#also her veil or at least the same type of cloth is also wrapped around her baby

[dirtytransmasc]

Alicent, exhausted, being forced to present her son to Viserys, panic in her eyes, hoping he is good enough for her husband:

[dropsofletters]

hate everything

— summary: the heir of a fashion brand and a modelling company has nothing to do with a duchess, but xu minghao spends more time in her castle than anyone else she ever knows. perhaps, his presence is so perpetrating that even after falling in love and breaking her heart a thousand times, he stands. she may hate everything, but she doesn’t hate him.

— title: hate everything — pairing: xu minghao x reader (ft. joshua hong) — genre: heir!au ; duchess!au ; royal!au ; strangers to friends to lovers!au ; slowburn!au   — type: angst ; fluff ; romance ; drama ; suggestive ; humor (with a happy ending though!) — word count: 25,984

December 17th. Five years ago.

To wear a dress is a tradition. No matter how harshly the fabric tightens around her ribcage, or how badly her legs ache whenever she has to bend over and place another faux kiss on a person’s cheek. To have something as expensive as the cloths that drape over her should be a blessing, the quartz pink lace of her sleeves falling off her shoulders, a corset placed on her waist to become an image to look at—a product, maybe. The skirt leaves more to the imagination, flared and eccentric, and she’s starting to wonder if someone would realize if she only slipped away from these hells that should’ve been crafted in Hell—

Royals are used to this. The children of those enigmatic individuals train the entirety of their lives to be three things: charismatic, beautiful…and fake, overall. One would know when she’s an outsider; part of it but also a branch of the many more important people in her family-line. Therefore, her Father being a Duke and his daughters becoming, inherently, Duchesses of their own shouldn’t be of higher importance than anyone else in this goddamned party, but they are. Because, over everything, they are there for something—to be coquettish and courted, find a man of wealth of the highest society to decide either of them is worth their time.

She pushes her chest forward when her Mother steals a glance at her, quirking an eyebrow in the process, silently telling her to act like a lady. Maybe, Princesses are used to this, but she’s not quite ready to call herself anything remotely close to that. Instead, she brings her cup of lemon water up her mouth, opening her lips a bit wider so her immaculate lipstick doesn’t get ruined and scrunches up her nose as delicately as possible in the process. The children’s table is filled with snacks and sodas, and she can’t help but feel envious of such exquisiteness.

The high ceilings showcase twirls of gold and blue, curling onto themselves to give the view of a wider space. Instead, the white and champagne walls are covered in pictures of the real Royals. Her family, though not as close, definitely more wealthy and more important than she is, mingling and chatting as if it’s their job. It probably is. Some people stay at the center, dancing with glee, finding more people to talk to, all of status. Not that she does anything other than stay seated on her designated table and let her sister do her job.

Socialize, in this case.

Socialize and find some connection that will leave her family in a better position.

She breathes in softly, her fingertips playing with the itchy fabric of her skirt, feeling the strands of her hair start to hurt against her scalp after holding up such hairstyle for so long. This is not who she is, but it’s who she is designated to be. Normality has not been set for her, neither has fame made its way towards her. She is nothing more than just another dot in a world where she doesn’t quite fit in—Royal, but never a known Royal. It’s up to her to make herself become a paragraph, more than the simplistic end of a sentence.

When she feels the presence of someone behind her, she doesn’t think much. Around five hundred people, if not more, have attended the main castle’s grand event and, of course, there is not of space left. But when a soft breath mingles on the back of her neck and a manly scent, almost musky, makes its way through her nostrils, she realizes whoever this man is has decided to get close to her specifically.

“Why aren’t you enjoying yourself?” There it is, that voice, dulcet, soft, breathy into the air as he tries to whisper only to her over the music. It reminds her of words written on the back of her notebooks in high school and crushes that were destroyed by the imminent existence of graduation. The schools she attended to, since the beginning of her life, had been considered the best of the best but the only good thing she remembers is—

“Joshua.” The name comes to her easily, and she doesn’t even have to turn around to see one of the many Princes of a land not too far away from hers. Well, not hers—her family’s, or something of the like. Joshua is, technically, perhaps the fifth in line if he were to ever reach the throne, and he spends most of his time out of his small land than doing Royal work. “What are you doing here?”

Joshua holds a glass of what seems to be wine on his right hand, his brown hair pushed away from his youthful face. Only twenty and looking like he owns the world, and perhaps, he does. A fitted suit falls on his slim body, his waist accentuated, the back of the jacket trailing a bit downwards, its rich black color contrasting well with his olive skin. His eyes fold romantically at the same time his lips curve onto a smile. “Hi.” He says first. “Well, uh, I was invited? Isn’t that the only reason why I would be here?”

“I haven’t seen any of your brothers here.” And most people would say that they don’t know the names of all the Hong brothers, but she does. It comes with the number of times she has spent keeping her sighs locked in front of Joshua, a daydream that has been unattainable for the entirety of her life. “That’s—I figured you wouldn’t be here.”

“Now I’m here.” Joshua breathes out, taking a sip of his wine. “Why the long face?”

“Ah—” Her hands indeed come grasp at her cheeks, eyes widened as she tries to come up with an excuse. “I don’t really like parties, that’s all.”

The statement has his eyebrows raising, youthful above all. “That’s a big statement.”

“There’s a lot of people here,” She says, hands coming to rest on top of her dress, curling around one another only not to reach out for him. Not that she has ever heard of Joshua being a lover of many girls, but…he has never quite shown signs of wanting to be with her. “And no one really wants to talk to me, so. Also, the drinks…I don’t like them. I’m hungry, too—”

Joshua’s smile transcends into full-on laughter, throwing his head back just as he extends his hand forward. “You just haven’t gone to a good party.” He says, waving his fingers into the air. “Come on, stand up.”

The feeling of his hand sliding into hers feels like the satin covers of her bed, slipping away from her in a rainy morning when the maids ask her to join them for breakfast. When her family is not around and she gets to enjoy the solitude of being both warm and cold. Joshua does as much as interlocking his fingers with hers, and she both wants to smile and die at the same time. “What—? Why?”

“I’m taking you to a good party.” Joshua decides out of the sudden, walking with grace as they move towards the entrance, but she has to stop him at that moment, heels digging onto the tile flooring in a way that almost has her falling.

“J—Joshua…” She chuckles a bit when he looks at her over his shoulder, finishing the last few drops of his wine. “My family is here with me. I just can’t leave like that—”

“Tell your sister to cover up for you.” Joshua says, shrugging his shoulders. “Come on, we both know we’re Royals…but we’re not that important in this event. If we leave now, we still have the rest of the night to enjoy.” His words are calm, like everything he does, never does he look like he fears the world may eat him alive for his actions. “Besides, I’ll make sure to take you home safe and sound.”

One of those opportunities that falls from the sky, graced by heaven, suddenly seem to be covered in a veil of doubt. Her family would love for her to go out with someone of importance like Joshua—but parties aren’t her kind of thing. She has gone to many of them as she has grown up, drained herself of all possible social skills because of how tough it is to try to be liked by everyone. “…Are you sure this is a good party?”

“Listen,” Joshua breathes out, a pout on his lips. “My oldest brother is going to get married in January and my friends want to throw a birthday party for me before I have to go back to my land. That’s all that’s going on.”

“But, your birthday is on December 30th—”

“And I’m leaving on the 21st.” He tugs at her hand then, and maybe, this is enough to tug at her heart strings, as well. “Come on, we haven’t hung out since I graduated and that was almost two years ago.” Knowing how to speak, because someone like Joshua Hong has taken charisma classes since the day he was born, perhaps, he adds: “I’ve missed you. It’s all up to you, of course, no pressure.”

Missing him is something she has done, as well. With every arranged dinner with someone that she doesn’t like, and every moment she spends wrapped in between her blankets watching romantic comedies, in the rare occasion that she exchanges her historical films and enthusiasm for something more of the like of youth. Joshua Hong is someone she met when she entered her teenage years and has become, instead, her longtime dream.

“…Only if you take me home before three in the morning.”

Joshua nods. “I can do that.”

“And if you promise we’ll grab something to eat on the way there.”

“My friends are waiting for me outside. I can ask them go get some drive-through on the way to the mansion we’re hanging out at.” He always has a solution to life, so simplistic and sure of himself, and maybe that’s what drags her closer to her sister, asking her to cover up for her as her heels click against the floor. Now, the least of her worries is how pompous this dress is, but how nice of an opportunity has settled on her lap instead.

Throughout her entire life, she has had a conceptualization of love that feels like a fairytale. If she didn’t get to live the entire fairytale of being a Princess, then she may as well expect to get a Prince in return. The way the wind blew on his hair as he talked to his friends, taking small bites of the fries they shared, his eyes glistening when he looked at her—it all felt like love. The young kind. The one that makes her feel like she only has one more day to live and he’s willing to give it all to her. His jacket rubs her skin when he gets her closer to her, music blasting loudly, and for once, she’s not the daughter of the Duke and Duchess, or another Duchess in that raunchy Royal stance—

She’s just another person in this world.

“…Hey, you okay?” The question breathes in between the two, the limousine able to take up the group of six people. Joshua, however, only seems to have eyes for her. Maybe, it’s that little string of hope that tells her that the butter-like words and the fluttery feeling inside her chest mean something. They have to. “I’m here for you if you need anything, okay? If you want to leave, we will.”

So far, nothing seems to bother her. Instead, she lets him wrap his fingers around hers, sending a hum his way. “I like this. They’re nice.”

“They are.” He conquers, looking out the window once again. Petrichor and a Prince, the sprinkles of the unwelcomed rain now becoming a mere memory. His lips wrap around a tranquil smile when he says: “You’re an adult now. People become nicer as you grow older.”

But that’s not what she has heard the maids at her small castle say. People only grow worst with time, like weeds—they hope someone falls so they can hold onto them. Twenty and ready to bite into the world with expertise, she accepts his words as truth. “I see.” She conquers. “Maybe, I’ll get to know people like that now that I’m going to university.”

“Didn’t you want to go for history in university?” Joshua asks, and she remembers the talks that they used to have when he was a senior in high school.

“That’s the dream.”

“Say: That’s the plan.” Joshua corrects. “If you make it a certainty, you won’t have time to hesitate.”

That may be the key to happiness—not hesitating, not doubting, not blinking twice when a man like that offers her his jacket and holds her hand like he never wants to let go of her. Joshua has become a plan, not a dream. “That’s the plan.” She whispers, earning a chuckle from Joshua.

“Good.”

###

The wicked, Mother used to call them. Those who live their lives for anything other than socializing in the most antique of ways are considered to be outcasts. From Royals, one can only expect utmost beauty—from normal people? The raunchiest. Those go to cheap parties. Those drink horrid alcohol. Those embark in love stories that only last mere months, and drop their secrets out at the appearance of whatever person seems trustworthy enough. Mother always considered people less than her, but she never understood her. Why is it that out of this group of six people she should feel better? Because she doesn’t enjoy a party? Because this mansion is bigger than her own and hence, she has to find something she is better in than the owner of said house?

The son of the owner of the house, Zhang Wei, barely pays attention to the pristine flooring or the worker that trails right behind him to serve him another glass of wine. He’s twenty-one, the oldest of the group, and somehow, so lost in his own world that he doesn’t notice anyone but his own phone. According to Joshua, he’s not as much of a lightweight as others, and the frown perched on his enigmatic and perfectly crafted face comes from the longing of his lover, living seas and seas away from him. Zhang Wei is a sight to look at when he’s seated on the red, leather couch of his living room, the clean wood under his feet looking dirty with how shiny his designer shoes were.

Heejin is the drunkest, as of now, twenty years old just like Joshua, long hair cascading down her back as she insists on holding onto Kyle, one of her closest friends, whose bottle-like glasses make his brown eyes look much smaller. Finally, Seungcheol has lost himself to the karaoke machine nearby, taking the bottle from the worker’s tray to bring it up his lips, taking a nice swig of the alcohol before smiling brightly. Life is good for all of them, so why should she judge?

“Let me help you out,” She doesn’t notice the reason behind Joshua’s words, or why he places his glass of rosy champagne in between her fingertips as he drops to kneel in front of her. His fingers softly glide across the bottom portion of the fabric of her skirt to showcase her feet. “You’ve been fidgeting since we got here. I’m sure Zhang Wei’s sister has a pair of flats that is more comfortable for you.”

“Ah, they were supposed to make my legs look better.” Though, that doesn’t seem to phase him, lifting a thoughtful eyebrow that reminds her of the times she would catch a glimpse of him studying in the school’s library. She’s free from such place as of now, thankfully, for the only memories she wants to keep include Joshua and some history classes in between.

“No one can look at your legs with this cupcake you have for a dress.” He jokes and her laughter rips through her even when Seungcheol’s singing voice covers all sources of it. “Besides,” Joshua starts again, throwing her white shoes somewhere on the wood, clicking obnoxiously. “Your legs are already good as they are.”

It’s in the magic of acceptance that a true gentleman earns a heart. Somehow, Joshua reminds her of the men in the shows her maids watch. Damn, she spends a lot more time with them than she does with her Mother. “You say?”

“I confirm.” Joshua finishes, settling himself down on the seat beside her before taking his cup once again. “Besides, it’s not like I could not notice. You always dress the prettiest for all the events we go to.”

She has to giggle at that. “Thank my stylist.”

“Why do you doll yourself up so much?” Joshua asks, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s not like it matters. What other people think of us, that is.”

Oh, and that’s only one of the many things she loves about Joshua. How in syntony and acceptance he seems to be with the fact he’ll never reach the throne. “Mother says we should always look our best. You never know who you’re going to find.”

“Are you looking for someone?” Joshua asks, eyes inspecting her vision, lips wrapping around the glass in a way she wishes would rest upon hers. A first kiss from him would be a symphony to dance to, a bite onto the cleanest of apples. “Like—”

“No.” She replies quickly, interrupting him in the process. “Well, no—ah, not really. Depends…”

Joshua chuckles. “Depends on what?”

“On, well…” On you, Joshua Hong. “Depends on the situation. I’m not looking, rather…waiting.”

“Waiting,” He repeats, a gush of air blowing towards her face straight from his mouth—alcohol in his scent. “Yeah, that sounds like you. You’re the person anyone would love to wait for.”

“Am I?” She asks, trying not to sound impressed. Flirty, she aims to be, but she sounds far more robotic than intended. “Oh, wow.”

A laugh that doesn’t make it out his mouth accompanies his next statement. “Go look for a pair of shoes with Heejin. At this point, we all have to dance to Seungcheol’s singing.”

“Okay, but wait for me, okay?”

The connotations of such sentence only fall on her later, opening her mouth to say something before Joshua smiles widely. “Isn’t that what I’ve been doing for a while?”

Heejin doesn’t even have to be called by the time she wraps her slim arms around her shoulders, placing her cheek against hers as she speaks loudly. “Ah, I love all of you guys so much.” Her voice trails with the amount of alcohol inside her body, her cheeks tainted in a deep red, her nice profile cold to the touch. “Who are you again?”

She has to give a tight-lipped smile then. “Care to help me find a pair of shoes? My heels were killing me and I need something comfortable.”

“Ah, of course!” Though, even through her drunken hues, her sweet personality comes through and shines a light. “…I know exactly where to find shoes here.”

“Good.” Heejin clings to her hand with glee, moving her to the spacious and curved set of stairs as she throws a glance over her shoulder to look at Joshua. The man, however, simply lifts his hand to greet her, leaving her with a small—

“Have fun.”

She’s meant to be having fun, she reminds herself as she roams the mansion for the third time because Heejin can’t quite concentrate when she is this drunk. She’s meant to be having fun, she says in a low breath, when Heejin opens as many doors as possible until they reach the one that belonged to Zhang Wei’s sister, apparently not there at all. In the faint distance, she can hear Joshua’s voice singing into the microphone, epitome of youth, somehow calling out for her attention because she should be there. Wasting ten minutes of her time with him just for a pair of shoes just doesn’t sound like the best idea.

“Shua never mentioned you. It’s the first time I hear about you.” Heejin says, and she doesn’t know if her words are meant to prick or not, but they do. For someone as important to her as Joshua not to care enough to talk about her hurts. Maybe, this group of people are just not close enough to him, and that’s why he doesn’t talk about her. “Are you a Princess?”

Heejin trudges inside the sky-blue room, bumping onto a few things, dropping her jacket on the bed and she immediately picks it up. They can’t leave anything behind that tells anyone they were there taking shoes, after all. “Ah, no,” She says, following after her towards two huge, white doors. “I’m the daughter of a Duchess. That technically makes me a Duchess, too—”

“So, a Lady.”

“Yes, a Lady.” The doors open gleefully, gates to heaven that welcome a spacious wardrobe. Shelves in pristine white, bathed in bright lights, hold different types of jewelry and shoes, all organized by color and by brand. “What about you?”

Heejin may be surprised about her curiousness, twirling her brown hair in between her fingers after absentmindedly trying to put it up on a ponytail. She fails, too drunk to even do that. “I don’t have a Royal title.” She starts. “None of us besides Joshua do.” But she doesn’t forget to put some penny for her thoughts. “My dad owns four hospitals in different continents. My mom is…I don’t know, I think she’s a fashion designer. I haven’t talked to her in so long.” Though, the champagne in her system must not let her linger on the thought.

