism, loss of virginity, talks of infidelity

If another person uttered the words, ‘Rosaleen Blackwood, you look beautiful,’ she feared the court may witness a bloodbath.

Only this morning she had felt beautiful, every bit a soon-to-be Queen. And yet it was truly impressive how with such few words, her new husband had managed to extinguish those tender thoughts. She had fought against it. The power he held over those feelings. Trying to pry such foolishness from her thoughts as quickly as they had taken root. Even then, Rosaleen Blackwood was a woman, such vulnerability was not above even her.

Despite these wretched thoughts, she hid them under a cool facade too well for anyone to notice behind the rim of her cup of wine. Her third. Likely her last before the end of the evening. She did not want to say it. ‘Consummation’. There is such power attached to that word. But also oppression. She had half-thought of drinking herself stupid to spare her the memory or image it the following morning. Or perhaps her new husband would be so disgusted at her eagerness to sink into her cups, that he would delay the act altogether.

But a weed ripped out slow or fast, will still feel the resistance of its roots into the earth. Hers had grown deep over her young years, in Blackwood customs and cultures of the Riverlands. She thought to herself, that with a simple Targaryen cock, he thinks he will rip clean her strong and enduring will. It was almost enough to make her smile.

Aemond himself had not moved an inch at her side the entire wedding feast, aside from raising his hand to sip yet more wine and gesture the servant for more. This was his fifth, and she was unsure if that would even be his last. She cursed herself. Perhaps he had the same idea. Impotence to delay the inevitable. With a grimace, she prayed for quick pain, over in an instant. As swift as a punch to the gut.

But Aemond Targaryen, a proud a man as he was, would surely not display such weakness, even if he was afflicted so. He clings to manhood as much as he does his Targaryen ancestry. Brutally. With all the arrogance of a man who thought he stood in much finer graces among his court.

Her dark eyes wandered, the chattering and gossiping of the courtiers were akin to babbling chickens, pecking at the newest slander. A few faces she recognised, but only those who had been in her retinue on her arrival, others she knew from personality alone, belonging to Aemond’s council. 

Larys Strong hobbled about, his own eyes almost as wayward as her own, for different reasons. He searched like a starving vulture for some petty ramblings. Any corpse would do, it seemed.

Jasper Wylde on the other hand stood proudly in the centre, his restraint noted in the manner in which he nursed his first cup of wine. This was a man not at all hellbent on drowning his regrets and misgivings in something as useless as Dornish Red. By the appearance of him, stood tall, broad and puffed out like a prize chicken, Ser Wylde was indeed nothing short of a Lord who thought himself above his station. Humble or not.

And then, that of Tyland Lannister, circled by cup-wielding lords who made him feel like a much bigger man than he was. 

He thought that the festivities might have disguised the volume of his wine-loose mouth. She caught her name on his lips, “...sharp tongue, that one. T’is not the only thing she’d part willingly.”

Her hands gripped the linen that spilled over the table, dark eyes trained on the group of snickering boys, no doubt of the Lannister name, as if she could tempt the Stranger himself to take them early if she so willed it.

“Like a raven in a nest of dragons,” one muttered with a chuckle.

“Aye,” came another’s lewd whisper, “ravenous, if you believe the right rumors.”

Ah yes, that one. From the mouth of another wax-brained peacock trying to ruffle his feathers in her direction. Rosaleen placed her napkin aside her cutlery, standing to stretch her legs.

“I shall take some air,” she murmured half-heartedly to her husband. He nodded once. He didn’t ask why.

Arianne, ever alert, rose with her, her pale hand ghosting at Rosaleen’s elbow like a shadow as they moved through the long hall. The air was horrendously stifling. And she had not taken this moment to gossip with her cousin, she had just wanted to feel the cool air on her skin, and the scent of a warm evening.

She tried to ignore the way her vision swam slightly. Having eaten very little, the wine had settled in her stomach, and the effects on her balance was one she attempted to hide with dubious outcome. Arianne must have noticed, for she tightened her arm around hers. And with a familiar hand on hers, she was suddenly grateful for the company.

It was near the archway that he stepped in front of her. Lord Tyland Lannister. Smiling as though he had never once been told no in his life. He wore deep reds, lined with gold, not unlike her own gown, as if she had wed a Lannister and not a Targaryen. He bowed low, his eyes swimming with a lazy curiosity only freed by drink, “Lady Rosaleen. My sincerest congratulations on your marriage.”

Rosaleen came to a gentle stop, Arianne lingering a step behind her. She tilted her head, letting her dark gaze sweep over him as if weighing every inch of gold-laced arrogance he bore like armor. She smiled. “Lord Lannister. And here I thought you had congratulated me already,” she said lightly. “Only, from across a room.”

Tyland blinked, the smile faltering just a touch.

“I do have an ear for things, my lord,” Rosaleen continued, “and an eye. And unfortunately, I tend to remember every voice I’ve heard slinking through a room.”

She glanced around, spotting her husband, his low gaze on her alone, his hand tight around his drink. But it did nothing to deter her as she stepped a fraction closer to the speechless Lannister.

“‘Ravenous,’ wasn’t it?” she asked, her tone as light as a feather, “indeed, my lord. But only for better sport than what waddles before me.”

Tyland’s face flushed, but not from embarrassment, his mouth opening just slightly, but no words came. Only a smile that told her he had not detected the entire poison in her words, and saw it rather as mild flirtation. Rosaleen offered the faintest curtsy, as delicate and deliberate as a sword’s tip kissing the skin.

“My lord.”

Then she turned, Arianne’s arm instantly finding hers again, and together they glided into the gardens. It was a brief reprieve had she not felt the clench of reproach she was about to receive. 

That was unseemly. Unladylike.

But to her relief, her sweet cousin said nothing, as if she were already tired from the night that had already passed, unaware there was yet more to come. She looked out amongst the gardens, the evening air kissing her skin and weaving their fingers through her midnight hair. It caused her skin to prickle looped in Arianne’s arm. Her cousin did not have to speak, her question was clear enough in her manner. Are you afraid? She would have said in her soft, easy voice. Rosaleen had said before she was not afraid, rather uneasy about what lay ahead of her. And for all her faults, her desire to be practical, an easy child, even she could not deny, she missed her dear father the most.

That same bitterness took root in her chest as she looked out towards the sprawl of dark green and closed up flowers. Beyond that, at Raventree, her father would likely be doing the same, reaching for her in the only way he knew how. But it did nothing to ease Rosaleen.

Even if he were here, what advice could he possibly give her.

When Rosaleen sat back down beside her husband, he did not ask what Tyland had said. He glanced, as if to make sure she was alright, and resumed his disinterested sip of wine, watching a dancing performance that had lords and ladies clapping to a buoyant tune.

It might have been cynical, but it was all a farce to her.

Here she was, wrapped in fine clothing, gold and silver adorned on her skin, her hair plaited and oiled with exotic scents. Under all that, lay the most common linen dress, the very same most of the smallfolk in King’s Landing wore, man and woman alike. She thought linen was for wrapping something sacred, like a warm body. Like the tablecloth to decorate the feast. Like the taut sheets that stretched across a freshly made bed. Linen was comfort. 

But now, with her shift pressed tight to her chest, under the most lavish dress she had ever put on her body. She thought it was not because that thing was sacred or of any importance. The fabric that clung to her skin, decorated tables and made their royal beds was only linen, because a stain could be easily cleaned from it. Could be scrubbed within an inch of its life, and the next day the same linen would be used once more for its only task.

It was yet another disguise, that even those of higher birth, higher standing, higher everything, still wore the fabric of those deemed lesser to scrub their mark clean of this world.

Rosaleen glanced briefly to one side, past Aemond, where his mother sat with her back as straight as a rod. Her hands were classed in her lap, her collar high, and the hue of her dress a deep teal. Sad almost. Her eyes scanned the crowd as much as the rest of them. She had given Rosaleen no word of greeting or comfort.

If she were a different woman, perhaps she would have expected Alicent to extend a few kind words since she had no mother to guide her. But she knew, as well as anyone, as she brushed her fingers against the necklace Aemond had gifted her, that her mothering had worn thin already. She was not yet ready, and perhaps never would be, to accept any daughter in any fashion the way she had loved her dear Helaena.

For all her faults, Rosaleen couldn't fault the Dowager Queen for that.

Aemond, fortunately, had refused a bedding ceremony. But it did not cease the cheers as they made their way out of the hall. A few with murmured complaints, being robbed at their vulgar entertainment. Rosaleen glanced at Alysanne briefly, seeing her wild cousin’s naturally alert and sharp eyes drawn in worry from her brows. As if she could give strength to her by a mere look.

The strangling feeling slowly closed in the further the cheers were swept away, swallowed by the unending silence between her and her new husband, their footsteps measured and almost quick to their new martial chambers, lit only by candles and torches in the dim, stone halls.

Aemond pushed the door open with one flat palm, and stepped aside to allow Rosaleen inside first. The Kingsguard were stationed throughout, keeping their watch on this important evening, but she was so trained on the ground before her feet she barely noticed them.

The prince did not speak, whether it was from disinterest or wariness she could not tell exactly. But for this she could not say she blamed him entirely, this was a pact they had both signed in vows, silk and silence.

Inside, whether the night held pain, pleasure or indifference, it would all take place here. 

Her dark eyes scanned the room. It was clean, noting the quick-footed touch of a maidservant. As she had expected, the sheets were crisp, so much so she was sure if she laid a hand on them it might shatter under her touch. Cushions were propped upon them to make it appear more appealing, as if it were not another endurance.

Her shoulders flinched in surprise when the door slid shut, not in fear, but finality. She twisted the ring on her finger, unsure what to do with herself. Even at the age she was, usually so confident, she had been watched by her father since she was a girl, so being alone with a man with his intentions had her solely out of her depth.