“…I see.” She mumbles, a smile on her face. “Ah, and what happened to Zhang Wei’s sister?”

“She’s at university.” Heejin replies, moving away from the walk-in closet and towards the balcony. Opening the doors wider, she now starts to unzip her dress, her eyes widening in the process. What the fuck is this girl on? “Uni…it’s overrated. It wants to make us all feel dumb. I failed my exam—”

“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t get naked.” After rushing towards her, she trails the zipper up once again, keeping the red, taut fabric against her body. The harsh breeze of the balcony moves her just as much as Heejin does when she pushes her off her. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I want to go for a swim.” Dare she point towards the pool some good meters down that balcony, on the fucking second floor, and definitely with a good space in between its railings and the pool itself. The lights must be catching the attention of her drunken mind. “It’s going to be fun. Come on, I’ve bungee jumped, this is going to be just as easy—”

“Heejin, no.” She says, tugging at the woman’s arms when she leans her weight against the railing. “It’s dangerous. You could fall and—”

“I’m not going to fall. I said I’m a professional—”

“Heejin!” She never raises her voice. The last time she did so, she ended up being told to act like a Lady, anger flaring through the room. This time around, however, fear replaces the highness of her tone. “You could split your head in half. Don’t. I’ll take you to the pool if you want to.”

“I’ve done this before. Don’t be a prude—!” The whine on Heejin’s voice gets more persistent, and even when she pushes Heejin’s back towards her chest to bring her away from the balcony, the young woman’s toned legs flimsily move to push herself away.

“Joshua!” She calls out in a scream, in hopes of having someone support her with whatever the hell Heejin, the now discovered daredevil, wants to do. “I’m calling Joshua and we’ll take you to a swim, just—” More moving around from Heejin, perhaps trying to get away from her grasp. “Joshua! Come help me out here!”

Why is it that he’s gone when she needs him the most? Fear clinging at her throat, heart beating, eyes staring at Heejin as she slips away from her hands and works on taking her dress off again.

“Stop it, Heejin! Get over here!”

The doors of the room open with a harsh bang, thoughts of Joshua listening to her clouding her mind in a second, still battling to keep Heejin’s dress up the woman’s body. Instead, she watches a young man barge into the room. The short strands of his black hair done a mess from the sleep that still lingers on his features, a straight nose and plush lips that accompany somewhat aloof eyes, that only manage to widen a fraction when he watches Heejin on the balcony, using only one hand to tug at her wrist and bring her inside the room.

“I was trying to sleep and you were being loud, Heejin.” The soft timbre of his voice is surprising, the black t-shirt on his body reaching his hips, the rest of his legs covered in pajama pants in plaid figures. He must know Heejin far better than she does. “What did you think you were doing?”

Heejin stares at the man in front of her when he sits her down on the soft, almost cloud-like mattress, bringing one hand up before waving it across his face. “Minghao, I didn’t know you were going to be here today.”

“It’s been a year since I started living here, Heejin. Use another excuse.” The man says, putting down Heejin’s hand with a soft touch before turning to look at her. “She was causing you trouble?”

“She was trying to throw herself into the pool from the balcony.” She says, well aware that it sounds like an atrocity, but she can’t bring herself to say anything but the truth. Her fingers twirl against one another under the weight of his watchful gaze. “I’m sorry we woke you up.”

“…You better.” He breathes out, though the initial annoyance of his entrance seems to be dissipating. “I’ll make her something to eat and then, I’ll ask Zhang Wei to take her home. If he’s not too drunk.” Minghao seems to be deep in thought at that, shaking his head in the process. “Who am I kidding? I’ll call a cab.”

“Okay.” She adds, a small smile on her features as she moves towards the door, shoeless, with her hair done a mess, and with the sleeves of her dress somewhat disorganized after so much tugging and pulling with Heejin. “I’ll go look for Joshua and ask me to take me home.” Though, she stops herself, turning around to look at Minghao. “Wait, why should I leave Heejin with you? I don’t even know you…”

“…I’m Zhang Wei’s cousin.” Minghao indicates, asking Heejin to stand up soon after before walking behind her, as if dragging her away from the room. Though, what surprises her the most when the door closes behind all three of them is that he manages to say her sister’s name, quirking an eyebrow in the process. “Yeah, you both look alike.”

With Minghao walking in front of her with more certainty, definitely knowing this mansion like the palm of his hand, she stutters out an answer. “And how do you know my sister?”

“I’m good friends with her.”

“I have never seen you with her.” She retorts, not quite trusting how knowledgeable this man seems to be about everything. Even Heejin grew quiet when around him, following after his every step.

“Your sister says you’re not around much.” She can’t deny that, either. For her, she’s always being prepared to find someone that betters her title—and that takes a lot of socializing and going around with her parents. “Shouldn’t I be the one who is suspicious about you? You were inside my cousin’s room and I don’t even know you.”

“I came here with Joshua and Heejin was looking for something there.” She excuses herself, leaving out the obvious—she was there to look for shoes, and Minghao may have not noticed just because of the length of her dress.

Just when they reach the bottom of the stairs, she expects to see Joshua already there—at the edge of his seat, ready to know what happened. Instead, he’s laying back on one of the many couches in the living room, his glass on one hand and his phone on the other, avidly talking to someone in a low tone, even over the music.

“Tell you something,” Minghao instructs, taking this time to show some expression on his youthful, innocent face. He may be eighteen or nineteen at most. “I’ll call a cab for you two, as well, and you’re going to go home. It’s late and you’re too drunk. This can only go wrong.”

She thinks about it for a moment, and she crosses her arms over her chest when she calls out for— “Joshua!”

The man pushes his phone away from his ear, smiling softly when he asks: “Yes?”

“I want to leave.”

“We were going to an after-party, though—”

“I want to leave.” Something of the like of pride flashes through Minghao’s face when he takes his phone in between his hands.

Joshua breathes out softly, blinking at her as if he’s trying to study her, before saying something on the phone and hanging up. She’ll never know who he was calling. “Okay, we’re leaving. There’s no need to get harsh.”

With one arm around her shoulder and a kiss to her temple, she figures out she forgives him for not appearing at the balcony.

Because Joshua is that. A silent conversation in a cab as he texts someone for an after-party, mainly because he wants to enjoy his youth as it barely begins. He’s the promises he breathes out, the words that he says, the comfort that comes with being with him—because he’s known, and he’ll always be. One day, he could even be her home. It leads to nothing, as of now, but something about this night tells her that the quietness in between the two will sort into something else. Tranquility, maybe. The tranquility that she has never gotten in that castle she lives in.

His fingertips trail down her arm when he presses one last kiss to her cheek, opening the door to the cab and getting back inside after she stands in front of the castle. The fountain by the entrance welcomes her as quickly as the guards do, and she can’t look at Joshua without needing to go back with him. Instead, she stares at the time in her phone.

Three in the morning.

Three in the morning and she watches Joshua leave to another party, and the Duke’s car parking out and way from the castle. Once again, she’s left in solitude—it’s in her blood to wait for people to arrive to her, for her nights to be filled with the questioning of what could have been. What’s not enough, and what does not meet the expectation of those around her, for them to always want something else.

It’s three in the morning when she gives a smile to the guards, trying to forget the feeling of the concrete under her bare feet, and once again, she’s greeted with the usual. A compliment on her liveliness, even at such a time.

It’s three in the morning and she’s lying.

###

August 3rd. Three years ago.

Dinners always go like this.

First, a sip of the richest drink. Fruit directly from mother nature, crafted by the hands of those who work for her.

Lips moistened, the fork and knife cut through whatever is served. In the rare occasion her Mother is not looking at her, she mixes the vegetables with the main course, adds a bit more of sauce. She lets herself enjoy it at those times.

Two chews, slow, steady, and she nods at whatever the Duchess says. The table is long enough for her to feel like she’s miles away—in this family, it always feels like that.

When she swallows, she always tries to look for a middle ground, something that doesn’t make the food go up her esophagus out of nervousness. When her eyes connect with her sister’s, she finds it. The only person in that entire table that knows her well.

Then, it’s inherent. She looks for the Duke, her Father, blocks every thought of her mind that wonders if his long trips and getaways include another family, an affair, or if he’s simply doing his job. Trust earns itself, and it lacks, thereof.

The process repeats itself until her plate is finished and she can excuse herself away from the table.

Her name is called, catching her attention away from the plate underneath her. Tomatoes sliced to perfection are left on the white ceramic when she connects gazes with her mother’s—eyes the same shade as hers, but much colder. “…How’s everything going with Joshua, my love?”

Maybe, her family was never of a higher stance in the Royal timeline because they deserved it. The only way she becomes a loving matter in this castle is when Joshua’s name lingers in between, and she can’t hate him for it. Kisses shared underneath the moonlight sealed their relationship long ago—after that December they saw each other last, and he continuously texted and called her, opting to go visit her on January to make it official. A relationship that most called expected, while she thought of it as a blessing.

Placing the fork and knife down, she interlocks her fingers together, catching a glimpse of her favorite maid and, perhaps, her best friend, Hana, standing a few meters away from her mother. Instead, she decides to answer as simplistically as possible. “We’re doing excellently, Mother.” Though, that much is not a lie. Joshua’s been working on investments to depart, or grow away, from the Royal family, and that has made him spend more time in her land rather than his. “Two years and still going strong, that has to say something.”

“It does not say much.” The Duchess says, extending her gloved hands towards her Father before resting it on top of his extended hand. “It feels like he’s not so sure about you, honey. Your Father asked for my hand after nine months of dating. If a man is sure about what he wants, he’ll make it happen in a second.”

The shots are fired, then. Though young and full with the will to keep up with her duties as a Lady, her Mother aches for more. It’s in the line of women like them—marry someone of importance, and after her relationship with Joshua became serious, all the hopes of marriage fell on her shoulders. Her sister, on the other hand, had managed to go for university…just like the two of them had dreamt of doing. History slipped away from her hands, and she doesn’t think she’s making history of her own.

“Mother,” Her sister says, an eye-roll to her statement. “Just let her be. Not everything has to end with marriage.”

“I—I think…” She stutters, wetting her lips with a bit of the orange juice in front of her. It does nothing to ease her nerves when under the gaze of the Duchess. “I think Joshua and I are fine as we are. We still have to live this part of our lives and marriage is such a serious thing—”

“Love.” Her Mother interrupts, cutting through the air with certainty. “You need to be someone of importance. I’m not going to be here for you forever…and you must find the strength to keep going. Richness. A kingdom. Something. We have given you education, now you must harvest your future.”

Though, she has never thought of her future as one that revolves around a man. It shouldn’t be like that. For, the times that she doesn’t spend with Joshua, she does a lot more than what anyone can see—study in the library, bask herself in books, do some appearances in the local schools to teach about history. The real kind. The kind that teaches people to be kinder, to want to change the world. Their land may be small, but while she is there, they won’t lack the proper information to continue growing as a society.

“Right?” The Duchess asks the Duke, and the man can only hum.

“That Joshua guy…he’s nice, but if he hasn’t asked for your hand in marriage, at least as a promise, I can’t see this going anywhere.” But, what does the Duke know about relationships? He’s barely even here to start with—

“That’s why you should try to be better. Make him notice how good of a wife you could be.” That’s what she has always been—a trophy. Words that are knives and cut right through her. No matter how much she takes in one morning with the stylists to doll herself up, or how precisely she tries to speak, there is always something else to try out. A new posture. A new class. Anything to be able to take a man’s attention. Sometimes, the tip of her tongue itches to just say: fuck that.

“I think he likes me as I am, Mother.” She replies, her hand tightening against the fork and the knife to continue eating. She’s hungry, so she may as well continue biting on her food even if she’s talking with her family. “I don’t have to be better.”

“Then, he’ll leave you.” Her mother says, as if it doesn’t hurt. As if the thought of Joshua just taking his things and going back to his land, for real, doesn’t pierce through her and leaves her breathing ragged, obstinate. “Darling, he’s always going back and forth. Business stuff, sure, but still…in one of those many trips, he’ll find someone he’ll deem better.”

“If he loves me, I’m his only option—”

“Men don’t work like that.” The Duchess spites, though she is quite thankful that she has vegetables inside her mouth, moving softly with her chewing, because she would have inherently said what everyone knows in this castle, even the workers. It’s not men that don’t work like that, it’s your man. “He’ll get bored pretty soon.”

“If that day comes, I’ll move on.”

“And do what?” The Duchess asks. “Recite the entirety of our land’s history to children for the rest of your life? Come on, darling, I taught you better.” But most of the things she learned came from the workers, the maids, the butlers, the people that lingered around her while her family was socializing— “You have to seek for a title. A Prince’s Wife, and he has been making far more money recently—of his own, too. Joshua is the perfect image of the man you have to marry.”

“Can’t we just stop talking about this?” Her sister questions, throwing her napkin on the table. “Really, it’s fucking annoying. She can do what she wants—”

“Language.” The Duke mumbles in between bites of his meal, never once lifting his gaze. Not like he cares. She continues staring at her mother, the woman shrugging her shoulders.

“It’s her choice.” But those words don’t sound like they would come from the Duchess. “But that man is the only man that she has loved, and the only one that has loved her. If she doesn’t get married now, she’s going to lose it all. Richness. Love. Opportunities. I’ll just sit back and watch it happen, then.”

Hana clears her throat, moving towards her side before dragging the plate away from under her gaze. Not that she does much, leaving the fork and knife in the air as she tries to think of who she is. What she has become other than a people pleaser, leaving all thoughts of her dreams behind to live for others— “Lady, you have finished your plate. May I give you another serving?”

She hadn’t even realized, but instead, she stands up. Moving the fabric of her black dress down her thighs, she juts her chin forward. “I’ll eat in the kitchen.” She replies, lowering her gaze when her Mother quirks an eyebrow at her. “May you please ask the chef to make me some mashed potatoes? I’m craving that.”

“Of course, Lady.”

Though, she can’t give more than a few steps behind Hana before she hears her Mother calling out her name. “You’re not leaving like that, are you?”

Sometimes, she likes to believe there is regret in the Duchess’ voice, that something in her strict way of being means that she cares. Probably, she does—cares about the status of her daughters, more often than not squinting her gaze at her slightly younger sister for being…in love with too many people. Instead, she tries to follow after her words, lowering her face the slightest to press a kiss to the crown of her head. Her scent doesn’t feel familiar. “May you have a nice meal, Mother.”

Her heart only feels heavier after those words.

###

September 20th. Three years ago.

His breaths mingle in the oxygen around her, though not clear under the golden lights of the event hall’s bathroom. His chest presses against her back, each muscle curving and contorting to match hers—and it has always been beautiful, how Joshua seems to be made just for her. With his eyes closed, eyebrows furrowed to utter perfection, his teeth do wonders on his bottom lip, capturing it until it turns red, only letting go of it when he opens his eyes and pulls away from her, leaving her vacant. His lips flutter against her neck, that spot that he knows makes her ticklish, but somehow always slips his mind.

Joshua, over everything, prides himself on how good he is at hiding. Living a normal life while being a Prince comes easily for him—never once missing the opportunity to be young and free. With the mirror right in front of them, she tries to remind herself that she is a Lady. Golden, creamy dress falling off her shoulders, the see-through sleeves loose yet tightening around her wrists, small dots littering around the fabric. Her boyfriend pulls the skirt down after he zips himself, up, as if that does something to hide the fact that her hair is done a mess, her pink lipstick has suddenly disappeared (if she doesn’t count the remaining bits on her chin), and there is the tiniest layer of sweat on her forehead when she clears her throat.

The image on that mirror is of a woman sedated by a physical connection. Not of a Lady, per say. Not of the conceptualization that the castle has given her.

And she loves it.

It was not something she had done—afraid that someone would walk in, too much of a pillow princess for her to ever think about even doing anything outside of the bedroom, but trying it out just came to her head. There, in Joshua’s land, visiting a ball and not being the center of attention of people’s judgement, the thought of conversations they had in the past slipped inside her head and she ended up dragging him to the nearest bathroom. For a moment, Joshua seems to be happy, arms wrapping around her waist as she does quick wonders on her purse to grab her lipstick.

“…The best part is that I had to listen to Chopin as I did that.” The joke appears in between them as a whisper and she can’t help but chuckle, taking the tube of lipstick and smearing a bit across her lips.

“Nothing sexier than Chopin.” She speaks out, not quite remembering the moment that said piano expert’s music played from the ball on itself. Whatever. Instead, she concentrates on making herself look more presentable. “But we have another issue at hand.”

“What?” Joshua asks, chin pressed to her shoulder as he stares at her. With time, he has only gotten better—eyes more profound, lips rosier, voice more of a lullaby than anything.

“You need to stop doing this.” She instructs, lifting her upper lip the slightest to show bite-marks, the most subtle of darkening spots that come from the deepest of his kisses. “It’s hard to hide and it’s embarrassing because anyone could notice.”

“It’s not noticeable.” Joshua conquers, a pout to his voice. He pulls away the slightest then, fixing the collar of his shirt, silence falling in between them until he frowns deeply. “Babe, what the fuck?”

Annoyance lingers on his tone, and she has to look over her shoulder to see what bothers him. One glance at his face says nothing, his neck is not littered in hickeys—for, she is not much of a fan of marking him in any way. Lower, she realizes what the issue is, her pink lipstick ended up on one portion of his white button down. “Oh shit, sorry.” That’s all she can manage to say, but Joshua sighs instead.

“This is an expensive shirt, babe.”

She has to roll her eyes at this. “Everything you own is expensive, Shua. I’m sure it’s fine—”

“I have to talk to some investors in, like, twenty minutes. This is not a good look.” One last glide of her lipstick should be enough, she tells herself, sparing Joshua a look over her shoulder before sighing.

He wasn’t saying that when they got to this bathroom ten minutes ago. “I already said sorry,” She starts. “Besides, we have water here. We can just pat it out and see what happens—”

A smile appears on his features when she opens the water faucet, droplets cascading in a rapid motion before he closes the tab again. “Babe, this is a Louis Vuitton.”

She quirks an eyebrow then. “And you’re Joshua Hong. They’re just names, what’s the matter?”

“You don’t just pour water on it.”

Though, she has spent enough time with the maids to know the basics about washing clothes or taking a stain out in a rush. “Joshua, how do you think they wash clothes? With water—”

“I’m sure it’ll only ruin it more. Like, drag the stain or something.” Joshua replies, always thinking ahead of himself as he closes the buttons of his golden jacket, staring at himself in the mirror. He fixes the strands of his black hair that had fallen out of place in his forehead before clearing his throat. “I’m sure that would do.”

He’s not wrong, but— “Then, why start that whole drama about your Louis Vuitton shirt?”

“It wasn’t drama.” Joshua whispers, turning to look at her before running his hands over her arms, her legs trying to regain their composure to walk in those high heels. “I just—I’m very nervous, okay? I’ve been doing well with my investments, but it’s the first time I try to invest in something that isn’t music related.”

She lets him touch her, because there is something magical about Joshua. Knowing that he was a first—that she was lucky enough to get the person she liked on the long run, maybe the comfort and familiarity of him. Joshua spends days in his land and days in hers, basks in her presence in both sides, makes it known that he is trying to secure his future, build an empire for himself. Not a single minute goes by without the man thinking what to do next. He’s always had it together.

Crossing one leg over the other, she grasps his face in both of her hands, inspecting who should be hers. What, sometimes, he calls hers. Why is it that the name itself seems to sound lovely to her but doesn’t fit him at all? Joshua Hong is not hers. He is inherently his.

“You always do great.” She whispers, one step forward before meeting her lips with his. Kissing him always feels passionate, like he can’t get enough of her—but time passes too quickly when he does. Rushed, he is, eager to taste more, to have more. For someone as quiet and posh as him, Joshua knows what he wants. When she pulls away, breath taken away, she hears the soft lull of the piano outside. “Besides, there’s nothing to be nervous about. You’ve gone over what you were going to say a bunch of times and you’ve met up with them before. This is only the last step.”

“The last step is always the hardest.”

“But whatever the outcome is, you can always say you tried.”

Joshua opens the door to the bathroom then, the apples of his cheeks lifted when he asks: “Since when did you become so wise?”

Maybe, the words of the Duchess had gotten to live inside her head—what if Joshua did not feel the same as her? What if all those kisses, nights of passion, comfort, were only livelihoods for him? Ways to spend time in her land? Ways to feel like he has a home to go to even when he’s always around, from lands to countries. “I don’t know. History books make you sound posh sometimes.”

“Remind me to start the habit of reading.”

He always says the same thing, a resolution of each year they’ve spent together—but it never happens.

The public loves them. They adore the way Joshua seems to shield her from any eyes with a hand around her waist, or how he seems to take care of her utmost necessities—if her glass is empty, or if she’s hungry. What they don’t know is that this is not the realistic version of them. It’s the happy one—that one that bathes in longing after not seeing each other for an extended period of time, the happy couple that is not so happy because they avoid arguments at all cost. They don’t know that she’s wary of the eyes that linger on him or the way he talks about his life as immaculate. He hasn’t gone back to his castle in years. There is a part of him that doesn’t speak about the heartbreak that came with knowing he was last in line when it came to being a possible King.

He never talks about that. Closed-off. Perhaps, masking it as something he’d rather ignore. Joshua likes covering it up with a veil and let it dust, while she loves talking about her utmost feelings whenever she can. Hana, for example, is an excellent listener as well as a storyteller.

She wishes she had a better dress by the time they get to the center of the room to dance, burgundy walls and brown tiles, gliding against her heels and leaving her legs to touch the coldness of the atmosphere surrounding them. Something longer, perhaps, to feel like a Princess when Joshua is looking directly into her eyes. He smiles then, pulling her closer to whisper something onto her ear.

“Hey, you’re stepping on me.” He says, a chuckle following after his statement before pulling away the slightest. “Skipped those dancing classes, didn’t you?”

“You’re just invading my space, that’s all.” She replies, a bit of embarrassment in her tone when she pinches his shoulder. “Stop talking like that. You’re also not Prince Junhui from the eastern lands.”

He shrugs, something that irks her endlessly. What’s with this overconfidence tonight? “It doesn’t matter.” He conquers, looking down at his feet after. “Try not to ruin my shoes, too, okay?”

“Shua!” She yells in a whisper, eyes widened. “You’re being an ass right now.”

But, as per usual, Joshua gives her one of his enchanting smiles, leaning down to press a kiss to her lips that sneaks a few gasps and sighs of content from the couples watching them. One of the most gorgeous and awaited lovers for the night. “You know I’m just joking,” Though, sometimes it doesn’t feel like it. “And I love you just as you are.”

“I love you, too.” She tells him, a flutter to her chest, but why is it always hard to believe him?

###

September 25th. Three years ago.

“My Lady!”

Hana’s dulcet voice has aged with time, she realizes, a tad different from the unrestrictive strength of her energetic self twenty-something years ago, when she was assessed as her maid and protector. She’s a little bit over her fifties as of now, her short hair bouncing with each step she takes towards her, the length of her black skirt making it difficult for her to walk through the green fields at the entrance of her castle. With wrinkles covering her features and a thin layer of sweat living on the bridge of her nose, her eyelids and her neck, she realizes one thing.

Or two, rather.

One, she really missed home.

Two, she really missed her mom—Hana. The only woman that had grown alongside her, heard about her crush on Joshua when she was a teenager, gave her advice when she went on her first date, and would click her tongue whenever she spoke about some of the issues they had and pushed to the very back not to be talked about.

“Hana!” She breathes out, letting her luggage fall down on the floor to be taken by the butlers, arms extending to encage the taller woman in between her grasp, basking on the familiar scent of oil from the kitchen. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Though, the woman pushes her weight away from her, a mocking smile on her rounded features. “Ah, I doubt it. You were with your boy, the apple of your eye, Prince Joshua.”

“The love is different.” With one arm around her shoulder, she starts to walk forward. “How have things been in the castle?”

“Pretty dull without you, actually.” Hana includes, lowering her body when a few branches come across their way. She rests her hand on Hana’s head, just in case, aware of how important this woman is for her. Not a single line shall shatter the vase of stone that is Hana, fundamental to anything she does. “Though, we have had visitors to keep us entertained while you were gone.”

Some days that she is not unhappy about missing, actually. “Visitors? What were they this time?” She prompts. “Another businessman? Are we talking aristocrats or—?”

“An heir, actually.”

“Like Joshua?”

Hana hisses through her crooked teeth, licking something on the inside of her cheek in a way that brings a smile up her features. They are getting closer to the park by the side of their little castle, perched there for the two sisters to enjoy while they were younger—thus, nowadays used for the gossiping and chattering needed to coexist in such a harsh world like this. “Not to make you feel bad, my Lady, but I would not compare this young man to Prince Joshua. I don’t make the choices in your life, but Prince Joshua is as bland as the chef’s chicken water after he washes the meat.”

For a second, she tries to think how others would. What about Joshua Hong seems to be bland? His lack of expression, perhaps, his preparation, the way he always seems to fit in with everyone. If a lot of people like him, that must be that Hana is on the wrong.

“He is not bland.” She says, letting her dress trail on the green grass, not caring if the fabric gets stained. “Mind you.”

“Oh, I am minding me.” Hana says, moving her neck slightly as she lets go of her. “There is nothing substantial about the man is all I’m saying.”

“Why?”

“Darlin’, I know you love him…” The maid says, twirling her fingers around the necklace that rests on her sternum, all the angles of her body highlighted by the action. “But I have this little patting, bickering bird on the top of my head that gives me the feeling that he’s not the love of your life…and you’ve given up so much for him.”

Rather, she has given up a lot for everyone. Mother was over the moon the moment she confirmed her relationship with Joshua, fingers threaded with his, promises made a reality. Father? He didn’t care much—said what he had to say, only to leave. Education be forgotten for the duties of a Lady, for becoming the perfect example of what the real Royal family should have been like. That meant that her dreams of studying history went down the drain, replaced by endless hours of eternal love for Joshua Hong.

Sometimes, it is tiring.

Tiring to a plus-one.

To be the woman of a man. Someone’s someone.

She lets it go. If she has to be someone’s, she’d rather be his.

“That’s what I always tell her.”

The sound of her sister speaking to her has her perking up, a smile appearing on her features to cloud any moment of rainy thoughts that translated onto her face. Eyebrows well raised, shoulders way back, she extends her hands to grasp her sister in her hold, only to be met by crossed arms and a strong frown.

“And it fucking disgusts me that we planned on going to university together and now I see her beyond happy for spending some days with her long-distance boyfriend.”

She spits it out as if it is venom, as if every meter that separates Joshua and her physically have becoming everything and the factor of their issues. “I’m sorry,” She puts her hands down, a bit of a bite on her tone. “I hate that I have been pushed to be like this, but this is what I was meant to do—”

“S—Since when going after a man is what you have to do?!” Her sister asks, the wind moving the flowers on her dress as she steps forward, fingers curling around the air like a vice, a threat to their conversation. “I expected you to come here having broken up with that asshole!”

“He isn’t mean to you, why call him an asshole?” Born under different circumstances, her sister never waited a second to speak back. She always thought of her as the light of her days because of that—a word would never go unspoken by her. However, this time around, it hurts. Expected romanticism has translated into real love, what was once looking for a man has now become expecting for him to come back.

It’s devastating for her sister, apparently. “Because he took my sister away.”

“What are you talking about? I’m here.”

“Barely.” Her younger sister spits out, curling an eyebrow on her forehead. “What is it about you right now that connects to your old self? You spend every given second trying to follow after Mother’s awful rules of marriage and it’s starting to look pathetic.”

“Don’t talk to me like that.” One step forward has Hana grasping her by the forearm, but she tugs at her. “I’m your older sister, I get to make my decisions without having you question me as if I’m some fucking child.” She spits out, looking up and down her sister’s features before the woman scoffs.

“And what? Are you an example for me?” She asks. “You’re nothing like an older sister anymore. It’s about time you wake up and realize the world is not going to change for the better if you marry a man just because you have to.”

“Who said we’re getting married? He hasn’t even asked—”

“Has he talked about it?” Her sister asks, only to have her shaking her head.

“I don’t see why—”

“Has he talked about the future with you? The longtime future when his cheeks are saggy, his hands are wrinkly, his voice can’t sound the same—?” She stops, jutting her chin forward to further emphasize her words. “Has he?!”

Her chest heaves up and down, trying to recoil in a memory that doesn’t exist. Joshua has never talked about such thing. He doesn’t even know if he wants to get married or not.

If I ever get married, he has said.

It has never been: if we ever get married…

When we get married? No.

“No.” The answer rips through her throat in a way that makes her ache, though her tone is soft. Her sister smiles sadly then, flaws pointed out to her when she shakes her head.

“Then, he’ll never ask.”

“Give your sister a break, she just arrived here.”

That voice sounds oddly familiar, but the time in her head doesn’t go back to the time it sounded against her eardrums until she looks up at the man that pulls her sister away from her. The oxygen goes back to her lungs, only to be stolen by him—wavy black hair curling against his forehead, straight eyebrows and monotone eyes still looking breathtaking on him. Something about the guy that saved Heejin, Xu Minghao, as tranquil as ever, relaxes her on the spot, beauty beyond what transcends through him…but in the lake that patters each drop to create him, mellow and peaceful.

His jacket moves with him, black as coffee, his oversized white button down on his chest making him look more elegant. Since the last time she saw him, perhaps hanging out with her sister like he always does as her best friend, he has grown quite a bit.

“Minghao, you’re a guy.” Her sister says, turning to look at her friend, much taller than her. “A man will make plans with you only if he wants to keep you long time, true or false?”

Minghao keeps his straight expression, though a glint of pity appears on his irises when he interlocks his hands behind his back. “Ah…I’d say true.” An answer from a man has her heart dropping to the floor. Not that she wanted to get married right now…but knowing that Joshua did not even consider an option, according to popular opinion, made her feel undesirable. "But, then again, that shouldn’t be something to criticize her for. Every sailor decides which ship they want to sail."

At times, she wonders if the ship that has already sailed will make her happy. “He is right.” She includes, finally connecting her gaze with Minghao’s when he turns to her. “Thank you, Minghao.”

“Just…this is none of my business,” He raises his hands in the air momentarily, letting them drop to his side in a gracefully dance. “Be careful.”

His cousin is good friends with Joshua, and the sentence alone scratches at the insecurity inside of her. “Why should I?” She asks, trying to keep levelled, though her eyes feel like they’re permanently blinking under the weight of her tears.

“Sometimes, when a man doesn’t express a lot of emotions is because he doesn’t actually feel them. It’s the same for both men and women—overthinking is just too much thinking at times.” The advice rushes through his lips, though his voice is calm. One step forward brings him closer to her, pulling the sleeves of her dress down to keep her warmer, fingers barely skimming over her skin in a way that has her looking down at the connection in between the two. “Welcome back, Lady.”

She breathes out her name, looking into his eyes in the process. “You never call me Lady.”

“Maybe, I’ll call you Princess one of these days.” Minghao retorts, a shrug coming after. “Does it change you as a person? Whether you’re a Princess, a Lady, or just plain old you?”

She thinks for a moment, shaking her head. “No, it doesn’t.”

“Then, it isn’t worth it to marry someone just for a title. Or push it, rather.” Minghao finalizes, lowering his face to smile up at her, soft and strong, something so inherently him. Epiphanies, perhaps, made into a person—contradiction over contradiction that complexes him beyond her understanding. She’s an intelligent woman, just not intelligent enough to figure him out. “Come on, a smile?”

His voice is much too soft, and it’s only broken through when her sister scoffs. “Come on, Minghao.” She says, nearing them with dragged steps. “I think I’ve bothered her enough. The smile won’t be real if you get it out of her like that.”

One look at her sister tells her that she’s sorry, but instead of awaiting the moment she says so, she gives a small smile. “I’m here to prove you wrong, aren’t I?” She retorts to the youngest.

“Much to my distaste.” The youngest answers, tugging at her friend’s blazer. “We’re going to study, want to tag along after you’re done unpacking?”

“I’d love to.”

###

October 10th. Three years ago.

He’s out again.

And it’s not the fact that hundreds of people get to see his smile, the brightness of it and how blinding it can become, that has her seated in front of the castle, phone placed in between her fingers, grasping it to her chest as if one simplistic ring of the device could make her feel alive again. It’s not that Joshua has the most beautiful set of eyes she has ever seen—and she has always wondered if they’re emotionless, or he’s just really good at controlling what he feels. That’s not what has her jealous.

It’s not that Joshua always dresses to the nines, loves feeling like he is the most watched man in the room—but never says it. Mighty may be the person that gets Joshua to confess something with much of a reaction, even a surprised gasp. He relishes in keeping levelled, while she feels too much. Another press of the button on her phone tells her that it is twelve at night and Joshua is still out.

He has been out all day.

She counts the texts again. Sent by her? Twenty-three. Sent by him? One.

It was seven in the morning, and Joshua had the audacity to send a picture of himself, sprawled in his bed when he’s here, in the same land as her, one hand covering his forehead, fingers threading through his dark locks, half-closed eyes and a dizzy smile. He said ‘good morning’, and the burn in her stomach told her that she had fallen in love again.

He never answered to her ‘good morning’, her ‘good afternoon’, her ‘hey, you just saw my message, why aren’t you replying?’. The ‘haven’t you eaten?’ that mocks her.

Keep sucking ass, Lady. It looks wonderful on you.

Wealthy enough to throw the phone against the concrete under her, she wishes she had the lack of composure to do so. To feel all the hatred and uselessness that racks like books inside of her, mocks her for being able to stand so much. A boyfriend of years that doesn’t even answer her texts, that had planned going out with his friends upon landing on her land just because he wanted to meet up with them. Now, when he said he’d be with her at seven, he continues to be in some raunchy club with his friends.

Seven is the worst fucking number in the world right now.