There was in the air, the suffocating scent of tallow candles, shielded unsuccessfully by lavender and camomile. An attempt at a soft, female scent to calm her as if she were a trapped, wounded animal. She glanced once again at the linen sheets, eager for the indent of a body, screaming for a single drop of blood graced from between her thighs.

Would he wish to consummate at all? His silence had surely said as much. Would he be gentle, or unkind, for those hands had seen war, held a sword against her own kin once. Who was to say such violence did not remain in the grooves of his fingertips, desperate for Blackwood blood?

Aemond exhaled once through his nose, circling the rim of a fresh cup as if he was desperate not to leave it behind for these few moments of intimacy and duty. She watched him, his back to her, long moonlit hair cascading over his shoulders, the face-framed pieces tied back in his usual style. In that moment she cocked her head, wondering, if this union bore fruit, if her child sired by him would share their features equally, or if like most Targaryen children, they would favour their father.

Her gown suddenly felt so heavy she could not stand it.

She could see it in his shoulders, the tension. The desire to have this over and done with as quick and with as little struggle as possible, though he dare not chance it by saying the words aloud. The gentle flutter of his eyelashes told her what he never could,  that he was unfathomably nervous to be in the same room as her, to think about his touch on her skin. Under different circumstances, she might have felt sorry for him.

With a heaved sigh, she crossed the room, the crimson hem of her gown a mere whisper that made the vein in his neck pulse. With one hand, she grasped a cup, with the other, a full pitcher of wine. Aemond tilted towards her, brow furrowed in mild conclusion until she spoke.

“First we drink,” was all she said, stepping out onto the balcony that lined the back of the chambers into the cool evening air.

She fell into a chair like she had been on her feet all day, the pitcher an offering sat between on the table, so far untouched. It was not until a minute or so had passed that Aemond finally joined, pouring himself a cup, not all the way full, and then for her, almost to the top. As if she needed this more than he did.

The wine was dark and fragrant, thicker than what she was used to. She swirled it once, watching the reflection of the moon break apart on its surface. “So,” she said, breaking the silence with a flick of her voice, “you’ve accepted my truce.”

“A truce, is it,” he asked, disinterested.

She sipped. The wine did not burn.

“I expect no love nor affection from you, you must know that,” she said, “or perhaps you know that already.”

“I do.” Aemond’s reply was clipped, immediate.

“Then cease this tip-toeing around me. You may frighten my cousin and half the court with her, but you do not frighten me.”

Aemond’s leg bounced, jittery, the wine rippling against the sides with each movement, “I know you will do what is expected of you.”

“As will you, I am sure,” she replied, “but I know you will, as men do, find comfort in others where you find none with me.”

That earned her a dangerous look, but she did not falter. 

“There is no shame in something so common. My own father waited a mere week after my mother’s death before visiting the brothels. I expect you will do the same as soon as you are able.”

Aemond’s jaw tensed, his violet eye narrowing. The anger came swift, not loud, not explosive, but sharp and cold like the edge of a blade drawn silently in the dark. His voice, when it came, was low, “you think me so lacking in restraint?”

“Do not look at me like that,” she said, tilting her head toward him, catching the anger in his gaze. “As if that’s not the response you expected. As if it’s not the arrangement you desired.”

He did not respond. She could see it so clear on his face as if it were a picture. That she already assumed so much of him, when really all she had done was stood before the shadow of it. There was more danger in assuming she had seen the whole beast already, but she did not stop.

She swirled the wine lazily, eyes never leaving his face. “You are a prince. You’ve had women at your leisure. Whores. Widows. Witches. Whatever pleased you at the time. This…” she gestured loosely between them, “this arrangement suits you. You may take what you need from me, and the rest you’ll find where you please.”

“And you?” he asked suddenly. His voice was quieter now, but edged in something hard. Not anger, not offense, but mere curiosity.

She paused. Then gave a breathy laugh, muffled into her cup. “And I shall do as every other wife before me has done.”

“And you would be satisfied with that.”

He spoke as if he saw a lie in her.

“No,” she said at last. “But I am not foolish enough to ask more from a man who still mourns another. One who sleeps and sees a different woman before him.”

Aemond’s expression didn’t change, but his leg stopped bouncing.

“I was not your first, Aemond. And I won’t be your last. I only ask that when you do seek out another, you do it with discretion. And you don’t lie to me,” she took a breath, “and mostly that I am not left to fend for myself in this dark nest of a place. I ask that…you do not rid me of the only family and companions I have in this place.”

Another silence stretched between them, tighter now. He drained his cup in one long pull. He didn’t look at her when she spoke again. Rosaleen rose slowly, lifting her cup. “I’ll not keep trying to fill the shape of another woman. But I will do my duty. And I will keep your secrets, as long as you do not insult me, and respect me as your wife.”

She turned her back to him, eyes on the city below, where the torches still flickered in the streets like stars fallen from the sky.

“That is more than most are afforded,” she said quietly.

She drained the last of her wine, the warmth of it barely dulling the edge of anticipation or the tension that still hung like smoke between them. She set the cup down with a quiet clink, raising her dark eyes to him, sat legs astride, his expression like he had been hollowed out. But still, he met her gaze, and she asked him a silent question.

With a simple nod of his head, no tenderness, just a stone faced expression of duty, she made her way back inside, her shoulder catching the fine curtains swaying in the breeze of the threshold, and stood before the great bed.

He would not dishonour her tonight.

She felt his presence behind her, and reached behind to slide her hair over her shoulder, a chill rattling up her spine at his fingers pulling slowly at the ties that bound her gown to her body. 

Would he close his eye and imagine someone else? Would he see Harrenhal, not King’s Landing? Would he feel ash in his hands instead of silk? Would he whisper a name he had never dared say aloud in her presence?

Alys.

She would not ask. She didn’t need to. Let him have his ghost, if it gave him the release he needed. But she would not be haunted by it.

She lay back, closing her eyes, as fingers brushed the last of her gown away. If he saw another woman when he looked down at her, he did not say. If he thought her skin could ever feel like someone else’s, he kept it locked behind his teeth.

And with her head turned away on the pillow, she let him pretend. Her shift was so large around her shoulders her collarbone erupted in gooseflesh from the chill, but nothing prepared her for the one she was soon to feel around her legs and thighs. Rosaleen didn’t watch Aemond undress like one would a performance, she did so carefully, aware that she would look away as soon as she met his gaze. She did not want to seem like she was staring. 

But it was difficult not to. War had taken its toll on Aemond Targaryen. 

His forearms were littered with scars between the fine hairs that decorated them, less so at his chest. The muscle he had built no doubt during his time fighting was still there, but not as rigid against his skin. Recovery had made him weary, but no less sturdy. What she could not help but see however was the angry crimson slash from the bottom of his neck going into his shoulder. A slit, about three fingers wide, remained dark, showing how he had suffered at the other end of Daemon Targaryen’s sword, Dark Sister. Around it, the skin seemed perpetually aggravated, mottled with red and pink scar tissue. It seemed almost as if it had once sliced through bone, and she saw in the way he rolled his shoulder sometimes, stiff and unyielding, that she may have been correct. 

He caught her watching when he righted himself to slide his eyepatch off, throwing it onto the table beside the lit candle, the same colour that decorated his shoulder and chest reflected through his missing eye Rosaleen had heard so much about. The shock of being caught staring had made her want to look away, but the unexpected surprise of seeing his face bare for the first time had caught her attention entirely. So much so, she had not in fact noticed his nakedness, which was just as well.

There was no ceremony to it, not even hesitation like she had expected. He had shown her his appearance so abruptly, that she considered maybe she wasn’t worthy enough for him to care so much about it. The sapphire glinted faintly, cold and perfect, a jewel in the face of a man who had once been a boy unloved, then feared, then bloodied by war.

He crawled atop her without a word. The mattress dipped beneath his weight, the warmth of his skin brushing hers in cautious intervals as he moved over her with the deliberate stillness of a man trying not to spook a horse, or a bride. There was no kiss. No whisper of her name. He didn’t want to hurt her. But he also didn’t want to give her the wrong impression, that this was kindness, or courtship, or care. 

Perhaps, in his time at Harrenhal, he had learned a thing or two about the female form. Because he tried, he had, with quivering lips, pressed to the inside of her neck, a hollow gesture meant to rouse something like pleasure inside her, enough to make this no more difficult than it had to be. Enough time for Rosaleen to feign pulling her shift up her thighs without him able to see, to dip her own hand between her legs, to stir her own arousal where she’d find none here, not with Aemond pretending like he was. The hand that slid over her shift to her breast was so rigid, it was as if he was holding a sword, not the soft, pillowy flesh of a woman beneath him. Her nipple barely hardened under his touch. 

If she were alone she would cry.

He knew she wasn’t fully ready, her body was not open with want, but compliant, prepared just enough from her own touch, from quiet nights of curiosity she had never thought would serve her on her wedding night. It gave him some reprieve.

Aemond seemed to have little patience when he pressed the head of his cock against her, nudging it in little by little as if that alone could assist in its entry. Rosaleen bit her lip, inhaling fast through her nose. It was not unlike what she imagined driving a hot blade into cold water felt like.

He did not pause. He pushed through it, his length pressing into her with a slow, full burn that tugged a faint wince from her. Rosaleen kept her eyes on the ceiling, willing herself still. Her fingers turned rigid into the bedsheets. And she found herself thinking of her mother, if this pain was the same she endured on her wedding night.

There was no turning back. Not now. She was his wife in name and now, by flesh.

Aemond stilled above her. She felt his breath ghost along her neck, warm, ragged, like an unspoken apology. A moment that lasted just long enough for the sting to dull. His fingers curled against her side, but they were not tender. Merely cautious.