Doubts clash against her ribcage when the flimsy fabric of her nightgown clings to her skin. Her hair, less from perfect, suddenly becomes an insecurity. Her eyes. Her nose. Her lips. The way she had let go in comfort for him—in the feeling of acceptance that he had once bathed upon her but now bites her back. What if he’s in that club with one of his friends? What if one of those friends are interested in him?

She swallows thickly, trying not to scream when she hides her face in between her legs, but she does. Harsh enough to be heard by someone, but not someone in the castle. What kind of Duchess is waiting for her boyfriend in front of a castle, dressed and ready to sleep, only to be left behind like some toy?

She grabs the phone again, and types with all the will in the world—

To: Shua.

I deserve better than you.

But she deletes it.

She can’t tell him that.

She doubts him, but questions the jealousy that creeps up on her as well. Maybe, he is just having fun—his world shouldn’t revolve around her.

When she stands up, her mind is only set on grabbing something to eat. Call it a third dinner, perhaps, but she needs to concentrate on something else. The entrance doors of the castle open up for her like magic, all thanks to the guards, as she makes her way towards the kitchen. A good cardio away from her, but the smell of the leftover baked potatoes that lay on her refrigerator calls out for her attention even from meters away.

Though, upon entering the kitchen, someone else has half of his body placed inside the refrigerator, long limbs grabbing something in his hands that he can’t quite decipher. Not her refrigerator, but the one designated for her sister’s food instead—used by her chef, and apparently, by Xu Minghao.

Her body splays against the marble island by the middle of the kitchen, the low yellow lamps making her eyes hurt…or is it that, maybe, Minghao in his university-student form is really a sight to look at? His hair is pushed away from his face, haphazardly in the process, like he didn’t have time to do it. Some glasses rest on the bridge of his nose and the red turtleneck sweater on his body is as bright as the apples that he holds in between his hands. Two on each hand.

“Am I getting robbed by Snow-White?” The question leaves her, though in a badly joked manner, before she could fully think about it. Maneuvering his feet up, Minghao closes the refrigerator’s door with one swift motion before laughing at her words.

“That’s your sister’s fridge, and we have a final tomorrow that I feel like I’m going to fail.” Minghao confesses, putting the apples down on the island before leaning his weight forward. Everything about him feels like a silhouette of what could be in an art museum. “Something about math being part of a business major’s life just doesn’t sit well with me.”

For what she can remember in the times she has seen Minghao and her sister studying together, he is— “You’re excellent at math, though.”

“…I guess.” Minghao says, biting down on his lip. “I’m good at a lot of things, if I do say so myself, but there’s that gut feeling that tells me I’m going to fail.”

“Why so?”

“The professor hates me, for one.” The enigma instructs, extending his palm on the island to draw little circles on the surface. Had his hands always been this pretty? “I told him that one of his equations was wrong and that was all it took for him to have my head on the next test.”

Shaking her thoughts away from Minghao’s hand, she looks up. “But you corrected him, that means you were smarter than him.”

“It means he made a mistake. We all do.” He finalizes, ready to grab the apples on his hands and say his goodbyes until she interrupts him.

“…Do you think we should forgive people just because they make mistakes?” She asks, making Minghao stop on his tracks, his back turned to her as she plays with her hands. “As in, forgive them every time they do?”

“Not always.” Minghao, always one for an answer, debates as he turns around. “Some mistakes are worth standing someone for. Others are just not.”

“What kind of mistakes would you apologize?”

“Forgetting something, for example.” Though, he doesn’t seem to be thinking deeply about it. “Or…if someone accidentally ate something I left on the fridge or something like that. I’m not one to forgive people for deep shit.”

“Conceptualization of deep shit?”

“Mhm, depends.”

“Not everything in life is relative, Minghao.”

“But, oh why, it is!” The heir conquers, looking at her for a second before smiling softly. “What we see is not what we really think it is.”

“And how do I know what it really is?”

“You listen to what your gut says.” He says. “Life is difficult, but we have the answers inside ourselves to make the right decision for us.”

For a moment, she wants to pretend like her gut has always told her Joshua is the right man for her. But, that’s not the truth. The right man didn’t open doors for her, but loved to be with her whenever he could. The right man didn’t spend every single second with her, but made every minute they spent together the reason why she misses him when being with other people. The right man made her feel unique—like that one imperfection on her skin isn’t worth that much thinking from her, or that the curves or lack of in certain places aren’t something to hold onto as if they conceptualize her.

The right man doesn’t spend an entire day not answering to her texts.

The right man chooses to visit his girlfriend first when he has spent weeks without seeing her.

The right man doesn’t leave her standing, on her nightgown, inspected by a man that studies her eyes from too close, shoulders going up and down with each breath before his smile erases and he says—

“This is about Joshua, isn’t it?”

Not having the heart to deny it, she nods. “He hasn’t answered in the entire day.” She admits, hard to say it out loud without feeling judged. By his actions, nonetheless. “…And, well, he did say yesterday he was going out to the beach with his friends from here once he arrived, and that he’d be going to the club after that, but he said he’d be here by seven—”

Minghao’s jaw tightens, placing his hands on her shoulders to make her turn around. “Then, go to bed—”

“What if he comes home?”

“He will not.” Minghao boldly replies for what he thinks of Joshua’s thoughts. “Not only has he stood you up, but he preferred going out with his friends than meeting up with you, his girlfriend, when getting to your land. I think that’s enough for you to go to sleep or cut ties with him immediately.”

That makes her stop on her tracks, no longer moving towards the stairs but instead, thinking about his words. Leaving Joshua, that is. “…I can’t.”

“Can’t you or don’t you want to?”

The question weights her down. Both sound pathetic at this point. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll tell you what it is,” Minghao stands in front of her, fixing the glasses on his face before sighing. “You’re waiting for him to change. That, one day, he’s going to wake up and choose you over the world. You think about all those things that people say about people just needing to go through phases, and you think this is a phase—”

More than anger, disdain bubbles up inside her. “He is young, maybe this is a phase—”

“It’s not.” Minghao says. “He chose them over you. He chose partying over you. That has to say a lot about what he thinks of you.”

“…I guess.”

“Think about it.” The heir concludes his advice with that, putting an apple up to his mouth before giving it a big bite. “I’ll go study. See you later.”

With that, he leaves.

###

October 11th. Three years ago.

She liked delicacy, but that never meant she liked it when people thought she was made out of glass. Invisible, easy to break, easy to taint when breathing against it—she’s strong, even if the hits of life have left a stain on her one too many times. Punches to be taken just for the sake of it.

Let the glass that represents her be broken, at the edges that people managed to ripped but never broke her entirely. Her first friend, a young boy that flew away from the land when he was six, and left her with the memory of him. Her second friend, a young girl when she was nine, that pushed her around to make her feel miniscule—always better than her, prettier than her, smarter than her, with nicer clothes than her. It was over after four years. Then, five years went by of people that were not that good either, always coming back with that sense of hope that told her…one day, the right people will come around.

What if they never did?

Because the right man is standing in front of her at this moment, the smell of lasagna cladding the room and making her feel disgusted. Thick sauce, white and red, with meat. It all deserves to be trashed down, like the rest of the gifts Joshua carried all the way here on his forearms, his face void of any imperfections even when he must have knocked himself out yesterday with as much partying as he did.

The right man, Joshua Hong, has taken a piece of her. That edge that keeps pricking her whenever she passes by, and she never falls asleep like how it happens in fairytales. Needle-deep, it makes her wonder of his whereabouts. Makes her tighten her fists against the fabric of her dress, cross-legged on the bed as she watches him open one bag.

“I brought you something—”

“You never answered.”

Joshua stops then, leaving the plastic white bag on her cream sofa before smiling at her. Once he nears her, seated in front of her, Joshua places both of his arms around her waist, face to face with her. “But you didn’t speak, babe.”

From the moment Hana let him inside her room, just five minutes ago, she had not been able to organize her thoughts. Her guts tell her that there is something inherently wrong with this—with Joshua and how he is acting.

“Not speak?” She breathes out, each word more pointed than the other, looking up at him from a tilted position. “Is my lack of speech really an issue when I texted you like crazy last night? Called you just to see if you were okay and alive or breathing? Is that silence to you?!”

Her voice raises, enough to have Joshua pushing himself away from her, eyes widened when he replies: “Hey, I told you I was going out. That’s not—”

“What kind of boyfriend goes out with his friends when he had not seen his girlfriend for weeks and she’s right there, waiting for him—?” She asks, willing to break at that moment. If Joshua has to smash her body into pieces with one throw of reality at her, she’ll take it. “Really, Joshua? Don’t you have some sense of guilt in you?”

“I was doing business.” Joshua says, always too little, never enough, returning to the packages of gifts before scoffing. “It’s not like I didn’t remember you—”

“What?” She asks, getting closer to the bags on her sofa. “Some gifts are supposed to make me feel better?”

“I guess. I was thinking of you when I bought them.” Never does he lift his tone the slightest, and it irks her.

Placing both hands on her hips, she nods. “I’m at the wrong here, because my boyfriend ignoring me for an entire day and, over that, deciding to make business in a beach and a club is supposed to be a normal fucking thing—!”

Before she could lift his hands to grasp her head, Joshua connects his fingers to her wrists, keeping her in place to look her in the eyes. “Stop it with the dramatics. I don’t have to ask you for permission to go anywhere.”

“Oh yeah, you don’t.” She says, voice inherently low. “But it’s really low of you to prefer that over spending a night with me. An entire day, even.”

His back faces her at that moment, taking the gifts out of their confines as he speaks. “Well, I’m here right now, I don’t know why you don’t settle for that.”

Settle.

When has he ever settled for her?

Instead, she covers her eyes, tugging at her skin in a way that would have had her mother swatting her palms away. She can’t do it right now. “Joshua Hong, listen to yourself for a second. This is unfair for me.”

“Don’t you think I want to see you every day?” He questions, though she can’t see him she feels his lips resting on her momentarily. “I want to see you at every given second of the day…but I have other important things to do.”

Other important things to do.

The worst part is that he says it as if she’s not important.

Though, that’s not true. The worst of it all is when she lets go of her face, vision filled with stairs and blurriness, but mostly the picture of him in front of her, finally, when she says:

“I understand.”

But her gut feeling tells her she doesn’t.

###

April 23rd. One year ago.

The birds chirp freely for an early celebration, sunflowers mingling against her cream dress. Today, the big gowns are changed for something more simplistic—a prideful sister that embarks into a new road of success when looking at her sister graduate. In something that she likes, first and foremost, and definitely as if she was a Princess with the big celebration that Mother prepared. Though, for someone that complained that her youngest studied too much and lacked a man because of that, it surprised her that she had even planned anything at all.

Yesterday was the real event, students gathered together for one last time to close one of their chapters of adulthood. The last one in the educational stance, for those not approaching further education. Her sister preferred something more private then, asking her to tag along with Minghao to have some drinks and talk about life with people with as much power as them, given the university that she goes to, but with less of a stick up their asses. Good was an understatement for how well the night went.

Taking the cherry from her drink, she tosses her head back, relishing on the dulcet taste as the shadows the sun creates on her skin rest on her chest. Dress in the color of cream, off the shoulders, just tight enough to make her look like the adult she is, but loose enough to let her breathe. People mingle by the center, children bustling around, parents talking in between themselves, and Mother making herself the center of attention, even when her youngest sister is by her side.

A lot has changed for her sister. Meanwhile, nothing has for her.

One can only take so much scolding from their parents about not getting married, but like her sister had once said, Joshua is not quite ready. She doesn’t know if he’ll ever be ready, but letting go makes a tingle go down her spine—perhaps, one day, he’ll want to. The possibilities are what make her stay, but it’s what makes her doubt the most. Downing the rest of her drink, she tries to think of something else other than the man talking business with some people in the corner, pristine as the day she met him and promised herself that it’d only be a tiny little crush.

“Enjoying yourself?”

The sound of that voice is oddly familiar. She remembers it more slurred yesterday’s night, throwing his gown somewhere on a couch to relish on drinks and good memories. Now, Minghao voices out his thoughts like he normally does, as if he had not been hungover this morning.

Letting the birds do their music when she looks at him, she shakes her head. “My juice is finished. Joshua can’t stop talking business with those men and you…my friend,” She lets her gaze go up and down his body, the sunflower shirt making her smile widely. “Are probably spring made person with that shirt.”

Tugging at the black fabric of his blazer to show the shirt, a few buttons opened to showcase his sharp collarbones and the hint of curved, yet slim pecs, Minghao looks down at himself. “I wanted to look the least professional I could.” He confesses, returning his gaze to her, though a bit squinted because of the harsh sun. “Your boyfriend may be perfect with business talks, but I am not. I can only pretend I am interested in what someone in saying about themselves until I actually tell them straight on that their lives aren’t that important.”

Hiding her laughter behind her glass, she drops the seed of the cherry inside before sighing. “Well, you’re a heir. You were prepared to be a businessman. I think that’s what makes you less interested in that.”

“That and years of studying.” Minghao finishes, taking a bite of a cookie he found on the food table nearby, munching for a few seconds before talking again. “Besides, Joshua has expanded far more than I have. My family owns an haute couture fashion brand and a modelling agency, it’s way different from Joshua’s musical takes.”

And then again, she has always wondered why she has never seen Minghao with some tall, skinny model that hangs on his arm like a beautiful match for him. “I don’t know…” She answers, puckering her lips when looking at Joshua. “At least, you don’t like the socializing but love the fashion aspect of your business. Joshua…he loves socializing with people nowadays, even if he doesn’t speak much. He just has to hang around people.”

“That’s what going out to too many parties does to you.” Minghao says, grabbing another cookie before offering it to her. “Cookie?”

“With chocolate chips?” She asks, already taking it in between her hands before taking a big bite. “I imagine how disturbed those businessmen would be if I went over there to hug Joshua and they’d saw a piece of chocolate on my teeth.”

“Devastated, perhaps.” Minghao says. “I doubt they have ever had a woman actually show themselves naturally to them. No posing. No falseness. Just plain old reality.”

“Do people really show themselves as they are in the business industry, though?” Rhetorical at most, she questions, shaking her head in the process.

“They don’t.” But, something seems to glisten in his eyes. “But you do.”

“Not really—” She tries to defend, heart picking up at the way those brown eyes look at her as if she’s different. “Mother has made my life miserable until I became the perfect image of what she wanted. Well, not really, I am not married yet but—”

“Even so,” Minghao interrupts her. “You may have to go around and throw some pleasantries to other people, but that doesn’t make you faux in any way.”

“It does.”

“No, you’re one of the most genuine people I have ever met.” Those words have her looking at him as he walks backwards, pushing his hair away as he chews on a new cookie. “It just so happens that you think being nice is not a personality trait a person can have, even yourself.”

“Well, I haven’t met a lot of nice people—” And still, she keeps around them.

Minghao, on the other hand, waves his hand in the air. “Nice to meet you, then. I’m Xu Minghao.”

The smile on her face is forever petrified after that.

It must be a pleasure for Joshua’s business associates to see her smile so brightly, his hand placed on her waist as she holds onto his chest for leverage. Perhaps, she loves the way he sees her the most when he is around people—as if he has seen the answers to all his prayers on her very own irises.

This time around, Joshua impresses more than usual. A bowtie, hair pushed away from his face by some gel, and a black suit that leaves everything to the imagination. Nothing quite creative there, just plain old classic that makes him look good enough to desire.

“You two seem to have a great relationship.” One of the businessmen says, his beard practically connecting his chest to his jaw, rounded glasses on the bridge of his nose, wrinkles giving his age away, perhaps making him look older. “I remember when I was like that with my wife. Lots and lots of good times, you know?”

Joshua looks at her chuckling, pleasantries over all, and she stares back as he lets go of her waist. “Well, then we’re lucky, Mr. Kim,” Joshua says. “Because she is going to be my wife soon.”

Her face falls then, just like Joshua’s hand does to search for a box inside his pocket. People around them start to go quieter, watching the movements he does as he opens the velvety box with carefulness.

“J—Joshua—”

Both of her hands come up to her mouth when Joshua shows the ring. Rose gold with one big platinum diamond in the middle, surrounded by medium sized speckles of brightness. She’d count around thirty diamonds, all engraved around the ring that reads his name on the inside.

Her name is breathed out, as if it’s poetry—never one for romanticism, it takes her aback that he has gone back to that breathy tone that once enamored her. He doesn’t drop on one knee, instead pushes the ring halfway into her finger before asking.

“Will you finally become my wife?”

Say no, her guts say, wrenching, wanting nothing more than to run away. The right guy would have never done this—

But the time she has waited for him, the years she has spent liking him and the will to continue with this just for the same of accommodation has her nodding slowly, extending her hand even more to let the ring fully engulf her finger. Fit like a glove.

“Yes, Joshua, of course.” She says, cheers coming soon after when Joshua wraps his arms around her, pressing a kiss to the curve on the bridge of her nose before leaning down to capture her lips in one of those overly-passionate kisses of his.

The last person she sees before closing her eyes to kiss Joshua is Minghao, a tight-lipped yet tranquil smile on his face as he claps slowly. It almost feels like he is saying…

Glad you found the wrong one for you.

###

August 1st. One year ago.

Joshua’s land has always been different to hers.

More up North, this time of the year welcomes its freezing cold, perspiration coming from every window, words tangled by the smoke that leaves people’s lips, and, of course, how to forget the marvelous fog that barely lets her look out of the window to sip on her cup of tea as people rush around to show her yet another color scheme for the wedding.

Greeneries are mostly what she is used to seeing. Not mountains, not hills, definitely not the lack of flowers that has her pushing herself away from the window to look at one of the workers in Joshua’s castle. Upon her visit, the wedding preparations have resumed, and with Joshua somewhere in the castle preparing for a presentation tomorrow, she’s left to make decisions on her own.

“Lady, Lady, Lady!” The overexcited, chirpy, and tall woman with the fringe in front of her moves it away to showcase her color scheme, all tones of the rainbow making her squint her eyes harshly. God, she’s tired of this. “You said you wanted yellow for your wedding.” Of course, because it reminds her of sunflowers, and there has never been a flower more beautiful. Home has sunflowers. Her grandmother’s castle had sunflowers. Hell, sometimes she likes to pluck one inside her hair. “But I need to know which shade you want for the overall theme—”

“Sunflower-toned yellow.” She says, bringing her cup up to her lips only to be met with lukewarm tea. She likes it piping hot, but no one seems to listen to her around this castle.

“So, is that like a toasted yellow?”

“Have you seen a sunflower before, Yerim?”

“Of course.” The older woman says, pushing her hair off her shoulders before looking down at the color scheme. “But are we talking Dead Sunflower-toned yellow or—?”

Okay, fuck this.

“Just—” Raising her hands in the air, she takes one of the many papers that Yerim had displayed. “I want this yellow.”

“That’s not sunflower yellow, My Lady.” Yerim instructs, going after her as she tries to get out of that living room. Not that it should be called that way, each and every single moment of certainty she had to get married to Prince Joshua now seems to die down upon the appearance of the wedding preparations. “That’s pee-colored yellow.”

“…Yerim!” She speaks a little too loud, startling the woman when she places one hand on the railing of the stairs, ready to go up to Joshua’s room and embark in a trip down the sets of history books he keeps in his shelves. “I don’t mind if it’s pee-colored yellow. I just want it to be yellow.”

Yerim puckers up her lips then, perhaps annoyed but unable to say it. “Well…don’t come around and tell me I didn’t tell you when all your invitees tell you your decorations look like pee.”

“I’ll be glad to hear them say it.” The sarcasm drips from her tone, releasing a sigh that has her feeling guilty. The woman is only doing her job, but the doubts of not knowing how this wedding is going to go—or perhaps, that she doesn’t fully believe Joshua is settling down for her, has her fuming internally. “Yerim? Sorry for acting like this. You know better than I do, and I am so thankful with your job.”

“Not to worry, Lady. I dealt with each of the Hong weddings and you have been the kindest.”

Damn, she can’t imagine how the others are. Instead, she decides to give her a soft smile. “I’ll be up in Joshua’s room if you need me.”

“Check his pee and see if that’s the color you want!”

“Yerim…”

“Yes, My Lady?”

“You’re pushing it.”

Missing her land is something she would have never thought she’d do. She doesn’t miss the situation she normally finds herself in, trying to please her parents and the landers alike, but that is far from what makes her ache when she looks around the castle, trying to remember the way back to Joshua’s room. Hana would have already been by her side. Her sister would have come visit, finally independent and away from the castle. Maybe, Minghao could tag along, her best friend over everything and anything—

Through the elongated hallways, with white walls and squared floorings, she finds the door to Joshua’s room on the far end, near the elevator that would have made it much easier to go up instead of using the stairs.

Instead, she opens the door with quick motions, not surprised to see Joshua seated in front of his personal desk, spacious enough for it to be considered the size of an office, a contract up to his face as he sports his best set of glasses. With the buttons of his shirt half undone, and his trousers hugging his legs nicely, she guesses he must be done with his online presentation.

“How was the presentation, love?” She asks, not missing a beat to go to the shelves next to Joshua’s office, surprised to see the width and tallness of some of them. Dark wood, bright under the sunlight, and filled with books like a library would have them.

Joshua finishes reading something on the contract before looking at her. “It was fine, babe.” He says, though, something in his voice tells her he is about to complain. “I thought I could make myself clearer, but I am not very good with introductions.”

She looks through the history books, trying to get to one she hasn’t read. Maybe, she should catch up on his land’s history. “You do just fine. You just get nervous.”

“I just don’t know what to say—”

Her fingers graze the spine of each book. Read. Read. Read. Read. “You’ll learn with time. You’re still young.”

“I’ve been in this business for years.”

“Well, you started extra young, and you’ve gotten so much better.”

“I guess, but—”

The spine of one book stops her from listening him, Joshua’s name written on it. She gets it out, surprised to see another book fall backwards, the number two following his name. When looking at the cover, she realizes that this is his diary—written there, only for her to see, is Joshua’s diary. Followed by a sequel, and then a third book, and then a fourth—

“Joshua, I didn’t know you used to write diaries.”

Those words are enough to have him up his feet, perhaps a little bit too slow for seduction, but quick enough to have him closing the book before she reads the first page, lifting her chin with his finger when he moves forward, making her walk backwards in the process.

“Old, stupid things that I used to write when I was younger. I stopped writing them years ago.” Joshua instructs, a movement on his eyes to sense his nervousness, though his lips are distracting when they land upon hers. His arms grasp around her waist, bringing her closer until he was waltzing around with her, sending her closer to the bed. “I used to write about you, too.”

“You did?” She asks, the voice of hope that comes when she realizes she likes Joshua for a reason. Most of the time, she doesn’t get to see it—but it exists there.

He hums, biting her bottom lip before letting her fall on the bed, the mattress jumping a bit at her weight, though she doesn’t pay attention to it, vision centered on him when he whispers. “Yes, about how beautiful you are…” His knees plant on the bed, right in between her legs, arms extending on each side of her head. Now hovering over her, he looks down at her lips. “And how much I wanted to do you on my bed.”

“Joshua!” She chuckles, hiding her face in his neck when he says those words. “You don’t get to say that!”

“I do.” He replies, pecking her cheek before descending for another kiss. Somehow, those diaries are left forgotten for a moment—whatever he has written in there is his business, after all, and with some chapters about her in those books, she can’t ask for anything else.

###

August 4th. One year ago.

When sunflowers rest in between her hands to pick the organic, natural decorations of her wedding, she doesn’t expect her human sunflowers to have surprised her with a flight to Joshua’s land.

Minghao. Hana. Her sister. All in that order.

Truthfully, she has never been more thankful for Hana. For a woman that only got to marry once, only to lose her husband soon after, she surely knew about wedding preparations. Everything that she had not been able to explain is now being jotted down by Yerim, seated on a bench in the corner of the flower shop, not once losing focus.

Her sister, however, despised the atmosphere—giving the excuse of going to grab something to eat before disappearing completely. Perhaps, she’s doing something she really loves doing, playing tourist and rummaging around the land of the Prince she hates so much.

However, one person fits perfectly in this boutique-like flower shop, his white t-shirt something simplistic for him, but the brown pants reaching his waist and the beige cardigan something to remember. His hair moves thanks to his hand, picking up another bouquet of flowers—roses, this time around—, smelling them, and putting them down.

“How’s the family, Minghao?” She asks, far more comfortable with him than she was four years ago. Minghao raises his head then, giving one of those smiles that make his cheeks plumper before shaking his head.

“Mom and dad love the retirement; I can tell you.” Minghao whispers, the adoration in his voice not making her jealous. She wishes she had a relationship like that with her parents, but over everything, she is happy for him. “And I am absolutely thrilled to be picking up calls like crazy.”

“Those people are lucky they get to talk to you.” She says, looking at the cherry blossoms in one little vase before clearing her throat. Better swallow her pride now before he leaves. “I missed you.”

Minghao remains quiet for a few seconds, his hand rubbing against her back soon after. “I missed you, too.” He replies, a sweet lullaby when he sighs softly and goes over to pick another bouquet of flowers. “How’s Joshua?”

“The question of the day.”

“It wouldn’t be me if I didn’t ask.”

“Why?”

“Because Joshua is the reason you’re here. And you’re the reason I’m here. It’s a connection.” Minghao instructs, elbowing her side to get a few words out.

There is only so much she can take out of their relationship right now. No fights, thankfully, but the lingering voice inside her head tells her that it is not enough. Spending hours in his bed, twisting and turning, breathing out his name like a mantra, letting him kiss her until her lips ache isn’t exactly what she imagined for a lover. Conversation, silence even, can be even better at times.

“Ah…alright, I guess. We haven’t had a big fight in a while.” She says, letting her fingers play with the flowers as she walks sideways, followed by Minghao. “But there’s this lingering feeling that tells me there’s something he is hiding from me.”

“How so?” Minghao asks, studying her expression as she speaks. She will never understand how observant he is.

She stops on her tracks, Minghao’s chest colliding against her back and making the two of them stumble a bit. His hands wrap around her waist, keeping her in place as they both apologize at the same time. When he lets go of her, perhaps a bit nervous at the same time, she can’t help but chuckle. “Well, I—I discovered some diaries in his bookshelf. His. Like seven. The moment I mentioned them to him,” A snap of her fingers has Minghao looking down at her hand, the rose-gold band making a wild appearance. “Boom, he was trying to shut me up. Whenever I bring it up, I end up…” She pushes her lips together, not wanting to say much.

“You two end up fucking.”

“Minghao!”

“What, can’t a Lady fuck?” Minghao questions, laughter shaking her when the man shakes his head. “But that’s not something he should be doing to shut you up. Tell him that.”

“But what if it’s nothing?”

“Then, why wouldn’t he want to tell you?”

“Ugh, Minghao.” Pressing her index and middle finger to her temples, she sighs. “You need to stop making sense. You are too intelligent for my own good.”

His tan skin glows under the rare sunlight when he chuckles, shining brightly when he shakes his head. “Sorry, I’m just trying to be a good friend. That’s all I can do.” Though, the last sentence seems to have something else to do with them. She breathes in deeply, biting her bottom lip when Minghao rubs one thumb against her cheek, once, before pinching her cheek. “Check those diaries, or get it out of him. I don’t trust it.”

“Don’t you trust it or him?” She asks, trying to bring a smile up her face but Minghao shuts himself up.

“I think you know the answer.” He finalizes. Instead, he turns to the set of flowers. “Maybe we should go for white flowers for your bouquet? Since the wedding is going to be yellow themed and all. Bring some contrast—”

###

August 10th. One year ago.

The picture was flawless in her head. One of those dreams that she can’t recall if had been a reality or were just part of her imagination. Joshua, the new boy in the school, would fall so head over heels for her one day that he’d kiss the ground she laid upon. He’d make a rose out the words he told her. He’d turn chivalry into his way of speaking, love her for who she truly was, with so much adoration that each year would be stronger. Each and every single year, they’d grow into a sweet tune of comfort that could only come with so much love that she’d feel at ease. Not complete, for that was all her doing, but something of the like of that.

Then, years later, she should have imagined that there were risks to take with such a happy ending. Seated on that spacious desk, with Joshua fast asleep on the bed, she uses the light of her phone to illuminate all seven diaries. Three in the morning and a good reader, she thinks she can get through them—or, at least, skim through the most important stuff—, before he wakes up. It’s that sense of craziness and curiousness that bleeds out now that Minghao is back to her land that she truly feels like she needs to act upon the words he says.

The first few readings are cute. Joshua at fourteen, a bit dreamy eyed, a ton of stupid, and clearly not in love with anyone. She even finds herself trying not to laugh at some of those, at the notes he wrote on paper for his love for music, and all of the like.

Though, when Joshua turns sixteen, everything changes…and it’s not the presence of someone like her that does it.

Heejin comes up a lot in the first few pages. Beautiful, delicate, daughter of a businessman Heejin who owns a bunch of hospitals. Long dark hair, a beautiful smile, and carefree nature. Heejin who stole his first kiss. Heejin who went out on a date with him. At first, she believes that this truly comes with the passage of time. So what if Joshua had a little thing when he was a teen with Heejin? Now they’re much older, still friends, but he has been in a relationship for so long—

Second book, Joshua is seventeen. He has his first time with Heejin.

Third book, Joshua starts his relationship with her and it’s at this moment that she can’t stand reading that woman’s name—

“I wonder if I will ever feel like how I felt with Heejin with her.”

Joshua tends to make a lot of mistakes on his diaries, scraping them over with lines before continuing, but this one line came with so much confidence that she finds herself looking for more. That’s only the third book, there needs to be more.

Her eyes itch by the time it’s five in the morning, going through the fourth diary and feeling tears welding up quickly. Joshua speaks about not getting over Heejin, speaks about the uncertainty of his feelings—writes his name down with what seems to be love, initials and all, thinks of her as beautiful. As the most beautiful. Lusts and loves, adores and worships. Joshua’s goddess has always been Heejin, and it only further intensifies the feeling of hatred inside of her when she continues reading.

It’s by the sixth book that she realizes Joshua does not only love Heejin, but he also started seeing her again on the 8th of October, last year.

Seeing her like he would when he was younger.

Even better, now he’s wiser, a bigger liar, a bigger asshole.

She doesn’t know what takes over her, but she questions a lot of things. How dare he? First and foremost. How dare he take her first kiss, her first time, her entire train of thought? Make her lose her dreams, concentrate on him, lead him on as the front-man while she was in the background? How dare he write a hundred texts to her saying how much he missed her, how he wanted to kiss her, how she was the most gorgeous woman he had ever laid his eyes on, when he had always wanted Heejin?

How dare he keep bringing Heejin to every event? And how does Heejin even dare ask her for updates on her wedding preparations when she has seen it all? Seen the man she is about to marry fall so deeply in love with her that he’d risk a long lasting relationship just to be with her again, that he’d use her just to get over her, just to get over the fact that Heejin wanted to be free and while that was what made him fall for her, it’s also what kept them apart?

How dare he say that he had written hundreds and hundreds of pages about the beauty of her when there is only two?

The chair clanks against the floor when she stands up, abruptly, taking those two pages and crumpling them at the same time that she hears Joshua gasp away.

“Babe, what are you—?”

He doesn’t have the time to finish his sentence, the ball of paper ending up in between his lips as he fidgets to get away from her, whining in the process. “Shut the fuck up, I don’t want to hear any of your bullshit.” For the first time, she forgets she is a Lady. Tonight, she is someone sleep-ridden and heartbroken. Enough tears had been dropped for this man. “Thank you for those two little fucking pages in your diaries about Heejin, I very much appreciate my goddamned fiancé being head over heels for someone else.”

Joshua gets the crumpled paper out of his mouth, throwing it to the side as he stands up. “I can’t believe you read them—” And above all, there is a bit of resentment in his tone. “What about my privacy?”

“What about my dignity?” She asks, tears brimming her vision, but she won’t let them drop again. “You and your best friend have been having fun behind my back, but that’s not the worst part—you’ve used me to get over her.”

“I—I didn’t use you!” Joshua tells her, extending his hands forward before sighing. “Babe, can we just talk about this? I swear I didn’t use you.”

“Don’t swear.”

“But, I really do swear—”

“Don’t swear!” She screams, her throat hurting at the ripping motions of her vocal cords before shaking her head. “Don’t swear when I know it’s a lie—”

“Everything with Heejin has always been impossible—”

Yet, he still wants it. It has always been her. “So, you decided to be with me instead? I was the second choice?”

“No, God—” Joshua says, lowering his weight until he is kneeling in front of her. Never had he kneeled for anyone, a Prince above all, not even for his proposal, but now that he has been caught, he’s crawling like an ant. “I’m so…so sorry.” Kisses scattered across her thighs, enough to have her eyes closing tightly.

How many times has he done this for her?

“You were always the first choice! I just…I didn’t know how to…You…You were so in love with me, I didn’t know how to react.”

“So, instead of telling me you didn’t feel the same, you went on and cheated on me.” This time around, she pushes at his shoulders, soft enough to pull away from him before giving a few steps back. Her fingers wrap around that band, the one that she had been so doubtful to put on, and for a reason. “Take your ring and never talk to me again, Joshua Hong.”

“Hey, no, no—!” Joshua says, for the first time in his life lifting his voice, tears clouding his vision when he reaches for her wrist. “Don’t leave me, babe, you have given me everything.”

“And you gave me shit in return.” She finishes, shaking her head as she rushes out of that door. She can hear footsteps behind her, quickened, but she moves with the need to breathe. If she doesn’t get out of there as soon as possible, get on a plane and go back to her land, her lungs will contract so badly they will stop working—

When she reaches the entrance, she doesn’t hear Joshua rushing behind her anymore. He has stopped searching, stopped running, and it doesn’t surprise her.

It was never her he had been looking for.

###  

December 22nd. Eight months ago.

The only time she has gone out of her room since arriving from Joshua’s land has been to grab pen and paper.