And then he moved again. In earnest. The way he tried to make it manageable, as if control alone could soften the act, it might’ve been laughable, if she weren’t beneath him, taking each slow thrust, feeling the scratch of his pubic hair press against her, something that made her for some reason want to weep. When his breath grew heavier, the rhythm faster, she felt him come closer, chasing something she knew wasn’t her. His face turned into her hair, breath hot against her ear. A quiet groan escaped him, a moan low and guttural, one that betrayed need, not for her, but for whatever memory he’d conjured. It was just as well she had dark hair.

He climaxed with a shudder, one hand clamped too tightly around her breast, making her flinch. His breath stuttered out in broken rhythm, hips pressed deep, jaw clenched like he was holding back a cry. His grip loosened, fingers slipping from her chest with a sharp, almost guilty pull as Rosaleen felt the sickening flood of his seed. Aemond rolled off of her slowly, breathing hard, his face turned to the ceiling now. His chest rose and fell, glistening faintly with sweat, but he said nothing.

His breath still ragged, Aemond turned his face slightly toward her, not quite looking at her, just close enough to suggest the thought had taken effort.

“…Did I hurt you?”

The question was quiet. Hollow. As if he already knew the answer but asked out of obligation, or guilt. Rosaleen didn’t answer at first. “Not more than expected.”

A lie. But a good one. Aemond would come to know these lies spoken with ease with time, he was certain.

A long silence settled between them again. Then, as if pushed to say something, anything, he offered, voice low and expression unreadable. “I’ll send for the maester in the morning.”

As if that alone made the pain more bearable.

She said nothing. Irritation clawed at her when he sat silent as if he expected a response, a thank you perhaps that she did not intend to give. But eventually, he turned over, pulling the sheets over his waist and shifting onto his front, head turned away. Whether he truly slept or simply didn’t wish to speak again, she couldn’t say.

She too turned onto her side, grimacing at the warm sensation of his spend smearing across her thighs. And when sleep did come to her, it came in thin, unsteady drifts. As if to say that tonight was not worth the effort it took to rest. 

At some point, when the candle's flame had nearly reached the base, she glanced over her shoulder. Aemond was deeply, properly asleep, flat on his stomach, his arms tucked beneath the cushion, but now his face was turned her way. Slack with sleep, the line between his brows flattened, his mouth hung slightly open.

Rosaleen blinked, so he sleeps with his mouth open.

She hadn’t expected that. For some reason it didn’t suit him. A man as intemperate as he is, with sure posture and clipped words. It made him look younger. Perhaps a little lost, even. But she lay there a while, watching him.

Strange man, she thought. Stranger husband.

Aemond rose before the sun had even kissed the walls of the Red Keep. The sleep he did have was assisted by the act, and all through the early morning the scent of her beside him kept him awake. Once or twice as he dressed he glanced over. Her hair, dark like Alys’, was fanned across the pillow, her breathing slow and undisturbed. She didn’t stir as he moved, silent and sure-footed, dressing in the shadows like a thief escaping the scene of some half-regretted act. Her eyelashes fluttered as she dreamt some restless dream, so deep inside, even when he dropped his cup by accident, it did not wake her.

It mattered not, he needed to clear of her. Before the light shone on her face and he would be confronted with the fact that she was in fact Rosaleen Blackwood. His wife. 

Aemond felt his heart go fast like a hummingbird, not from nerves but part-nausea and dread. Like glancing upon a fresh wound. 

The consummation was nothing but obligation, he knew that, believed it. Merely another loop on the chain that bound him to duty. Now a wife that demanded honesty, before that a mother who demanded obedience, and before that, a realm that demanded strength.

When he was inside Rosaleen he had imagined her. The way she had been hungry for him, pressing her dark lips to his neck as she wrapped her thighs around his hips, eagerly sucking him into her body as if he were an ingredient in her sordid curses. 

It was too easy to pretend. Too easy to imagine the dingy smell of damp that the walls had bled, and the cocoon of sin he had soon enveloped himself in with the witch. Rosaleen had been compliant enough. Quiet enough.

A cunt was a cunt, he supposed bitterly.

He hated them both alike. Rosaleen for what she represented and soon to face. And Alys, for leaving him behind the way she had.

He took one fleeting glance at her gentle face but felt his throat squeeze uncontrollably. A practical wife. One who knew his faults and allowed for them. Made space for them. Stripping him of any quiet rebellion that may have been stirring in his head. Their conversation had both unnerved and silenced him. And yet, her allowance for him to dally to any warm body he so chose sat sour in his stomach.

He could not reconcile himself to it yet. But would soon have to. He was now bound to a woman he could neither hate freely nor ever truly desire.

Aemond breathed in deeply as the cool morning air hit his face. Even the servants who had bought his horse to him seemed surprised and even cautious at the fact he was to leave the Keep so soon after the morning of his wedding, and seemingly with a sour expression that they didn't dare question.

He rode to the edge of the city, where Vhagar would always reside. Whenever she heard him approach, she would raise her long neck, and if she had ears, no doubt they would have been pricked forward in both curiosity and excitement, eager for the next ride she would take.

It would make pride swell in his chest. A warm flooding feeling that he had not felt in so long.

He dismounted with boots slapped onto the earth, the wind having clapped at his face on the short journey. Skin red with sensitivity.

“My Prince.” One dragonkeeper greeted with a shaky voice, almost not a greeting at all and merely a forced formality. 

Aemond barely spared a glance, stepping forward to see Vhagar pressed into the grassland like a mountain. Like she were part of the earth and always had been. Her body huffed with heat and life, puffed through her great nostrils. Annoyed at how weak she appeared.

“How does she fare.”

“Not well, Your Grace. She refuses to eat. And snaps when we get too close.”

Aemond felt the muscle in his jaw clench with annoyance. Vhagar turned her massive head just in time to see it, her eyes aflame and the rumble in her chest a clear enough indication that she was indeed aggravated.

She never looked him straight on anymore. Not since God's Eye. When she had once stirred at the mere feeling of him close by.

“She is old, My Prince,” the dragonkeeper said carefully, “the war has taken its toll.”

He said it as if he had half expected the one eyed prince to let her die.

Aemond took several steps closer to her, pausing just enough to feel the heat rolling off her scarred scales. Her great wings, the very same who had flown him over the seven kingdoms as if she were death incarnate, were tattered with holes and broken. Vhagar had once roared fear into the heart's of the bravest men, and now she would barely lift her head for him.

He let the air leave through his nose, exasperated from both the emotional toll of his bond, as well as the night he had just left behind. His hand lifted almost nervously to Vhagar’s tough flesh, brushing his fingertips across the battered body of his most loyal friend.

Vhagar did not move. Not a sound. But she did not lean in either. As if the bond was still something she respected but was not keen to nurture.

He almost wished he could let her go. Wished he could have perished and let her have someone more worthy than him.

Come back, he thought selfishly, never daring to utter the words aloud. Enough of this. Come back.

Vhagar exhaled deeply, and he felt it against his palm. She had heard him anyway. Felt the pain as if it were hers.

Even as he left the dragonkeepers to their difficult job, he spared his first friend one last glance as he mounted his horse, feeling the smallest ease on his chest when Vhagar slid the meaty spine of a goat between her teeth and chewed through the bone. It was small, but something. 

As if to delay his return to the Keep, Aemond pondered a visit to the Crypts, but thought against it. He had visited too recently. Left nothing at their tombs. Only the weight of his guilt and regret. They were lined up beside one another, Aegon, Helaena and Daeron, as if they were dolls that had been forgotten about. He would not forget them, he thought. He would not let himself forget the disservice he paid his kin.

He would be late to break his fast with his new wife either way.

He even went to the trouble of taking the long route back towards his rooms, the hallways that snaked past the quarters they used on occasion for guests, and where the members of his council resided. Even the maidservants did several double takes between them when they saw him saunter through the corridor, remembering at least to bend at the waist in greeting. The shock of him in such an unsuspecting spot had them whispering and prattling amongst each other. 

The guards who stood tall at two double doors even straightened as he came to a halt outside them. They were cracked open slightly, a beam of light spilling forth, obstructed only by the small shadow of Jaehaera. His sweet, quiet niece. One who carried the same eerie and dream-like presence of her late mother. 

He had never quite known how to speak to her. She had been far too young when the world was set to burn for Aegon’s right to the throne, toddling beneath Helaena’s skirts. And her brother, her other half, Jaehaerys, when he had been murdered so swiftly that horrific night it had not been her cries he’d heard endlessly afterwards. It was the silence that followed. A nursery had never been so quiet. Helaena’s eyes had never been so empty. And Alicent had never been so forlorn as when she knelt before the bloodied bedsheets.

He had failed to be there. The boy had died in his stead.

And now his niece was no longer a child, but a little woman with little fanfare. She rarely spoke, but when she did, her eyes were just as Aegon’s had been, sharp with a bitter clarity. A child who had seen too much too soon. 

He wondered what had been going on in her mind.

He wondered if she blamed him.

He wanted to say, no need. I blame myself enough for the both of us.

He stood there, watching her figure so small, skirt flared on the floor as she attempted to sew with the same practice her mother had been so adept at. His hand twitched, as if he wished to absolve himself by speaking to her. What would he even say?

No apology was enough. No words would suffice.

His new wife would be waiting, dark and stern as she was the night before. Calculating how best to bear the weight of the new name she had been given.

Another woman burdened by the wreckage of what he had made.

He stepped into the solar where their meal had been laid out for them. By now the morning was late, and the soft glow of the sun shone higher through the room. From the back, with her dark curls, he could have almost pretended she were someone else.

Rosaleen was seated, dark red skirts pulled neatly around her, hair pinned away from her face. He had not visited the marital chambers, but he assumed the sheets had been taken, stripped of the proof of a mere few hours before. Nothing was said about it. He did not even think to ask how she was.

She inclined her head when she saw him, just barely, as a maidservant poured some tea into her cup. “Husband.”