In fairytales, when a member of the Royal family locks themselves up in their rooms, it’s for a Prince to find them. What a surprise, it is, that she has locked herself to avoid anyone seeing her after making a fool of herself with that man for so long. The first few days, her Mother complained about Joshua calling her and telling her that she had broken off the engagement, calling her stupid for even letting go of such a man. Chivalry is dead, she said, and she believes it may be. With the passage of time, the only people that tried to get to her were Hana, her sister and Minghao. Only Hana managed to greet her, for she didn’t have the ability to face those who had seen her such in love with a man like that.

The pen glides across the paper with ease, her utmost desire coming to life now that she has become a mess of reading and writing. She knows what she wants, knows that it isn’t what she had. Being Joshua’s plus one had never been her thing, but the parties before and the pleasantries were much worse. This time around, she lets those professional words and charisma that she had been taught speak for herself, opting out of the Duchess position.

Perhaps, no one will care. It’s a certainty that not a lot of people remember her anymore, but she doesn’t want to be a Royal anymore. She will live here as long as she can before moving on to something else. That’s as much as she knows, but it will be more difficult once the news goes along. With one final movement of her wrist, she signs the letter, putting it inside an envelope before turning around to look at Hana standing by the door.

With her hands interlocked in front of her, Hana looks at her with worry. “Don’t mind it,” She says, standing up and letting her pajama pants drag against the flooring. Fuck all those dresses she used to wear. “I personally asked for you not to be fired. I know you need the job.”

“I—I won’t go anywhere if you don’t go.” Hana says, voice much stronger than intended before cowering onto herself. “You’re like my daughter, I can’t leave you now that you’re all saddened—”

“Ah-ha.” She tuts, moving her index finger from side to side before giving her the envelope. “I am not going anywhere without you. I’ll see what I can sort out for us with the money I have saved until I can give us the life we deserve. No more of this bullshit we have gone through.”

“Language.”

“Well, I am not going to be a Lady for much longer so…” Once again, she drags herself inside her bed, her home for the past few months, plopping her thumping head down on the pillow before smiling dizzily. Hana opens the door to the bedroom, and she watches the shorter woman about to leave until she asks her. “Hana?”

“Yes, sweetie?” Hana retorts, turning around with a much more dulcet expression than the worried one she had sported earlier.

“Will I ever feel better?”

“Of course, sweetheart.” Hana says, taking the brief time to go over to her to press a kiss to her forehead, speaking against the skin. “You’re only one step away from happiness.”

“How about a hundred?”

“One big step, then.” Hana concludes, moving over to the door and closing it with some last few words. “But closer than you were before, honey.”

###

August 15th. Present day.

She has figured out that not a lot of people look up at her window to see if she’s there in that damned castle. It’s as though once she became an invisible matter, no one cared.

Books read, words written, and she still has a lot of work to catch up with. While locked in that room, she has managed to do something different with her life—past the drama that followed her departure from her title, and some speech through the walls to be able to stay for a few months while she gets her life sorted out, a new light has appeared in her life. Not that new, if she’s honest, she has always imagined herself doing something like this, but being a teacher’s assistant in one of the educational spots in the land wasn’t exactly out of her mind even when she was a Duchess. It’s tiring, revising tests is starting to worsen her vision, but it’s so worth it.

Most of the time, she spends it by the window, seated on the straight couch there, legs extended as she feels the weather of the day bask her. Today, it’s awfully gloomy for her land, fog coming up to people’s faces and blending them in when they enter the castle. None of them stare at the opened curtains of her window, neither do they care about her existence. With a sigh, she returns to the task at hand, revising one more test before she gets lost in the real dream that had always been part of her.

Studying history, technically, as a career.

Honesty is the best policy and she knows she got this job, partly, because she used to be a member of the Royal family. She still is, in what blood consists of when pumping against her arteries and keeping her alive, but she no longer holds that sense of pride on it. It’s been months since she has last seen her sister, not because she doesn’t want to, but because she needs to heal. Become the woman that would be powerful enough to eat the world alive, contrary to her brittle self.

Signing herself for a university interview feels odd. It’s been a while since she has been out in the world, and perhaps, she doesn’t miss it as much as she makes herself believe. She had put herself out there too many times before, fired by the bullets that ripped straight to her heart and made her recoil to herself. What are the odds of everything going alright if she tries again?

When she looks down the window, she sees two figures that she misses deeply. Her sister, whose hair is longer, sporting an all-black outfit that makes her look both professional and youthful, lips tainted a deep red. Minghao, by her side, is speaking to her as she rushes towards the entrance, holding an envelope on her hands that she can only imagine is something for her Mother. Nonetheless, Minghao is left behind, enough for her to inspect him from afar.

Minghao’s hair is much longer than remembered, a green shirt under a gray suit that somehow looks great sported by him. From a distance, she can see him inspecting around, from the gardens to the entrance, to the people bustling around before looking up. His eyes connect directly to hers, the first person on the passing days turned months of her solitude, on lockdown.

Had his lips always looked like petals of roses? She questions herself, watching him purse his lips as he lifts his hand to wave at her softly. Glasses cover his eyes for the most part, tainted thanks to petrichor, but he sees her. Knows exactly where to get her, texts ignored by her as a way to put the pieces of her heart together and he waited.

She doesn’t wave back, instead resting her hand against the window, tapping her fingers against the surface as if she was able to touch him. Minghao had always made her feel better, no different in the way a smile sneaks up on her features and sits there to stay.

The man mouths, pointing at the place he is standing by: “Want to come down?” She reads, concentrating on the flower on his lips, the noir poem of his existence that somehow has turned dulcet.

Though, she is not ready, shaking her head in hopes of slowing down the process of Minghao getting too close to her. She still needs time. “Not today.” She says, lips parted enough for him to understand every word before he nods.

“Some other time?” He breathes out, only understood by her when he repeats it again and without the hint of doubt, she replies:

“Definitely.”

With that, Minghao sighs deeply, a cloud of smoke gathering by his nose before giving a few steps forward, opening the weighty doors of the castle and closing them behind him. Her heart is racing by the time she looks at the empty spot he left behind, suddenly much brighter than the gloomy day.

###

Minghao knows where she is, and he makes it known.

Somehow, studying feels even worse when there is pressure on her shoulders—trying to get into university like a normal student, not like the Duchess she used to be. With her back hunched, she sits on her bed, readying herself for the moment three weeks from now when she’ll have to face the world again, and not only that, get judged by it again, but for something else, her intelligence, perhaps.

Breathing the answers into the air about this certain question, she stops when she realizes she has forgotten someone’s name. It passes her enough to have her closing her eyes tightly, cursing herself for not being able to remember. She used to be so good at this, but it seems like she has lost some of the talent she had, or the confidence that had once been within her when it came to history.

Two taps at her window make her lift her gaze, heart shaking in fear of what it could be. Birds passing by, perhaps, her room is high enough in this castle for it not to be reached by anyone, but the persistent sound follows her even minutes later, something thrown at her window before leaving her in silence, repeating the action only seconds after. It’s only after the fourth time the noise comes by that she stands up, anger raking through her when she goes to the window.

Opening the window, she looks around, lowering her weight the slightest to be able to inspect the sides. Left, nothing. Right, nothing. The castle looks the same as it did earlier, birds gone to other portions of the garden, but just as she’s about to push herself back inside her room, she hears her name being called, a tone not dulcet enough, but somehow warm in the way he speaks.

When she looks down, she is not surprised to see Minghao. Well, part of her really is—whenever he has the time, he makes himself be known, reminding her that he is there for her. Notes left under her door, that she reads when she gets the time. Books that he places outside of her door, never once knocking, but mouthing to her from the window to check the outsides of her room. It has been like this for days, perhaps even weeks, she has lost the passage of time when it comes to him.

She leans her weight against the windowsill, quirking an eyebrow at him. “What were you throwing at my window, Minghao?” She asks, not a single tone of annoyance in her voice anymore, and Minghao takes this moment to cross his arms behind his back, the yellow sweater on his body highlighted because of this. Yellow has always been her favorite color.

“Pebbles.”

“You could’ve broken my window, then.”

“If that’s what it takes to get you out of there, I will.” Minghao shrugs his shoulders, always too honest for his own good, and that’s what she adores the most about him. He pushes one of his legs forward and back, a dance of nervousness that only goes past his lips when he decides to let it go. “It’s been months. I want to see you.”

But she doesn’t feel quite ready. What if he suddenly realizes that she has played with time for far too long, that each step she takes she doubts, that right now, she doesn’t know where she starts or ends, or if she even started at all? “I’m isolating myself until I get my mind together—”

“I understand that, but—” Minghao lifts his hand to cloud the sun that basks on his face, making him glow. He has always had that with him, that’s for sure. “I could help you if you’d just let me.”

She chuckles at that, interlocking her fingers as she speaks to him. “Why?”

Minghao doesn’t hesitate, and that’s something to envy. Hardships of her life, all the pain and tears, suddenly seem to be left in the past when he smiles softly at her, like he does, never quite showing his teeth and yet, saying everything she needs to hear. “Because I miss you.” He tells her, loud enough for the people around them to hear, or perhaps, no one cares about them. It’s better if they don’t.

“I miss you, too.” She breathes out, wanting nothing more than for it to be heard. She misses one of her closest friends, her sister’s best friend, her confidante. Over everything, she mixes Xu Minghao. “…We’ll see each other someday, I promise.”

“Someday soon?”

“Sooner than you think.” She tells him, lowering her gaze to avoid his penetrating gaze. “I’ll text you…ah, we can text and sort something out.”

“I’m okay with that.” Minghao says, though, when she looks at him again, he is looking down at his watch. “I have a meeting right now, so I have to go. Check outside your bedroom, okay?”

Patience follows after him as he moves away from the castle, but she isn’t quite as patient anymore. Scrambling to close the window, she walks over to the door, opening it in one swift motion, being met by one of the workers in the castle, holding up a tray filled with her favorite food, two red apples reminiscent of him, and of course, a note from him.

“Until we meet again – Xu Minghao.”

She can’t wait.

###

Never was it her virtue to wait for the right time, the perfect moment. This time around, it isn’t any different. Instead of waiting for the day of her university interview, she texts Minghao much sooner—asking him how his day went, thanking him for all the pleasantries, gratefulness above all, and when he answers, there is nothing that stops the conversation.

It was only a matter of time until she decided to meet him again, and when he said he planned on having a picnic meeting with her—not a date, mind her—she thought it was perfect. With the moonshine draping against the curtains of the castle’s living room, the world in silence as it’s well over dinnertime, she tugs at the fabric of her dress. It has been a while since she has worn one of those, even when she hated them to bits, but this one makes her feel at ease. One that Hana made for her when visiting her sisters, the time away giving her inspiration for her favorite Duchess. Short, yet flowy, in a daylight sky blue that has her feeling a bit too bright for the night.

Everything on her is much cheaper than what she was set to wear as Duchess, but the movement of her feet is more lightweight the more she reaches the door. Minghao had said he was waiting for her outside, but each step falls harsher than the last. Not only will she meet with Minghao, who has very much grown onto himself as a person, physically and mentally, but it is the first time she will be out of the castle in months.

Maybe, she should stop.

Shame is an emotion she tries not to feel, but her life has been set, plotted, written and read according to what other people said. With her hand connecting to the doorknob of the entrance door, a few guards sparing her glances before looking away, she wonders what people would say. The Duchess is out again. The ex-Duchess. The one that left Prince Joshua for a supposed cheating scandal. Maybe, too old to study in judging eyes, or too privileged to do so.

It almost makes her stay, but she tugs at the door before she could even think in any other way.

There, in the usual spot that gives her a clear view of him from the window, is Xu Minghao. A businessman by now, owner of very big companies, an heir that knew how to divide his life perfectly. With his back turned towards her, he only notices her when the door closes, the moon making perfect shadows on his face. Maturity had taken over his features, his hair falling down his forehead, and surprisingly, a full smile appears on his face when she nears him, arms taking a mind of their own to wrap around Minghao’s slim frame.

Never had a hug felt this good, as if she belongs in these arms—unjudged, unashamed, without a hardship in this violin tune of line that only dizzies her. Minghao doesn’t waste much time to wrap his arms around her body, hiding his face on the juncture of her neck before breathing in deeply. His eyelashes flutter against her skin, as if taking all of her in, the tickling sensation nicely welcomed when she tugs at the fabric of his white sweater, tucked inside a pair of stylish, painted jeans, with figures that she hasn’t quite detailed.

“I’m so happy you’re back.” He breathes out, taking her face in between his hands when pulling away and, as always, his thumb rubs against her cheek, pinching it soon after when he lets go.

“I never left.” The confession weights with guilt on her chest, because she did. Months of not talking to him just for the sake of healing, when he could’ve been there by her side while she did so. “…So, picnic time?”

“Yes.” Minghao replies, extending his arm for her to take before walking side to side, the fabric of his sweater rubbing against her bare forearm. “Read the books I gave you?”

“All of them.”

“What did you think about—?”

Lips pushed together to keep himself silent, Minghao is not a man of many words—not until he is interested, and what a surprise it is that not a single moment in that lake, as they gave bites of each other’s foods, he seemed to stop himself from talking. It’s at that moment that she realizes she is necessary for some people in this life, and likewise with him, or rather, not necessary…wanted, desired, wished to be there.

There’s no better feeling.

###

Water always makes her feel better. In all forms and shapes. Knowing there is something deeper than what she feels, something stronger than her and yet, feeling so weak against her fingertips, gives her the force to know she has been through worse than waiting for the response of a university. Though, that doesn’t mean she doesn’t spend most of her time helping the maids around the castle, trying to find something to do that distracts her before she goes absolutely crazy.

Hana has always been a bit strict when it came to certain fabrics, and only now she realizes how difficult it is to wash a gown by hand, much more her Mother’s, that seems to be never-ending as four people, including her, try to get it washed. She knows Mother won’t use it again, but she doesn’t have the heart to remind that to the groups of people working for her. It would only make them feel worse, and she’s there to feel better.

The laundry machine roars behind them, though she pays more attention to the faint sound of music playing in the background. Water drips down her hands when she rubs the fabric against itself, trying to get rid of any stain or smell, though there is a party in between the staff. Candles lit up, cake sliced, a song too upbeat for her danced by her workers. Some are buzzed, even in this early moment of the day, for it’s the ex-Duchess’ birthday.

Her birthday and it doesn’t quite feel like it.

In the past, she liked her birthday, but today, she feels nostalgic. Only getting older, but not getting anywhere—well, she’s in the process, but it feels like her growth will last forever, and she’s too impatient to wait for it. Smelling like smoke, detergent and soap, she thanks the few people that gave her such pleasantries, that congratulated her as if they were part of her family, because they are. Careless, she isn’t, and even though the smile on her face is weakened, it means well.

One day, she’s going to hold onto every birthday as if it’s the last—one never knows, but somehow, today, celebrating is not in her vocabulary. It hasn’t been in a while.

“I think someone is looking for you.” Hana says, already reaching for her hands with a towel to wipe them away from the soap and water. She widens her eyes, unaware of why Hana is so rushed to get her out of the laundry room and towards the living room. “Oh my, darling, why are you this untidy?”

“I was doing laundry, Hana, that’s why.” She replies, looking down at her black tank top and leggings, not looking like how she used to be on a normal day, always prepared for an event. “Why? I get to be comfortable on my birthday—”

Hana stops her as they are reaching the living room, turning around to release her hair from its confines on a ponytail, tugging her shirt down to show more of her cleavage and using that towel to wipe all the droplets of water from her body. “Because you will want to look good for this visitor.”

She scoffs. “I don’t want to look good for anyone other than myself.”

Hana stops rubbing at her skin then, lifting her hands in surrender before looking at her pointedly. “Okay, look like a mess, but when you do regret looking like one in front of this visitor, I am going to say that I told you so.”

“If that happens, have my heart.” Her hand extends on top of the left portion of her ribcage, moving forward with her slippers sliding against the tiles, resounding obnoxiously as she reaches the main area by the entrance. Spacious enough to be considered a house of its own, but the closer she gets, the more noticeable the person by the door becomes.

She stumbles back slightly, though the smile on her face is more taken aback than angry. Minghao stands there, a bouquet of sunflowers in between his hands and a small black bag holding tightly onto his fingers, turned white under the pressure of his gift. With a deep green turtleneck, a leather jacket and a pair of ripped, oversized, light-washed jeans, he looks more like the birthday person than she does.

“Minghao? What are you doing here?” She asks, once again retreating at the sound of her slippers. Fuck, once they’re wet, they sound like they’re smacking against the floor far more than usual. Still, she keeps walking forward, Minghao giving her a once-over that goes unnoticed, mostly. “Not that you’re not welcome, but you said you had a meeting with your PR team.”

“I did, but now I’m here.” Minghao finalizes, giving the bouquet of sunflowers to her before she looks down at it. One note reads her name, written in his expert handwriting, a brief ‘happy birthday’ wit a heart making her feel more at ease than ever. Who cares if she looks a little bit unprepared? “Happy birthday.” He says, one arm wrapping around her shoulder to rest his cheek against her head. She chuckles at that, enveloping her arm around his taut waist to take the warmth of him, the hug sideways and yet, meaningful.