He could have grimaced at the title.

“My Lady Wife,” he returned, lowering himself into the chair opposite her.

She didn’t press him with words, nor with her dark gaze. He thought it must have been rare for her. To not know what to say. The table felt longer between them now he was seated.

“What would you like?” he asked, glancing at the spread before them, his tone unenthusiastic, flat. It sounded almost rehearsed, as if it was the sort of thing a husband should say.

“Bread,” she offered, quiet at first, “cheese, and fruit if it is fresh.”

He exhaled, ripping a rough slice from the loaf before them before spreading a soft layer of cheese at the corner with the flat of his knife. The apple was sliced, and grapes organised with other sweet fruits alike. So he placed the plate close to her, an offering. She watched him, her fingers unsteady. As if she were not sure whether to begin without him. 

“How was your morning?”

The question was mild enough. But Aemond’s back stiffened anyway.

“Productive.”

Clipped. Defensive. She nodded, not pressing further. She instead took a bite of bread, humming appreciatively, followed by several grapes.

He could feel the unspoken question. Where were you? What occupied you before this meal with your new wife?

It immediately soured his appetite.

He felt no desire to explain himself to her. A woman he had known barely a few weeks. Just because she was his wife now, did not mean she was entitled to his whereabouts at any given time of day. He sliced the whole apple so swiftly, the blade whispered against the skin of it and gave quickly, nearly nicking his thumb. And when he placed the wedge into his mouth, their gazes met. She watched, not intrusively so, but with a calmness that made him feel cornered. Accused.

For once, his mind thought back to that comment Aegon had made with a degree of acceptance. Blackwood Bitch, indeed.

He thought he might just fuck some whore with no name, just to see her bite back that hatred be knew simmered for him.

✨ Please note ✨ I no longer do taglists. If you would updates, please follow @targaryenrealnessdarlingfics and turn on notifications!

[queenshelby]

AMERICAN GIRL (PART TWO)

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Grace's Stepdaughter!Reader

Warning: Grace is a bully, infidelity, taboo, slow-burn

The following morning, when you woke up, it felt like a dream, hazy and blurred around the edges. But as the memories of the past few days came rushing back, accompanied by the now familiar feeling of unease, you remembered it was no dream.

You were living a new life now and  you were determined to make the best of it. It could be exciting, even thrilling.

The next few days passed by without any major incident, although the tension in the air was palpable especially since you and Emma never really left the house. These were Grace's orders and within the confinement of this mansion, you tried to find solace in the quiet moments: the few minutes you stole for yourself in the library, that early morning walk in the garden, without Grace's or anyone else's presence. 

It helped you maintain your calm, just as it did in prison, but there was no denying that this house carried a certain unease everywhere you went, instilled in its foundations and passed on from person to person, until it had become an unspoken presence.

Tommy had been away for most days, busying himself with work and illegal dealings while Grace either stayed at home or indulged in some shopping trips to either Birmingham or London. 

Over the days that had passed, when Tommy was around, mostly in the evenings or the early mornings, you heard him arguing with Grace. They argued a lot and you wondered why he was still with her after all those years.

You have heard some gossip from the maids in the house, the ones that were nosy and talking a lot, about how Grace had betrayed Tommy and, yet, he had fallen for her charm and her wit. She was his first true love after France and you wondered whether, perhaps, he held on to that or whether this had become strictly business now that Grace had connections to both, the US and Ireland. 

One of the arguments in particular surrounded the fact that you and Emma were here, which was something that made you uneasy.

You overheard them talking about you and Emma in Tommy's office late one night, and you couldn't help  but listen in - not because you wanted to snoop, but because their hushed conversation piqued your curiosity.

"I don't fucking understand, Grace. Why would you bring them here?"  Tommy's voice was low and controlled, but there was no mistaking the frustration in his tone.

"They're my stepdaughters, Thomas. It's not as if I had a choice in the matter. The Americans made a demand and I adhered, for your sake and for the sake of your business interests with them," Grace replied, her voice equally measured.

"For my sake, eh?" Tommy 's voice was dripping with sarcasm now, his eyebrows furrowing together as he leaned forward against the desk. "You adhered for my sake? I'm not so fucking sure, Grace. But then again, I am never so fucking sure with you," he spat and Grace let out a derisive snort.

"Alright, Thomas. I brought them here because I felt guilty for what happened. Emma was abused by another family member, which is why Y/N interfered. None of this would have happened if I had been a better person," Grace lied, feigning   innocence which is when you clenched your fists, but held your tongue, knowing that getting involved in their argument would do nothing but add fuel to the fire.

Tommy's gaze was fixed on Grace, his expression unreadable. "And you felt so guilty that you put them in the staffing quarters, Grace? Why is that?" he said, his tone ominous. "I suppose your guilt has limits, eh? Because clearly, you do not want to spend time with either of them and, yet, they are here, in my fucking house,"  Tommy's voice was low and dangerous, his eyes never leaving Grace's face.

Grace pursed her lips, her eyes flashing angrily. "You know as well as I do, Thomas, that having them in our living quarters complicates things. They will be a distraction and-"

"You are afraid of Y/N, aren't you?" Tommy interrupted her , his voice laced with amusement that sent a chill down her spine.

"Alright Tommy, perhaps I am afraid of her," Grace then admitted , her words barely escaping her lips, catching even herself by surprise.

She recovered quickly, continuing, "But with the connection they have to the American family, our business interests could be compromised. Surely you understand the implications-"

Tommy held up a hand, silencing Grace midsentence. "I understand the implications too well, Grace. But now I want to know why you are afraid of a 19-year-old woman ." Tommy's blue eyes bore into Grace's, his voice steady and unwavering. He had always been intuitive and perceptive and it was no different this time.

Grace took a deep breath, silently cursing herself for revealing her fear. "I am afraid of her because her father killed himself after the things I did to him. I cheated him for years and he never forgave me for that," Grace murmured, her voice barely audible. "I broke his heart in every imaginable way and he, in turn, destroyed himself because of me."

Thomas regarded Grace for a moment, absorbing what she just revealed to him. "And I am the man you cheated on him with?" he ought to confirm , the seriousness of his tone causing Grace's heart to quicken.

"Yes, Thomas." Her voice was a mere whisper, but she could sense his focus intensifying, the air in the room growing thicker by the second. 

"Fucking Hell Grace," Thomas muttered slowly, dragging a hand through his jet-black hair. "So, you thought it would be good idea to bring them into the man's house who you know they would likely blame for their father's death? Are you fucking serious?"  Thomas' voice was laced with a mixture of confusion and anger. "You really thought bringing them here would be a good idea? Bringing them to the place where they could see you with the man you had an affair with, the man who you had betrayed their father’s trust with?" Thomas' words came out in a harsh whisper as he shook his head in disappointment.

Grace swallowed hard, her throat suddenly feeling dry as she tried her best to justify her actions.

"Y/N killed a man, with a single gunshot to the head, and you bring her to my house, eh?" he then asked, raising an eyebrow at Grace and causing her to flinch at the harshness of his words.

Grace averted her gaze, carefully selecting her next words. "I brought them to the safest place I knew, and I secured two more years of trade with New York," she reasoned, though her words held more desperation than conviction.

Tommy took a deep breath, gritting his teeth as he tried to swallow his anger which is when you swallowed your pride and tore yourself away from the door, your bare feet silently padding the length of the hallway as you made your way back to your guest room. There was no use in listening to their quarrel anymore; the truth was out of the bag now, and it hung between them like a noose, waiting for an opportunity to tighten around their throats.

But as much as you tried to focus on the silence of the mansion, the words you had just heard continued to play at the forefront of your mind, an inescapable echo that threatened to consume you entirely. 

You knew who Tommy was and it served Grace right to be afraid of you , because you would never forgive her for the things she had done to your father. Not entirely. And yet, despite that knowledge, you also couldn't help but feel some small fragment of gratitude for the roof over your head and food on your table.

You sighed, pushing yourself off the bed and opening the windows to let in a cool breeze. The sound of trees rustling in the wind and the distant chatter of birds momentarily soothed your racing thoughts and, when you looked out of the window, you noticed Tommy retreating from the house , his shoulders tense and his gait heavy with what appeared to be an inner turmoil.

A ripple of guilt washed over you, knowing you may have contributed to his stress, and yet, you couldn't shake the sense of betrayal that lingered following what you had heard in the hallway.

Instinctively, you slipped on a silk robe, its emerald green color mirroring the depths of your eyes, as you left your room to join him outside. The mansion was quiet except for the distant echo of your footsteps as you traversed the corridor.

Tommy was out on the patio when you found him and his gaze was fixed on the darkness of the woods nearby.

A glass of whiskey dangled loosely from his hand, the amber liquid sloshing gently with each movement. You could see his jaw clenched tightly, and the rigid line of his shoulders told you this was uncomfortable somehow. 

As you approached, Tommy glanced up and offered you a small, weary smile. 

"Can't sleep?" he asked, the huskiness in his voice betraying his own restless night.

You shook your head slightly, shuddering against the cool spring breeze that drifted across the open patio. "I must admit, the house is somewhat... unsettling at night."

Tommy's eyes narrowed thoughtfully for a moment, as though weighing his words. "I imagine it would be," he conceded as you tentatively reached for the whiskey glass in his hand.

Tommy didn't hesitate to release it to you, his fingers brushing against yours with an unexpected warmth, sending a jolt through your body once again.

The whiskey burned pleasantly as you swallowed it down, letting the warmth spread through your chest and help to calm your racing thoughts. "I guess it's just going to take some time getting used to," you replied with a soft smile as you handed the glass back to him.

Tommy looked at you thoughtfully for a moment, his gaze unwavering, and you could feel yourself sinking into the depth of those blue eyes.

"I suppose it will," he finally responded, his voice barely above a whisper.

For a fleeting moment, silence hung in the air between you, pregnant with an expectation that neither of you dared to acknowledge. He took another sip from his glass, his eyes never leaving yours as the silence continued to stretched on, forming a strange intimacy that you had not anticipated. It was almost as if only the two of you existed in that moment, and everything else faded away into oblivion.

Despite the tension, Tommy felt the need to fill the void that had settled between you.

"I suppose we all have our ghosts to face in this house," he finally admitted, a whimsical smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You followed his gaze as it travelled towards the dense trees standing tall in the distance. The darkness seemed inviting, and the quiet seemed soothing, contrasting sharply with the unrest that churned within the walls of the mansion.

"My father once told me that we all have our stories to tell and so do the houses we live in. If these walls could talk, what do you suppose they would have to say?" you said, your voice barely above a whisper, the words floating effortlessly into the cool night air.

A faint smile graced your lips as a myriad of memories from your childhood invaded your thoughts.

"They would tell many tales indeed," Tommy agreed, swirling the contents of his glass before taking another sip of the fiery amber liquid. "This house belonged to a respectable man once, but he was also a lonely man, with no one to inherit his fortune," he began, casting a brief look over his shoulder to where the mansion stood, towering behind you both like an impenetrable fortress. "He took in strays, gave them a roof over their head and food on their table - but he never took in a woman whom he loved," Tommy told you and you watched him as he recalled the story, transported to another time and another place by the weight of his words. "I suppose love is a myth after all. There is desire and lust, sure, but love? I don't think it exists," Tommy said as if he was talking to himself, his gaze lost in the fire that flickered dangerously low in the outdoor hearth. "So if you ask me, this house once belonged to a smart man," he finished off as the night had grown colder around you, and the flickering light danced across your skin, casting shadows along your collarbones and the delicate slope of your shoulders.

"Maybe you are right. Maybe it doesn't exist and yet I wonder what kind of tales this man would tell if he were to speak now? He may have found love with someone who never reciprocated it. It's possible" you murmured thoughtfully, wrapping your arms around yourself as a chill ran down your spine.

The air seemed to grow heavy in the wake of your words, and neither of you dared to speak for a few moments. An invisible thread stretched between you, a curious connection that seemed to defy all reason, but you couldn't ignore the way it made your heart race.

Thomas' gaze lingered on you for a heartbeat longer than was necessary before breaking eye contact and taking another sip of whiskey.

"Perhaps," he eventually said candidly as the air grew colder around you when a sudden breeze picked up, rustling the leaves and sending a shiver down your spine.  "But love requires vulnerability and trust and a man who can afford a house like this, is neither vulnerable nor trusting," Thomas went on to explain, his words heavy with a hidden melancholy that made your heart clench. For the first time since you met him, you could sense a profound pain lingering underneath his usual charismatic and confident façade.

"Is this why you do not love Grace? Because you don't trust her?"  you asked, your voice gentle and curious. The words hung in the air for a moment, a question that seemed to hover between the two of you, as though waiting for the perfect moment to be answered.

Thomas' gaze shifted towards the glass in his hand before flicking back up to meet yours. "Love is a concept I struggle to understand, and it's not something I openly welcome in my life, whether trust someone or not," he told you, avoiding answering your question before observing the way you shivered from the cold.  "Come," he said, standing straight with his drink in hand and moving back towards the mansion. "Let's get you inside. You don't want to catch a cold now, do you?"

You followed him to the French doors, as you entered the grand mansion, taking one last glance at the patio with its dying fire. The stillness of the evening only heightened your senses and left you feeling strangely aware of his presence beside you.

Something about being near him stirred unspeakable emotions inside of you, feelings you couldn't justify nor understand. The strange allure of his tortured soul called out to a deep, primal part of you, begging to be explored. But you knew better than to indulge in such reckless desires.

"Tommy?" you asked, breaking the silence that had fallen between you as you walked towards the grand staircase which you knew was where you were going to part ways. "Do you think I could work for one of your businesses, just to make some money for a tutor, for my sister? She is still young and needs to be schooled," you  asked, the words slipping from your lips before you could think them through.

Tommy paused, his gaze locked with yours as a battle of emotions seemed to wage behind the depths of his eyes. 

"I will arrange a tutor for her tomorrow. There is no need for you to work simply so that your sister can be educated,"  Tommy replied sharply, breaking eye contact first as he continued to climb the grand staircase.

You lingered in the dimly lit foyer, your gaze following the broad line of his shoulders as he made his way up the stairs. There was a subtle firmness in his tone that you couldn't quite place - but it was strangely arousing all the same.

"Thank you, Tommy. I truly appreciate it," you said softly, maintaining your composure even as your thoughts tumbled recklessly. "But I would still like to work, please. It is very boring here," you pressed on, hoping to persuade him. "I could help in one of your pubs, or -"

Tommy stopped mid-step and turned to look down at you, his eyes softening ever so slightly. "We will find you something more suitable than bar work, eh? The pubs in Birmingham are not like the establishments that you are used to from New York," Tommy said with a hint of reproach in his voice. 

You watched this play of emotions across his face, your thoughts momentarily thrown off kilter by the sight of his dimpled smile. That alone sparked an inexplicable warmth deep within your chest, a feeling that you quickly fought to suppress. You had no business feeling such joy in the presence of Thomas Shelby.

You knew that. You understood that. But you couldn't help yourself around him. There was an inexplicable pull, an attraction that went beyond his devilishly handsome features or his powerful presence. You found yourself entranced by his pain, his tortured spirit that was slowly unraveling before your very eyes. It was as if he wore a veil and every time he spoke, a piece of it would fade away, revealing a snapshot of his true self.

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[yandere-toons]

I know this is a little early but can you do a Book of Life headcanon for Dia De Los Muertos? It can be La Muerte and Zebulba or Maria, Manolo, and Joaquin. (I love your writing so much!)

Yandere La Muerte & Xibalba (Platonic & Romantic Headcanons)

Warnings: Death, Toxic Mindsets.

A.N. – ¡Feliz Día de los Muertos!

While the candle of her chosen mortal is aflame with life, La Muerte dons it proudly in a prime spot among her dress or hat, close enough to where she can always feel its heat and wince at the exact moment it goes cold. If so exists even a whiff of foul play, it is her husband Xibalba who punishes the living with a sudden uptick in fatal snakebites.

Hot boils the resentment of Xibalba, who never so wished to eradicate the Law-Maker as he does watching his own helpless reflection in the window of a home where his favourite mortal lay despairing. Decades of deceit and contrivances just to share a few words, forced by ancient law to conceal his true name and nature, have worn his patience to a thread. At the same time, Xibalba is inclined to thank this purveyor of death in person, to offer a taste of what the latest victim endured and send the slain soul to rot, as he did, in the Land of the Forgotten.

La Muerte, for all her power in death, can in life offer only words of encouragement from the mouth of a kind stranger. She often observes their day from the secrecy of terraces and distant roofs, watching to ensure their happiness and step in with bits of wisdom should they seem lost. She refrains from direct intervention until the day they wander inside her castle, at which point she cannot help wondering how much longer it may have taken to meet them this way had they lived the life they wanted. Such rumination is channelled into action as La Muerte focuses on bringing them more comfort with their new arrangement than ever they found with the living, seeing it as a way to make up for all the strife she was forbidden from preventing.

La Muerte is happy to join their visitation for Día de los Muertos, believing it will help them grow more accustomed to her and accept her as someone deserving of a higher role in their existence. Xibalba gripes the whole time while wondering where he went wrong to make them so opposed to his presence that they would choose the company of mortals over a night spent drinking and feasting with him and his wife, even questioning whether La Muerte is behind all of this to punish him for some ancient crime.

Xibalba muses that, for a bond so strong as this, he could use his deathly touch to kill their relatives all at once, feigning the promise of a reunion — while keeping to himself that such a deed would only eliminate the last of their tethers to the living and thus send them straight to his realm in perpetuity. Xibalba has one finger outstretched to do just that when La Muerte slaps it down and swears she will never forget this should he go through with it.

Xibalba wilts at her wrath but soon grows restless with spite and decides a more clandestine approach will net him his petty vengeance. If simply snatching away a few lives is too vulgar, then perhaps he can make a wager of it. La Muerte, her inner child intrigued, listens as he spins the age-old tale of a fair trade: if their spouse in life leaves town; if the kids down the street go on to marry one another — Xibalba will claim hosting rights, and if not, he will stop cursing their mortal attachments.

Neither are too moved by sympathy plays, having heard every plea imaginable from souls desperate to live and reunite with those up above. A bet, however, draws from both gods the memory of a younger time, a splash of excitement in an otherwise predictable system.

La Muerte's conditions are more palliative: not protesting when she requests a day spent with her, not trying to breach the living-dead barrier before its time. When others or perhaps even the soul themselves begin to question these once-thought agape embraces and invitations to dine, the goddess admits to a more personal interest. She has walked beside them for much of their life and feels they were cheated by it, seeing the bad side of the world too much and the good side too little, and so has taken it upon herself to show them what could have been.

Xibalba's conditions revolve around staying with him for longer periods, say a millennium instead of a century, or granting him explicit permission to kill some mortal companion of theirs who stokes his envy. Such a blessing is by no means necessary to carrying out the hit; rather, it serves as a colossal show of deference as well as a convenient method of claiming the person's blood is now on their hands.

La Muerte can generally be relied upon to act as a restraining influence on Xibalba, keeping him from wiping out whole droves of mortals in a fit of cruelty; however, even she will leave them to their fate if the terms are clear and both parties have agreed, for a wager with a god is all-binding. By refusing to fulfil one's end of it, the winning side is bound no longer to the stipulations set forth in the agreement and may exact any price as recompense.