“Thank you. It hasn’t been exactly the happiest, but it hasn’t been sad either.” She conquers, pulling away from him before pointing to the kitchen. “Want me to serve you some coffee?”

“Do you have tea?”

“I do.”

“Let’s have tea while we wait for the cake I ordered for you.” Minghao replies, going after her towards the kitchen. Though her grin is perceptible, she can’t help but groan.

“Goodbye to my night of sleep with the amount of sugar I’ve eaten today, and it’s not even night.” She says, going over to the shelves to look through her repertoire of tea. “Black?”

“Yep.” He pops the ‘p’, the chair creaking under his weight when he splays his gift on the island, unable to stand straight. “But, before you start, I brought you something—”

She stops then, moving towards him before taking the black bag in between her hands. Gifts are not something she enjoys regularly, much more because she was bathed in them instead of being given sentimentalism, but from Minghao, she finds it hard to deny that she is head over heels with the idea of him giving her something.

“Thank you.” She says, opening the bag as she speaks. “It must be heavy; your fingers are all red.” Though, her words come to a halt when she gets a canvas out of the bag, the plastic falling on the floor when she inspects it in front of her line of vision. Blue merges into a moonlit sky, railings of a balcony crooked yet enigmatic, strokes made from his heart and soul, a pool underneath, the doors open ajar. She knows this place.

Minghao explains it for her when she can’t find words to say, reminiscent of the first time they met. He was, what, eighteen or nineteen then? “That’s the place in which we met,” Minghao whispers, pointing at the canvas. “Well, where you met me. I always saw you around the castle, but you never paid much attention.”

How could she not? She will always blame herself for not getting to know Minghao sooner. Still, she lifts her gaze, unable to voice out what she truly feels. Adoration. “Why didn’t you just try to talk to me?”

He shrugs, pulling the sleeves of his jacket down before taking it off, draping it on the island in the process. “Way back then, I thought you’d never connect with me. We wouldn’t be, well, good friends or anything, in my head.” Minghao tries to come out with proper answers, crossing one leg over the other. “I am glad I woke up that night.”

“Because you met me?”

“That,” Minghao says, resting his hand on his palm, his index and middle finger parting on his cheek. “And that you noticed me.”

“You painted this?” She asks, only to receive a nod from him. Looking at it once again, she can’t believe he remembers the balcony of his cousin’s house that perfectly. He moved away from there years ago, after all. “Minghao, I am the lucky one for getting to know you, not the other way around.”

“Ah, perception. Another thing of life that is relative.”

“…There you go.” She chuckles, knowing fully well that said words belong to Minghao. Always thinking ahead of what is in front of him, so realistic that it almost becomes complex to understand. She puts the canvas down on the island, taking the time to wrap her arms around his shoulders and rest her chin on his shoulder. His hands hesitate to rest on her waist, getting closer and closer until he engulfed her completely. “I’ll put it up in my room. Thank you.”

The tea that brews later will never be as warm as his presence, as his smile, the way he seems to remember things about her that she even forgot telling him. Xu Minghao is not only a realist, but the only reality that she is happy of living.

###

While she had never noticed just how loved Minghao was around not only businesspeople, but with normal individuals as well, it seemed like the world had put him on a pedestal. A deserved one, at that. Earning himself the opportunity of a documentary for his strenuous, gorgeously planned work in the business industry as one of the richest heirs in the entire continent. Not that she was told beforehand, but when Minghao texted her to join him while he recorded around the land, she took her textbook and followed after Minghao’s staff for the rest of the day.

The sun beams down on him, in the middle of the bustling city with the cameraman, Jeon Wonwoo, on one knee as he tries to get a good shot, the rest of the team working with the lights, with the microphone, making sure that everything Minghao wears is still on place. The high-waisted striped pants and the button down a standard for fashion just by looking at it, yet so incredibly creative that she finds her breath stolen the moment she saw him earlier. Never had she been able to look at Minghao this closely, or this sentimentally, when he raises his head and answers one of the questions one of Wonwoo’s team has as he walks, showing the land that had welcomed his business after he moved in here.

Small as a land, but productive for him as a businessman.

This time around, Minghao doesn’t have a camera hanging from his neck and she has long forgotten the textbook that rests in between her arm and her ribcage, walking behind the team to hear Minghao’s answers, must of them have been simplistic enough, something for him to showcase how it was to move in here, how he grew internationally, what he wants for his future and what he imagined in the past. All equaling to something Minghao could respond easily, his own photographer taking pictures of him from afar for the previews of the documentary.

He props his sunglasses down on the bridge of his nose, quirking an eyebrow when Wonwoo, instead of one of his team, is the one to ask him a question: “What is the most important lesson you have learned in your life?”

Minghao giggles a bit to himself, as if a million thoughts crossed his head and he couldn’t pick one. When that smile settles on his face, she details him. Rosy lips and brown eyes that capture her when the apples of his cheeks become prominent and he answers: “Be patient. Work hard for what you want. What is meant to be for you, will come to you even if it’s the last day of your life.”

The way he looks over his shoulder, his eyes twinkling behind those expensive yet flimsy pink sunglasses, tells her a million things and none at all. Not that she minds it, this uncertainty doesn’t dull in insecurity, but rather blinks with curiousness. Her heart, against her ribcage, begs for an answer…but maybe, in another life, she’d let that one voice inside of her speak with confidence. This time around, she knows better than to ponder, than to hang onto that smile that makes her feel a thousand things all at the same time. For once, she doesn’t think Minghao as a friend that she wishes to keep by her side, but she sees him as something else. Attractive, for once, a pull so strong that she finds herself stopping when he looks ahead once again, taking the questions like a champion.

Bullshit.

This is absolute bullshit.

She’s not this kind of fool, but why is it that she now realizes that Minghao has one of the best eyes she has ever seen and that, when with him, this feeling of attraction doesn’t make her feel disgusted? It doesn’t make her feel brittle or insecure, but the experience tells her not to give that step forward.

She doesn’t like Minghao. It can’t be.

She’s not able to like anyone after what happened to her.

Whatever this is, it isn’t what she is thinking. What’s the use of falling if it’s not going to be real? Minghao was just looking over his shoulder, there is no way he would have waited for her—

Love never waits. People never wait. They’d rather have someone than not have anyone at all.

Besides, it’s not like Minghao is not a handsome man. There is no way that his heart kept with only one person for this long.

Yeah, she’s just assuming, and assuming is never good. Minghao has his heart well reserved, given to someone that she doesn’t know, and she can’t feel that way for someone who has treated her so fairly, such like a friend. She doesn’t need another reason for a headache, not when her life is sorted out or halfway there. Love is a waste of time, just a touch of lips, souls and bodies that brings to nothing at all. A game that no one wins.

With that in mind, she keeps walking, listening to Minghao and feeling each portion of her heart ripple with electricity. He’s a charming man, she’s not the only person that sees it, and definitely she isn’t thinking of him in any other way that isn’t as friends.

###

The first test in university is always the worst. Just seeing her classmates’ grades has her throat getting dry, seeing all the people who have failed—and those who have barely passed is just enough of a headache to have her closing the laptop momentarily, only to have the person beside her sighing deeply, taking a seat next to her on her bed to open the laptop again, pressing on the spacebar with rapidness as he wraps one arm around her.

Minghao is not her leverage—she has learned never to lean on someone, but what a blessing it is to feel him next to her when she is at her worst. Woken up at night because of the worries for this one text, he’d always reply to her midnight worries, albeit a bit annoyed at times, but caging it in because it’s her. She’ll never understand how he does it, being this nice and not asking for anything in return.

“Come on, whatever the grade is, it’s not a definition of who you are.” Minghao says, pressing his index finger to her adjacent temple, looking for her name through the masses of people in the picture. “Besides, what you learned will stay here and that’s what will keep on with you. No matter how many people did better or worse than you, you still learned, and that’s the important part.”

She lays her head on his chest, the fabric of his simple shirt rubbing against her cheek when she breathes out through her nose. “Yeah, but I studied so hard.”

“That’s what matters.” Minghao says, leaning his weight forward before pointing towards the laptop screen. “Besides, you’re the best grade in your class.”

The sound of those words shadow everything that has gone wrong in her life, light like him, in the way he says it so plainly but means the world to her. She lifts her gaze then, tears that she planned to drop gone in a second when she takes his face in between her hands, her head still pressed to his chest when she pulls his face down to look straight into his eyes, showing a lot of her teeth in a smile that plasters her happiness into the air. “Minghao, are you kidding me?!”

“I would never.” Minghao smiles back, looking down at her lips before returning his gaze to her eyes, clouds of pink rain scattering across the apples of his cheeks and if she is not mistaken, the lullaby in the ballad of Minghao’s heart turns into an upbeat tune. Something that she would hear in a club or in a party, rushed beyond her understanding, making her raise her eyebrows when she lets go of her face and his face stops flushing.

“Your heart is racing.” She says, awfully aloof in her deliver and Minghao can only let out one of his nervous giggles, nodding in the process.

“I am usually good at controlling my heartbeat.” He confesses, one of his hands resting on her shoulder, rubbing circles there yet not moving her from her spot. “But I am not doing so great today.”

“Why do you have to control your heartbeat?”

“…Well,” Once again, he smiles, this time around pulling himself away from her to take one of the cushions on her bed, playing with the fabric, fisting it in between his hands. “I normally have to do it around you.”

Does Minghao have to control his heartbeat around her? Why would his heart race on the first place?

At the mention of such words, she opts not to take the answer out of him. If Minghao said what was possible that existed between them, she wouldn’t know how to act. Her gut tells her to step forward and place his hand on her chest, show him that it has been weeks since her heart has started to go crazy for him. Instead, she goes for the easier route, the one that isn’t accompanied by heartbreak.

“Either way.” Minghao finishes, pushing his weight off her bed before clapping his hands together. “Now that we know you’re a genius, we should go and grab something to eat, don’t you think?”

Is that something else falling from his eyes? That glint that she has always talked about, always gushed about internally, perhaps it could mean something…just like it could mean nothing at all. Who knows? She doesn’t answer.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

###

Three months pass and her heart doesn’t want to shut up. It dances to its will whenever it sees Minghao, just like it does now that he is seated across from her in the sofa of her new mansion. His hands extend on each side of his body, inspecting the place with certainty, with the eye of a critic because he was the one that helped her the most with the decorations. All props should go to him.

Hana has her own room, locked away and excited to be able to start anew and not have to work for anyone in the process. Not that Mother was too pleased about her decision, but she could not bring herself to care, not when Minghao nods to himself and hums in the process, a big smile taking over his face.

“It’s perfect for you.”

The rows of bookshelves, the vintage atmosphere, the delicacy that meets both feminine tones and real masculine ones, they all come together with pinches of yellow, her favorite color. Minghao doesn’t notice it, the way she isn’t even inspecting the mansion but looking at him instead, taking the seat beside him and placing her arm over his abdomen, taut and contracting thanks to the action.

“And it’s all thanks to you.”

“No, no. I helped you decorate,” Minghao corrects, turning to look at her before sighing. “This was all your doing. You bought the mansion. You planned what you wanted. This is years-worth of dreaming given to you by yourself.”

Always finding the perfect words, Minghao manages to engrave himself inside her head. Not that he has ever left, the cause of her dreaming, also the cause of her absolute denial. It’s in the fact that she fears getting hurt that keeps her away, that ignores the way his eyes trail down to her lips from time to time, how he stops himself each time is beyond her. Maybe, he senses more than what she actually realizes, and it’s at this point that she notices that Minghao won’t ever talk, do anything, even remotely speak about what he may feel about her if she doesn’t get it out of him.

She has known him for years, and never had she felt this…lukewarm. She used to think that love was meant to be feral, rip at her, bite at her heart, make her feel heartbroken but in love at the same time. It’s what she saw, it’s what she believed in. However, with Minghao everything has always been different. She doesn’t hate herself in the process of liking him, neither does she think of herself as less when being around him. All the kisses she has given in the past seem to be forgotten when she tries to think of giving him a kiss.

If she has to die, she wants her last kiss to be with Xu Minghao. Those petal-like lips engulfing hers to give her hope of knowing that whatever life she got to live, she made the best out of it.

Which is why, for the first time, without thinking and with an intake of breath, she whispers out the words that she had not even internalized. Certainty clouds her, it’s so full of confidence even in its mumble, that she finds herself surprised by what she feels, the way her eyes want to concentrate on everything about him.

“I like you, Minghao.”

She is a woman of words. It’s what she has read, what she has expected for her. Big confessions, grand apologies, bunch of excuses and lies, people that kiss up to her even if they don’t mean it. Minghao loves the silence of patience, waits for the right moment to let those words fall down on him like rain, his features softening, the slightest bit of surprise passing his wide eyes before he leans forward, just a breath away from her, but he stops.

He stops because he knows she likes words, and they both compromise silently at that moment.

“I’ve liked you for a long time.” He tells her, lowering his weight slightly until their lips are centimeters away from each other. “Can I kiss you?”

With a nod of her head, she realizes the difference between the kiss of love and the kiss of desire is huge. Not a lot of pressure, he seems to melt against her, softly parting his lips to relish on the sentiment more than the quickness of it all. Minghao splays his hand on her waist, bringing her closer when he uses his other hand to touch her cheek. A rub of his thumb against the skin, and a soft whisper of her name against her lips once the contact is finished.

It doesn’t take a lot of words to know then Xu Minghao loves her, and after all this time, she may say one thing…

She hates a lot of things, but she will never hate him.

[poptod]

The Breeding Kings, pt. 19

Description:

Notes: WC: 4.5k

+

They had yet to tell you the master's name.

You weren't allowed to stand next to Ahkmen in line, either. They wanted you lined up by size, leaving you at the smaller end, and Ahk at the taller. After scanning the new recruits––of which there were only six new people––the estate's stewardess assigned you to gardening, and Ahk to patrol.

"Okay," you said with a nod despite no one else in line saying anything in response to their assignment. "I also do clean good."

The stewardess cocked a single brow.

"You can do that as well then. Share shifts with Zakiti," she said, pointing to a young girl digging into the loose dirt of the garden.

You bowed your head deeply before the six of you were set loose on the property, your slots established. Ahkmen followed you into the sun for a moment before someone caught him, bringing him back to the small hut he'd just been in, and where the tools were kept. He was handed a guard's outfit––long, white robes, unflattering, and reaching all the way to his ankles and wrists. An instant distaste grew on Ahk.

"I have to wear this?" Ahk asked the man, but fortunately he was speaking Egyptian, and the stranger could not understand him.

The job did, to your great comfort, afford you food that was given out in plentiful rations, and despite the dull taste, Ahk found himself enjoying beer and bread in the beating afternoon sun, though he wasn't allowed much due to time constraints. He'd been working throughout the whole day, circling the whole of the property in search of any trespassers. Lean muscles were now strained beneath the weight of his body and of the strange clothes, though certainly no more than his backpack was, and he often found himself rubbing his aching shoulders. He couldn't see his skin there properly, but he was half convinced he was genuinely bruised.

What was hardest about the job didn't end up being the heat, the strain on his muscles, or the overstimulation of long skirts and sleeves––it was the absence of you that he noticed above anything else. No one to listen to the strange comments during the day, a slot that had, for a while, been filled by Piye, and then more recently by you.

You always had something more fun to say. Sometimes way out of range from his own thought process, and sometimes reading his mind exactly.

And he wasn't there to hear what you had to say, either, in those random moments when deep thoughts blurted out in rough translations.

Later in the afternoon––bordering on evening––you were called back to the servant's quarters to be dismissed. The stewardess gave the six of you a rough look at your future schedules, revealing your hours to be lax and concentrated to only three or four days in the ten day week. You and Ahk side-eyed each other, ready to jump out of line at any moment with excitement as you bit back a grin.

The moment she said 'dismissed' you flocked to one another, automatically heading towards your quarters without word.

"I have been with thoughts, all day," you began, moving your hands animatedly. "We need to go to the beer house, like," you pointed over your shoulder, "you know?"

"The one from yesterday?" He asked in mild confusion.

"Yes!"

"Well I haven't got anything else to do," he said, looking to you with a lop-sided grin that you eagerly returned.

Even in the increasingly late hours of the day the market was aflame with life, filled with open carts and tables now half-empty after a long day of business. Ahkmen never had a job before––at least, not one that didn't have to do with politics or, very rarely, singing. Neither of those were any bit like the job he now had, standing on his feet for hours on end, watchful eyes patrolling a property that didn't and never would belong to him.

That ache continued in his chest, a feeling of tiredness that attempted to lag him down as he followed your excited steps. Unlike him, you were accustomed to physical labor, and retained much of your energy despite the hours of cleaning.

Orange and yellow tarps still hung above the darkened market, now blocking nothing more than the stars that shone a little dimmer than the two of you were used to. The small, red flags fluttered high above you in the gentle breeze coming off the Euphrates, twinned by the still fresh scents of baking bread and cooking beer. You needed only to follow the scent and the crowds that grew larger the further you got down the wide, stone street, coalescing into a large city center built by shops, bakeries, breweries, and glassmakers surrounding a pyre of white stone.