Only one path to victory remains: accuse Xibalba of rigging the bet, which La Muerte will be inclined to believe given his history, assuming a trip to lodge this complaint with her is even feasible. Xibalba may suspect this intent to oust him and cancel the next dinner date in haste, professing to La Muerte that he and his new roommate are getting along splendidly.

La Muerte laments their absence and voices her desire to see them again, to which Xibalba pleads that she has hosted them long enough and to give him a chance. Despite a winding series of lies and broken promises to consider, La Muerte is committed to forgiveness and thus gives her word that she will not try to ferry them back to her land, at least until the next bet is up.

Xibalba's lonely heart is all too eager to drag them down into the Land of the Forgotten, where souls hardly move or speak, having lost all sense of self. Immortals and mortals alike who spend any significant amount of time in this realm incur some degree of degeneration and start to lose touch with what made them human, a process Xibalba endlessly chatters about to fill an otherwise eternal silence.

La Muerte, once content with this tenuous sort of balance, finds the scales tipping when they express a disinterest in reconnecting with the living world. Chaos erupts as La Muerte challenges Xibalba to return their soul, convinced he is poisoning their heart with his own bitterness for humanity. Xibalba deflects at every opportunity, suggesting that he merely speaks a harsh truth and offers an escape from the drudgery of mortal life.

A deep frustration ignites within La Muerte, less now at the dark turn of her husband, which she has begrudgingly come to accept, and more at the threat of losing her chosen soul to exactly the kind of existence she strove so hard to separate from them. Even though the march of time will one day condemn the soul to what comes after, La Muerte sought to enrich their short journey and give them the taste of true happiness they could never afford.

While she has walked this path with many and knows the weight of her title demands she overcome her grief, cursed objects of half-formed immortality and interjections of the soul's name into increasingly unrelated projects and movements are the desperate final scratches of Xibalba. A god who chases off the inevitable, Xibalba scrambles to build this entire false history in those last few years, only to watch it crumble when his actions force La Muerte to banish him for upsetting the natural order.

[zeyris-daydreams]

Jade Dragon’s Iron-Clad Camellias [2]

Dan Feng x Reader 

[ao3] or #df-camellia on my profile! [work masterlist]

Gaining recognition wasn’t something which needed any planning. And although you were great at setting reasonable goals, it seemed as though winds blew in your favour without your push.

The Cloud Splendor Forge was a name made by whim with lack of any forethought, yet the immortals still sang its praises, emphasising the dutifulness behind each weapon—and the mastery behind the meanings.

But there was no meaning, same as there was no need for it to have one. Vidyadhara and alike—Foxians and the Homo Celestinae all spun tales of their own.

It was too easy in fact.

The weapons were distributed quickly, grabbed and sought after as bread when the sun rose, the heat and smell of metal akin to the fragrance of meal for an empty stomach. The forger and the baker both shared a stove, but for vastly different reasons. The baker wanted to feed—you wished to make something bleed.

Due to culture born from war and hope, it wasn’t uncommon for people to appreciate weapons. They paid much attention to not only usability, but the detail as well.

Not all attention to detail was good—you’ve long realised, soon after someone began to nitpick them. And this wasn’t the first time.

Stood behind the counter of the inside of your forge, you moved a damp rag over it, pretending to try and clean away the black smears and the tar. It was a humble place, minimal amount of equipment and decor, spare for a flower which wilted from the heat radiating.

Further down was a stove and the tools, chisels and hammers, and the cold anvil which was unused yet.

It was so early after all.

He stood right near the entrance, glancing around, and you wished to pretend he wasn’t there. As long as you were ignorant, you could make him go away—sometimes wishes do come true.

The Vidyadhara cleared his throat expectantly.

But wishes take a while to work, and you finally lifted your face, shoving all the irritation down to the bottom of your stomach, lest there shows a vulnerability he’d be able to exploit like the snake that he was.

Annoyance ignited itself in your cortex already, perhaps at the idea that this preened lizard expected to be addressed. But you pretended everyday, and you could pretend for a while more. ”What may I help you with?”

Dan Feng’s piercing eyes seemed to glow by default in such a dark setting, and he finally stepped closer to the counter. “One assumes you know why one has come?”

This has happened before, three times precisely, where the pampered reptile would show up in all his might, and demand to meet the smith. It was engraved in your memory from the headache it caused each time, having to listen to his prolonged speeches about grandiose of his ideas; how just giving Yingxing the request through you would never be able to encompass his vision. A mortal can’t comprehend his ideas and expectations after all, you merely were an assistant. Dan Feng insisted-no, demanded to meet the craftsman.

”I have an idea why, but I fear the master remains in what he has said before.” you started, straightening to at least appear as though you paid him mind. To you, there was nothing grande before you, and you did not give a damn about his hereditary honorifics.

Glory is what you make—with both your hands.

Dan Feng sighed, pinching the ridge of his nose. He did not belong here, in his pristine and straightened clothes, and his untied hair. He was not ready nor made for work, and the contrast of his person to the comfort of your forge was sickening.

“Which would be?”

”Master Yingxing, as I’ve said, needs solitude to grow grand ideas. His words, not mine,” you began, keeping the tone as light as you could; grasping at the straws of your patience. “For that reason he only is present to deliver or make his craft. I only converse with him through written messages.”

You hoped that by emphasising the unapproachability of Yingxing, people would stop trying to meet him. Because frankly, you did not wish for people to know about your true identity, and you had all the reasons not to.

Only a madman would feel fine with that, if they were in your predicament at least.

Most immortals accepted your firm no. There was a sense of mystery and fantasy surrounding Yingxing, and the people of Xianzhou favoured romanticism over a popped bubble of delusion. And so, to maintain their image of the forger as someone cryptic, their efforts usually relented.

Most never means all however, and there would always be a prick who needed the validation of obtaining the unmovable.

”One sees no reason for such evasion,” He waved his hand, dismissing all your reasoning just as he did previously. It seemed the irritation finally got the best of him, as he dropped honorifics, and stopped attempting to pretend that you were on his level.

Dan Feng regarded you for a moment, and then the forge. Everything was ready to create, but there was no artist to do it. “Does he come today, then?”

”I wasn’t informed of that, where does the assumption come from?”

”Well,” The Vidyadhara gestured towards the other end of the forge leisurely and meticulously, as though he planned to point it out. “Do smiths not work when their tolls are ready?”

It was a miscalculation on your part. You really had to make sure to lock the forge next time, not that it mattered. Immortals usually sent their servants to order and retrieve weapons, and so it didn’t make a difference, as the pets of the Xianzhou folk never paid much mind. Such little humans usually soaked in their master's praises, never learning or knowing enough to find your business suspicious. Maybe it was blissful ignorance.

Dan Feng was truly the only one who insisted on proximity.

”What you see is correct, but that is the procedure. If the master comes, the forge must be ready, and given his solitude, I don’t know when to expect his grace.” You mustered, with as much courage as you could—despite coming up with this excuse on the spot. “I am sorry for the inconvenience, but his mind remains unchanged.”

”Fine, then. Have you told him that the one who seeks an audience with him is me?” The man began once more, his voice gaining an air of demand to it. He kept his hands to himself, not even willing to lay one on the deeply scarred wooden counter yet. “I am a High Elder, does your master not feel shame?”

It was hard to keep a cool shell when inside fires raged, and the facade slipped, for only a short moment. But it was unchangeable. “Have you considered that the master does not care?”

Dan Feng’s piercing and sharp eyes narrowed, and he finally leaned forward. “Excuse me?”

”Per your request I’ve left master the note about your wishes. Both to create the weapon and demand for the audience, but also of your status. That was the single demand that the master has not addressed with me.”

The irritation on his face was subtle, but the satisfaction of it was short lived. You forced your facial muscles into a state of tranquility, and the early bird gets prey. You had to act as though you had his best interest in mind.

“I insist, so that you don’t waste your time, to discuss the demands for the weapon with me.” You suggested once more, leaving it open for him to decide. “I convey it well enough, proven by the popularity that the master has gathered. If there are discrepancies, I’ll be held responsible,” you took a second to come up with the word that would please him the most. “For not being able to convey your vision well enough.”

You wanted your words to buy some of the graces you didn’t actually want—them being a currency to get him off your tail; or heel—that would be more accurate. Despite his visible need for protest and his clenched jaw, he relented. “Fine then, assistant.” The title rolled off his tongue like beads falling off a necklace, with an air of arrogance that seemed to constantly settle around him.

A sense of satisfaction poured into you still, despite the huge amount of effort it took to achieve this outcome.

It came to a halt as he leaned his hand on the counter at once, the other hand propped on his hip as he leaned to your stature, imposing your presence, breaking the usual distance needed for conversation in hopes of getting something out of you. “We will do how you want. Then again, commission is still pretty expensive. For that purpose I demand the weapon to be tailored specifically for me“

You swallowed. “They are always shaped for each clien-”

”No, I don’t look to have it only made per my word.” Dan Feng interrupted, his voice cutting through yours like a spear thrown through condensation of fog, causing you to halt. “Does your master need to see my former weapon for reference? The way in which I fight?”

Clients always trusted Yingxing, and a verbal assault of this caliber was far beyond your pay grade. With a sigh, one that you forced to be a calm one, your shoulders slumped. You wanted nothing more than to make the Vidyadhara bleed, but you stopped your sharp tongue.

”I understand the importance of making the weapon worth it, but my master is extraordinary” The self praise felt alien on your tongue, alien like Xianzhou’s cuisine and strange like a rock from beyond. You wished to spit it out with more pride, but it poured out more like water. “He will be able to provide you with a tailored option only after seeing the former weapon and understanding your expectations. That’s how my master keeps clients, I do not know the mysteries beyond that.”

Your defence was firm and sharp, he had to give you that. Dan Feng finally relented, straightening to fold his arm behind his back. His eyes lazily scanned the forge, not a single soul here spare for you and him.

”I am a High Elder, and I don’t wish to waste my time. I’ll send a servant here to deliver my former weapon, and as for its type..”

The Vidyadhara was suddenly filled with thought, slow and steady as his gaze was cast down. You weren’t yet sure how to feel, the gears in his mind turning deliberately, to a degree in which you could hear them click, click, click.

click.

”It is a weapon of long yet true reach, melee. It does not need excessive metal, and it is piercing, Stands tall, yet falls just as easily” High Elder mused cryptically, and his turquoise eyes drifted to yours soon after.

You stood there awkwardly with hands behind your back, pushing yourself up to the tips of your toes, before back to their heels. “Well, from my understanding that seems to be a spear. Do Vidyadhara name them differently?”

For a brief moment his brow rose, but he just shook his head, as if dismissing the thought that appeared. “A spear, then.”

So he was testing you. You couldn’t yet know the result of this trial.

The conversation concluded, and you were finally free to breathe when Dan Feng left. Having to upkeep the front of a dutiful clueless assistant took its toll once more, and you were left having to pick up pieces of your dignity.

Mortals didn’t have it easy on Xianzhou Loufu, despite it being more accommodating for them than the other two ships—and while you didn’t find it most fair, it was all you could get your hands on. You have long learned the importance of finding opportunities, doing what you had access to. You weren’t going to let self-victimisation ruin the odds.

The next day, as promised, the former weapon was delivered.

Dan Feng had a habit of not knocking, and he didn’t knock now either, entering the forge like his own damned domain—the spear in his grasp. Behind the safety of your counter your eyes widened, and you cleared your throat. A moment of silence passed.

“Forgive me asking, Higher Elder, but wasn’t a servant meant to do this duty?

He halted, eyes narrowing slightly at your words, though you had no idea what you might’ve said wrong. Yet it seemed as though the Vidyadhara was just as surprised to see you here. “Assistant.”

Your fingers curled into fists, and you forced a pleasant gaze upon your face. “I’m sorry, have I failed to mention that the master does not meet clients personally? If not, I would like to add that it prevents unnecessary bias.”

To hell with bias. Why was he here, again?

”The former, yes. Latter, hardly” His face turned to yours, gaze softening. “Though One could still hope to be on time.” A smile crept up onto his face, but you knew better than to take it as kindness; pity was more likely. Dan Feng’s interest in Yingxing was proving to be dangerous. Maybe you’d have to forge elsewhere, and take clients here. A faraway dream you could not afford; closer to that was perhaps changing the schedule altogether.

“No matter the technicalities. The weapon is here. Though this sky splitter did look better in its full glory” The doors closed behind him silently, despite the usual occurrence of them creaking with each move. Dan Feng was as robed as ever, preened and pristine and perfumed and he didn’t belong here at all.

The spear was laid on the table, and you looked down on habit, analysing its structure and shape. The front of it was clearly cracked, the fault permeating further down the spear. It was clinging to its frail shape, as a worm after being crushed.

His eyes were on the weapon, before they were on you, and you placed your hand onto the long body of the spear. Perfectly in the spot where its weight centre should be, given the heavier tip of the spear; and yet it still tilted. You frowned.

The spear was laughably off balance, and when you’ve realised how bold you’ve become, you set it down. When you opened your mouth to speak, you were almost afraid you’d ask which idiot forged this.

“I see. It appears broken. What sorts of improvements do you expect of the spear you’ve commissioned?”

You could already imagine analysing the spear later. The sharpness and its weight distribution, the evenness of its body and the smoothness that it should provide. You could smell the moment you’d forge it anew, and taste the ingredients of it with your fingertips.

You found the more you made weapons, the harder it was to stop.

Dan Feng raised his brow, head tilting at an angle as he went through his mind to remember his expectations—he did consider a new spear for some time now, especially after his friends helped him defeat the recent abominations of the abundance—his spear bore most of the damage.

This thought circled in his mind back and forth, what precisely did he want? Nothing but the best. Perfection. Dan Feng was not a master at making weapons, he could only wield them.

”Give it to your master,” the Vidyadhara expressed “ and tell him to improve on everything which is noticeably faulty within this one.”

[purplephloxpress]

Another year, another Fanfiction Writers Appreciation Day!!!! If you are a writer of fanfic, please know just how appreciated you are!! Fandom would be such a different space without your creativity and labors of love. 💜

Holidays are all about making traditions, and the bookbinding friends with @renegadeguild once again came together to bind copies of fics for their authors as a show of our appreciation. This year I had the absolute joy of binding Emergency Help Wanted by the wonderful @piyo-13 and even got to collaborate with her on some of the design elements! It's a Modern AU Jiang Cheng/Lan Xichen fic that starts with a "help wanted" ad.

EMERGENCY HELP WANTED

I lied when I got my job. I told them I had a kid so I could leave early from work to pick him up from daycare, take him to doctor's appointments, and occasionally miss a day when he's sick. Long story short, I'm in too deep. I didn't think it through. Looking to rent a kid for bring your child to work day. Must be a boy ages four to six, longish dark hair, likes soccer. Must also be artistic as the macaroni noodle paintings I made seem a little advanced for his age. Also, I will pay extra for someone willing to play the role of husband when dropping him off. He's a prosecuting attorney who often brings his work home. Message me for further details. Serious inquiries only.

Ok. So. I may have gone a little feral with this one. Online "help wanted" ad spiraled into loading wheel scene dividers, spiraled into fake Google search result headers, spiraled into FULLY committing to those authentic looking text messages. In full color. (There are so many. I typeset in MS Word. It was SO worth it, but god what a struggle at some points.) And don't forget the "recent searches" title page! Or the computer cutout on the cover! (It's bluescreening, just like Lan Xichen through this entire fic!) Also that cover/title page image that I just kept adding details to. (It's supposed to be Lan Xichen's desk, so it simply didn't feel right until it had sticky notes on the computer, #1 dad on the mug, scissors and measuring tape, scribbles on the sticky notes) Did I have a ton of fun designing this one? Perhaps. Couldn't say. Maybe just a tad. (This is a lie I had an ABSOLUTE BLAST!)

Historically, I've waited until I finish at least the typeset before reaching out to the author, but not so with this one! I got the idea for the fake google search results from Piyo's authors notes, teasing the contents of the next chapter. But! Those didn't start until about chapter 4! So I reached out and asked if we could collaborate and I'm forever glad I did! Not only does this have teasers for each chapter, I also got to bounce design ideas off of her, including what shade of blue and purple for the text messages. Because my friends, that is a serious matter and changed SEVERAL times throughout the process.

Also shoutout to all my Renegade friends who gave input and encouragement over the past year while I worked on this (what endpages to use? how to make this shade of green perfectly Nie Huaisang? how do we feel about this text message design? or how about this one?) - I love you all dearly and appreciate you so much for putting up with my nonsense at all times.

Binding details below the cut!

Fandom: The Untamed/Mo Dao Zu Shi

Pairing: Jiang Cheng | Jiang Wanyin / Lan Huan | Lan Xichen

Bookcloth: Aqua/Purple Dubletta from Colophon Book Arts

Endpapers: Craft Consortium Ink Drops - Ocean pack

Textblock paper: short grain cream from Church Paper

Titling: We R Memory Keepers foil quill

Endbands: leather cording core, DMC embroidery floss for the bands

Body Font: EB Garamond

Title Font: Berlin Sans FB

Text Messages: Roboto

Additional fonts: Times New Roman, Kunstler Script, Magis Authentic

Title page image from Rawpixel and designed in Canva

Various computer graphics from The Noun Project

Tumblr insists on eating and doubling text in this section at its own whim, so if there's something missing that you're curious about, feel free to DM me an ask!

[starmocha]

So, this mass hysteria surrounding the recent update for the new chapters, "Death and Rebirth" has spread like wildfire and there's been far too many misinformation being spread around.

For the past few days, I've been addressing questions on my personal blog, but perhaps this information would be helpful for others seeking clarifications.

TL;DR: The main story update is just that: an update. Zayne is not being removed from the game. Zayne will continue to be part of future banners just as normal. Do not fall for the mass panic.

Below the cut will be a more thorough explanation about how the game works as well as covering some related questions I've had people asked me in the last few days since the recent main story update for "Death and Rebirth."

Gonna address the elephant in the room first:

Zayne is not leaving the game.

He will continue to be a love interest in the game. How people even reached this conclusion is beyond my understanding. He will continue to appear in future banners just as normal. He will be part of event stories just as normal. Nothing is changing. Our snowman is staying with us!

Main Story Update

There seems to be some sort of misunderstanding about how the main story works.

The main story is a huge plot that takes place over a long period of time and affects all off the characters. This is common in otome games like Love and Deepspace, and especially another game from the same company, Mr Love: Queen's Choice (MLQC).

The recent update released four new chapters, subtitled as "Death and Rebirth". It is still a part of all the previous stories that have been told so far, starting with the first section, "Under Deepspace" and following through to Sylus' section, "Long-Awaited Revelry," the three individual story branches (grouped under "Prologue To Tomorrow"), and Caleb's homecoming, "Homecoming Wings."

These are all part of one larger ongoing story, split into subsections with individual chapters. Additional chapters are added over a period of time, and the plot will progress at this same pacing.

The story is in no way ending. Not even close. From a business standpoint alone, the longer a story is, the longer a game can be profitable.

The aforementioned game MLQC has recently celebrated its sixth anniversary, and to coincide with that celebration, new chapters to its main story were released to coincide with the event. Now, unlike LADS, MLQC have regular main story updates throughout the year, and it's been going strong for six years now with no sign of stopping.

In truth, it is very unlikely for the main story to ever end. At most, an arc may reach its conclusion, but that just invites a new story arc to take its place. As of now, though, LADS is nowhere close to reaching its conclusion. If anything, the recent chapter update have revealed many new plot points to be explored in future chapters.

While both Sylus and Zayne have recently been showcased, it is not the end of their appearances. They will continue to be seen as more of the story develops, but for now, our next sight would be to circle back to Xavier and Rafayel, with Caleb possibly on the horizon as well.

Main Story vs. Story Branches

There is a difference between a main story update and story branches update that may seem confusing to some.

Main story update would involve a plot that affects all characters and the story as a whole. Just think of the main story as a tree constantly growing bigger.

While the story branches would be akin to actual tree branches. It will tell a smaller story that is connected to the main, but the central themes would follow a singular character. For example, Zayne's story branch, "Thorns Under the Moon" follows Zayne only, and the conflict he deals with (his nightmares/Dawnbreaker) does not affect the other characters directly or impact them in any way.

Memory Cards (4* and 5*)

The exact timeline for the memory cards are intentionally ambiguous, especially the early cards to allow the writers the freedom to work on the main story, which will have subtle romantic implications. The memory cards are meant to show a more intimate (or growing intimate) relationship with the LIs.

This is a similar format LADS is borrowing from MLQC (reiterating the two games are part of the same company).

When reading the memory cards, it is intended for you to assume that it takes place post-canon from the main story with MC having chosen that specific LI as her partner. (you are not dating all five men at once.......unless you want to headcanon it that way who is stopping you lbr /hj)

For example, if you are reading a Zayne memory, then it follows a path/timeline where MC is pursuing a relationship with Zayne and has no romantic relationship with the other male characters.

The main story would only subtly hint at the possibility of romantic feelings with each LI, but it wouldn't be obvious unless you are reading the 4* or 5* cards (which at that point means you are "choosing" that LI's "route").

One thing to keep in mind as you are reading the main story: MC is not romantically involved with any of the men, nor does she have any explicit romantic feelings for them.

If it makes it easier to understand, then consider the main story as one long slow burn. The 4* and 5* memories would be what would happen after the story ends (typically, but there are exceptions with some cards [mainly thinking of Caleb's cards right now]).

For most of the current memories, everything can be considered canon except for the Catch-22 cards, which all clearly take place in an alternate universe (AU). A good way to identify if it's an AU or not is if the characters all have completely new backstories, which in this case, they do.

Final Words

I have done my best to highlight some common concerns brought to my attention recently, but if there's anything else that is still troubling you, please feel free to reach out and I will do my best to answer and also edit this post with updated info.

Likewise, if you feel I am misinformed about anything, or would like me to add additional points, please also feel free to reach out. The goal here is to reassure everyone that the game is in no way facing any drastic changes or losing a beloved character. I understand for many, this may be their first time playing an otome game, so the gameplay is very unfamiliar and confusing. Let's try to help our fellow players and stop the spread of misinformation going around. 🙏

[sandsorghum]

Clouds & Curtains

husband!Nanami x wife!reader

wc. 1.3k

summary. Perhaps Nanami's approach to...rousing you in the mornings has changed over the years.

tags. Established relationship, Domestic bliss | Romance | Smut | Body (& Soul)Worship | Mentions of Nanami wanting to be a father

a/n: Super soft, super indulgent piece. Have your cake and eat it nanami girlies. Sometimes i just need to write him a love letter ok

Prologue

Back when you'd just begun to be intimate with each other, Nanami tended to be a little embarrassed about his subconscious (but hardly subtle) desires for you. He would rather suffer his internal, infernal dilemma than disrupt your rest. But he couldn't quite control his urges, squirming between decency and depravity, not when you'd rub up against him, so innocuous and merciless.

It was a hard habit to shake; how Nanami felt he ought to earn your every quiver against him, every whimper, however much he yearned to feel you tremble at his moans at any given moment. It was codified in him, there was a time and a place and patterns to follow, before he could permit himself the pursuit of your shared pleasures.

Of course, you'd unveil him in the evenings, the privilege of your touch stripping bare the prerogatives of his flesh. You unraveled him, his reticence, his reasoning, his very capacity for speech, by braiding your breath and fingers with his, in the friction-begetting-friction tangle of your lips and limbs together.

Yet he still thinks of these mornings, that find the two of you entwined, as an undeserved luxury. So Nanami would do his best instead to focus on your face, how sweet your peaceful expression was. It would be wicked of him not to cherish this, he'd chastise himself for wanting more, for wanting to drown in your adoring gaze, for wanting to return it with his own hungry one, body and spirit beggared by the night, by the hours not spent beheld by you.

Nanami assumed the beauty and tenderness of your countenance would quell, or could sate his appetites, would tame the primal stirrings in his belly. But nothing could be further from the truth, in fact they had the opposite, compounding effect; a lump in his throat would rise, and his desperation would thicken till he could only helplessly rut his hips against you.

And then your eyelids would flutter open, and in the crease of your knowing smile, all his definitions, his distinctions, all that distance between need and greed would collapse with a single kiss.

Years later, and your husband is so absolutely shameless about his...early head starts to the day. He pulls you into him, snug against the cleft of your ass cheeks, content to let your scent and radiance seep through the thin fabric and warm him in a way the sun, in its reluctance behind the clouds and curtains, can never hope to.

He stares at the petulance drooping off the petals of your lips, rose bud coiled tight before daybreak can coax it to unfurl for strobes of gold. Nanami is a patient man, too patient you've often thought, yet you feel his phantom touch, a tender sweep of your mouth, a zephyr whispering in the wings, billowing brocade and swelling muslin, ghost pulling you through the gauze of sleep.

You shift against Nanami to hear him sigh your name, soft and distant, thick with slumber and affection and it's this which rouses you more, not merely his growing rigidity pressed to the curves of you. Although, it helps, feeling every inch of his hunger like this, in a slow swirl and pinch at your waist, the gentlest rocking as your breasts are cradled in his palms, familiar persuasion pebbling your areola. You know he dreams of them swollen with milk, that all your memories of his teeth are girded by the desire for them to be suckled by the most innocent of mouths, baring only gums and tiny wails. Your nubs stiffen and a small smile stretches across your face at the thought that with his wish to grow a family fulfilled, he might find also a small regret, of his monopoly of your mounds contested by another, to whom he owes the genesis of your body's generosity, that sweet fullness dribbling, stolen, into your husband's mouth, enticing in its envy.

This prospect of hypocrisy is to be savoured for another day, far down the road. This morning brings neither hesitation nor urgency, all syrupy light and his maple gaze, the languor of his limbs splayed around you to be treasured just as much as the gradual grind of his cock. There's a certain smugness in its slowness, as with the self-assuredness of his thumb circling a bare sliver of your skin.

A familiar motion that stirs a memory, fuchsia-tinted for the both of you. You remember your then boyfriend stammering and scarlet-tipped, matched to the rosy tips of his ears, excuses lost in the shuffle of sheets and stutter of hips.

"I-it's just-just the t-temp-ah-temperatuur," he'd slurred, the excuse as thin and transparent as the sticky film he laved across your throat, dangerously growing gossamer and feebler with every twitch and each strong buck against your body.

"Mmhmm," you'd hum, carnal ache turning you conciliatory. Such complacency. You had been the one to smirk back then, canines gleaming coy, as you offered ruin in the guise of reprieve.

"Want me to warm you up, darling?" Hands already reaching for him, mind already marveling before your fingers could be reacquainted with their hubris, his girth.

"P-please, anythin-nghing" he'd panted, all wide-eyed desperation to be devoured, sweet thing.

You'd been such a fool.

To not know not greed was a two-way street, this ravenous osmosis, this vicious ouroborous.

You think perhaps, in fact, you got the worse end of the deal, trembling against your spouse now, thighs clamped together.

"My dear," Nanami hums, a teasing timbre dripping honey as he sinks his fingers in, "always so ready for me."

You squirm, eyes screwed shut and fisting the sheets, trying to grasp the pale image of the boy who'd once writhed and blushed beneath you, a spectre all but vanquished. You miss him, sometimes.

You arch your back into Nanami, the way you know he's addicted to, just to hear him groan your name, ragged with the dregs of self-restraint or slumber, you're not sure which, but it's a close enough echo to send pleasure juddering through you, the recollection churning hot in your gut, of when he was wrapped around your finger, instead of your cunt around his.

"Sweetheart."

The tenderness of his tone pries your lids open. He doesn't have to ask, doesn't have to say anything but he does, because he knows you are too stubborn to ask for what you need to hear.

"My love."

He claims your gasp, in the crush and curl of his mouth, in the crook of his fingers.

"My girl."

Another smattering of kisses, chasing the flutters of your belly down, down, down to your creases weeping nectar. He licks a whine from you, pitching high into the air, his husky moan vibrating within you.

"My wife."

You feel the hot gust of Nanami's breath over your clit, as he pauses.

"My wife."

There's a reverence as he repeats himself, pathetic attempts to vanquish his disbelief, wonder glistening in his gold-flecked irises, staring at you in awe, searching for proof this isn't some frenzied fever dream of his.Of course, he finds it in your own unwavering eyes.

You've been such a fool.

There, in the locked gaze your shared history glimmers, that shy boy paralyzed by his worship of you, prostrate as the man before your parted legs now, offering his soul, his past, his future.

You reach for him, and he surges upwards. The collision is wave returning and rising from oceans, over and over, is starburst, is incandescence, is the fission of atoms never, ever meant to be split.

It burns away all notions of him as your acolyte or priest, any concept of deity and devotee.

"My life," he breathes into you, and you feel the throb in your ribs, the furnace of his lungs.

"My life," you repeat to your husband.

Adam. Prometheus. Kento.

This morning and many after, he lavishes you with irreverence, a ravishing of irrelevance; his goddess, his woman, his joy -all that matters is that you are his and he is yours; Together, you forge a paradise that exists for as long as the melding of your souls persist, boundless as horizons and sure as sunrises.

@houseofsolisoccasum