Winged creatures on four feet and bearing a man's head were carved into the large pillar, mounted by a disc resembling the light of the sun. Other such decorations trailed all the way down to the base, where lax soldiers lay among the ascending steps, their spears and swords at their side, and their mouths occupied by a stew whose scent tantalized the both of you.

"Did you eat today?" Ahkmen asked, unable to stop staring at the clay bowls steaming with the soup.

"I had a bread, in the - the kitchen," you said quietly.

"Hungry?"

"Yes, yes, we will eat?" You asked as you turned to him.

"I'd like to, considering I didn't really eat anything today," he said with a frown.

"What?? They did not let you eat?"

"More of I didn't have the chance," he said as he scratched the back of his neck, scanning the city square.

"I say we do get beer," you said, speaking slowly so as to fully think through your plan, "then we go to the house, and take their food. It is their job to feed you, yes? We work for them, they give food."

"Ah, Yogi," he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into a side hug, "I knew there was a reason I followed you to the end of the earth."

"We are not at the end of the earth now, not yet," you said with a chuckle.

"I will follow you there," he said in a sudden, sincere softness.

You looked up at him and said, "I know," though you chuckled and gave him a funny look.

Thick, warm, and sweet––the beer of Babylon was more similar to porridge than it was to the almost juice-like qualities of Egypt, and by extension your, brewing. You both held one of the large mugs given to you, sitting on the raised half-wall between the public center and the roofless brewery establishment. Below you, women and men churned the alcoholic mixture, and across from you wandered older shoppers and off-guard soldiers.

Both of you raised your cups at the same time, taking a long, slurping gulp as you looked each other directly in the eye. Laughs bubbled in the beer, forcing you to lower the cup and wipe your chin on your sleeve as you giggled. He chuckled as he lowered his mug in a more graceful manner than you had.

"Hey, weren't you here yesterday?" A woman asked in Akkadian. It caught your attention, but to Ahk, it was just part of the conversations he couldn't understand, so he didn't notice until you responded to her.

"Yes I was here," you said grinning, offering a small wave to what Ahkmen now saw to be one of the brewers, her skin glowing in the firelights beneath the churners.

Her skirt was long, the frail edge of it dragging along the ground over neat, red fabric shoes. Despite the modest skirt, she had no sleeves, and the white linen veiled her muscled body, smooth dips and veins built from the nature of her work. Long, curly black hair was pinned in a bun, with neat strands hanging from the pins like vines from a tree. Even with her dark skin he could see a blush on her flushed cheeks.

"Ah," she huffed, wiping her brow, "I thought you looked a little odd."

"Odd?" You questioned with a laugh.

"Well your friend is dressed very... um, different," she said as she gestured to Ahk, who was back in his Egyptian skirt. "You from Egypt, sir?"

"Oh, he does not speak Akkadian," you said.

At this point, Ahk knew you were talking about him, since the lady gestured to him and you brushed him off. The two of you continued for a moment more, the stranger's gaze switching between you and him as incomprehensible words flooded from her mouth before she finally said something he understood.

"You, uh, you speak Sumerian?" She said, and Ahk perked up.

"Yes, I do," he said, glancing between you two. "Yogi doesn't, though. How do you know Sumerian? I thought it was a... a dead language."

"I could ask you for the same," she chuckled, "but my brother is a priest. I live with him, he shows me much of what he does."

"Ah, alright," he said with a nod. "I learned from school in Egypt, trained in the temples to be a priest."

How easily the lie came to him now. Why wouldn't it? No one was around to know any different.

She nodded with him, but before she could reply, you were interrupting and her focus was back on you. You said something followed by your name, and with her reply you muttered to Ahk her name––Tiamat.

Ahkmen managed to finish his beer while you two were still speaking in tongues. Not too great a task for a man of his stomach, but the entire time he was sipping away he could think of nothing more than the feeling of alienation. The languages of the three of you were all mixed up, meaning he couldn't talk to her without excluding you, and you couldn't talk to her without ignoring him, a predicament with ended in the latter's solution.

In the meantime, you were hitting it off rather well with Tiamat; you got to tell her that you'd experimented with your own types of beer, and she was interested––at least mildly so––in your foreign recipes. It wasn't long until she noticed Ahk's silent eyes staring at you, and suggested something you translated to Ahk.

"There is a... a house of books and scrolls near to here," you said. "If you are tired to being here."

A black hole swelled in the pit of his stomach, instilling a sick feeling where his beer once was. He glanced between you.

It would be the first time he was willingly parted from you in months.

"Sure," he said slowly, repeating the word in Sumerian to Tiamat.

She gave him the directions and he left in a fluster, confused and somewhat disappointed in himself. He was a little confused as to the actual directions to the library, but the large building stuck out sorely amongst the middle and lower class homes, tiled in dark blue and having much of a stature of a temple rather than a library. No one came and went from the door, but the scent of searing meat was suddenly overpowered by burning incense. The mark of an inhabited and frequently prayed in temple.

Arches led to extensive gardens, held alight by the glowing moon shining above. There were few clouds out tonight, allowing a better view of the sky––a view reflected in the patterns of the gardens. Riverwater flowed through the terrace as the Milky Way split the sky, the stars marked by flowering trees that bloomed in deep red and a pure, clean white. Beyond the garden stood the temple itself, once more the center of his attention, and once more rising beyond the walls that encircled it.

Stairs led up into the heavens and towards the first door, a strong, metal gate left unprotected.

He slowly entered, passing through the open doors and into a dark threshold. Ripples and veins of wood ran beneath his fingertips, trailing across the large doors, their bolts hanging open and unlocked. His mouth went dry as his eyes adjusted to the light.

Despite the grand stature and preparations for the temple, the first room there was very little––containing not much more than a strange candle sat in front of a small idol representing a bloodied man. Red paint, or perhaps actual blood, was smeared across his face, leading down in claw marks to the offerings at his feet. Ahk's jaw gritted tight as he attempted to swallow through a tight throat.

Two doors flanked the wall behind the statuette. Light flooded suddenly in the pitch black room, only to disappear, the subtle roar of torchlight moving with it. In that single moment, within which the light appeared, Ahkmen's mouth fell open as writings were revealed upon the walls, carved in every available surface, their depths sharpened by harsh light.

Like Egypt, the comings and goings of rituals for the Gods overpowered any prayers citizens might have, leaving only the small entrance room for people to pray at. From there Ahk could safely assume that he would not be allowed in the inner temples, especially since he was a foreigner. Whatever scrolls or tablets Tiamat knew about were inaccessible to him, leaving him alone and directionless in the Babylonian temple, separated from everything comfortably familiar.

He knelt, though he wasn't sure why, and looked the statue straight on. At the stone base was script, cuneiform pressed into clay and announcing the God's name.

"Utu Shamash," he mumbled, reading the words aloud. The Sun God of Babylonian myth.

It made sense, considering the offerings of gold beads and wine in golden chalices––Utu was known as a lover of gold, as it was the lifeblood of the sun. And even though Utu Shamash was the God of the sun, his equal was the presence of Ma'at––the Goddess of truth and justice––instead of Ra, a more widely known God of Egypt.

He took advantage of the rarity of such quiet moments, and delved back into the studies he left behind in Osiris' temple, namely the study of cuneiform writing. The temple must've been an older one––which would explain the somewhat smaller size––as the words in the walls were a script he could recognize, the familiar Sumerian of thousands of years ago. Whoever took power in Mesopotamia could never outrule the hidden language, and thus the words persisted even into modern day. Singing and glowing off the stone.

You suspend from the heavens the circle of the lands

And everything that Ea, King of the counsellors, had created is entrusted to you.

Whatever has breath you shepherd without exception,

You are their keeper in upper and lower regions.

Regularly and without cease you traverse the heavens,

Every day you pass over the broad earth. . . .

Shepherd of that beneath, keeper of that above,

You, Shamash, direct, you are the light of everything.

His gaze fell from the blurry words to the small statue. At some point he had fallen to his knees in front of the altar, his chin resting on the surface holding up the offerings of the people. Staring into its' eyes brought recollection to him, and he remembered the wooden totem he had worked on throughout the Shamiyah desert, how avidly he hid it in hopes of surprising you. He shoved it in his bag somewhere around Rapiqum for the last time, and since then it was hidden beneath his belongings.

There was little else he could think to do in the small praying room, so he left on quiet footsteps, retreating away from manmade majesty and back into the natural flora scattered along the path back to main streets. Chirping crickets digressed into quiet conversation, leather sandals walking across brick stone streets, and the ever-present sound of crackling fires.

He returned to the small circle in which he'd left you, as he only remembered the path back to the estate from that single spot. When he crossed the plaza, he spotted the open-roofed brewer, and made his way across to inform you on his future whereabouts.

Peering over the ledge, he found you still enraptured in your conversation with the brewer. She appeared to be showing you the mixing process required for the porridge-type beer. Ahk jogged down the stairs and over to you.

"Aganu!" You said brightly, a very sudden smile overtaking your earlier seriousness. "How is the books?"

"Couldn't, uh, get inside. It's alright. They had writings on the walls, um – I'm headed back to the estate," he set a hand on your shoulder, "so shall I meet you there?"

"Yes, yes, I will come back close to now," you said with a nod.

"Alright," he said, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your forehead before he bid a hasty good-bye, waving himself out of the brewery. Your giggle followed him.

Things got quieter and less crowded the closer he got to the estate––whose owner he still didn't know––and by the time he stood before the servant's entrance, most of the lights in houses had gone out. The small, hostel-like accommodations for the servants still had a burning rushlight within, dimly illuminating the filled and empty bunks.

He squinted slightly to see through the wooden gate, his brow furrowing. There were very few beds left unoccupied.

With a long sigh he unlatched the gate in the way the stewardess taught him, quietly closing it behind him when he padded through with careful steps. His gaze was drawn to the small patio outside the hut––where you and him were assigned to your respective jobs––and there he spotted the bags the two of you left behind. He knelt and dug into his pack, drawing out his knife and the wooden totem that had been chipped into a much smaller size.

A whiff of the air from inside the bunk revealed to him that they weren't burning a rushlight; they were burning incense, drifting out in gentle smoke that pooled beneath the patio roof. He looked up, chuckling as he ran his hand through the thick clouds.

He took a seat on the dusty earth, his raised knees supporting his elbows that allowed for the proper movement of carving. The knife in his hand had dulled over time, matching to fit the refining scrapes Ahk was now using, smoothing out the harsher edges of the image within. Every now and then he glanced upwards, and each time he found the stars still veiled past the light of the city. He sighed, looked to the gate in hopes of seeing you, and returned to his wood carving after two minutes of silence.

Snoring hummed quietly from inside the servant's quarters, followed by rustling sheets and a smack of skin against skin. Ahk's eyes widened as he heard someone curse in Akkadian. Another slap and then silence.

A little while later, clinking metal and swinging hinges had his head shooting up to see you. A grin split across his face and he stood, abandoning his wood and knife on the ground in favor of jogging over to you.

"Aganu," you said in a giggle, gladly returning his hug when he scooped you up into his arms.

He picked you up easily, spinning you around in slow circles across the garden as your laughter followed in twirls. He chuckled as he set you down, his hands remaining on your waist, and his heart thumping like thunder.

"How was brewing?" He asked.

"So good," you giggled. "I did miss it for more than I think."

"Understandable. You do know a lot about it, after all," he said with a shrug.

"A little. We should eat now," you said, walking past him and leading him to follow you without word or gesture.

The main house of the estate wasn't an especially large house, but it was tall. Three different floors rose out of the ground like pikes, the edges rimmed with decorated shards of cutting stone, and the stairs guarded by figures of Lamassu, though they were much smaller than some of the statues he'd seen in other parts of Babylon.

Of course, that wasn't the wisest entry point. On the back side of the house, opposite of the street-facing side, a doorway led in to the kitchens illuminated by the windows built into the thick, stone walls.

Large domed brick furnaces were built into the home, but the storage cases were all made of wood and completely moveable. None of that mattered, however, because all of the food itself was kept in a storeroom below the ground, a fact you found out after speaking with Zakiti, your coworker. Long accustomed to the art of sneaking, the two of you easily snuck down the stairs and into the underground storage. basement.

A chill set over your skin, and you wrapped your arms around yourself. Every tiny scrape of your shoes against the dirty floor had tiny specks of dirt grinding against each other, producing an unpleasant sound that nearly woke the landowners.

You picked a variety of things, too scared of taking multiples of one object and getting caught by the missing evidence. Once everything was chosen, you and Ahk hid the food in the folds of your clothes, and ran back across the estate to the servant's house.

He barely caught his breath before you were climbing up the stone walls of the bunk, using the wooden pegs to left yourself up to the roof. Ahkmen chuckled, but something else came to mind, and he rushed off to grab something else before he joined you in the midnight stillness. In the end, however, he required your help in lifting everything up, and that left nothing to surprise you with but the totem he could carry in his hand while he climbed.

He huffed as he landed beside you. While waiting for him you'd set out the blanket he fetched, the length of it laying flat on the mud roof baked in the sun. You already had your lute in hand, small fingers tapping thoughtlessly over the strings as he revealed what he'd hidden from you for a good while now; an object of his vigilant attention.

Your mouth fell open when you saw it, drawing a breath between your lips that caught in your throat.

It wasn't of anyone distinctive. Technically. The proportions gave away far more than he was comfortable with, but you'd already seen it now, and there was no taking that back. For weeks he'd been carving the image of two people embracing, one much taller than the other, who pulled the smaller's head into its' chest, an abstract hand petting the absent hair. The only features actually shown on the two were their eyes––closed, and quietly so, with no strain or note of fear.

He let you stare until he grew uncomfortable with your silence, which ended up happening rather quickly as he boiled in his own blushing.

"What do you think of it?" He asked in a voice that nearly cracked.

"I... it is beautiful," you murmured, your hands going lax around the instrument.

You reached forward as he handed it to you, and you held it with such a tender, careful touch that Ahk wished for a moment he was the statue instead. It was a very long moment that stretched into near painful yearning.

"This is what you made in the Shamiyah?" You said, tearing your eyes away from the figures to meet his gaze.

"Yes, well.. I... I had a lot of time," he partway mumbled, feeling suddenly self-conscious about his gift to you. There were edges and areas he could've added better detail.

"And I had a lot of time," you said with a chuckle. "But I did not make any thing. It is beautiful, Aganu."

Burning desire to hear his name. His true name. Not once had you uttered it in any way not befitting a stranger.

"Thank you," he choked out after forcing down the words you're beautiful.

How pathetically cliche, how his cheeks burned even brighter yet, his imagination just barely reigned in by his common sense. He couldn't just kiss you––you depended on him for safety to get to a new home after your last became intolerable, and breeching that trust wasn't something he was so readily prepared to do.

So instead he looked at you, ignoring how his gaze always fell to your lips, ignoring how he leant into you without ever having to feel your touch. Pathetic, he thought, and drew himself back, restraining his rampant thoughts. It all faded as you plucked at the strings, the hum of it filling up the space between you with warmth. Stars that crested your face fell to the earth in the form of fireflies that floated around you.

But you wouldn't sing. You looked to him, waiting for him to start, and giggling when he remained in his strange trance.

"You are the singing, yes?" You said quietly, careful not to disturb the sleeping servants below the rooftop.

"Oh," he said, his back straightening. "Um, alright."

He recalled many of the poems and songs he'd heard at festivals, as well as the more popular ones sung in the house of life. His eyes flickered up to the red dot on your forehead above your brow.

"My love is one and only, without peer, lovely above all Egypt's lovely girls," he began to sing, keeping as quiet as you kept your playing. "On the horizon of my seeing, see her rising, glistening Goddess of the sunrise star; bright in the forehead of a lucky year. So there she stands, epitome of shining, shedding light, her eyebrows gleaming darkly, marking eyes which dance and wander."

He let out a long sigh as he lay down, stretching his arms above his head before he released them, one falling on his stomach, and the other extended to you. You chuckled at his sleepy mannerisms, continuing to pluck thoughtlessly.

"Tired?" You asked.

"Yes," he mumbled, his eyes falling blissfully shut.

The wooden lute clattered against the mud roof before fabric shifted and you were lying next to him, balanced on your side to face him. He turned to you and opened his eyes. You were much closer than he thought.

Neither of you said a word; silence in the hazy stare between you. Ahk only noticed his brow was knotted when it began to ache, at which point he also realized he'd raised his hand, and the back of his fingers were tracing down your cheek. No going back now––you still stared at him head-on, blinking slowly as he drew in a shaky breath.

His fingers drew the rest of the way down to your jaw, melting him at the soft warmth of your skin.

You're going to drive me mad.

[cloud-9ine]

Roses are pretty cliché, don't you think? (pt 1)

⤷ pairing - bakugo katsuki x (fem) reader

⤷ fandom - bnha

⤷ warnings - swearing, very slight angst

⤷ summary - bakugo was already out of his element when he went to buy flowers; so he didn’t take kindly to you criticising his preference for roses

⤷ word count - 2.2k+

⤷ notes - i have never written bakugo before and GOD is this hard. i imagine older him would be a lot calmer and a lot less quick to blowing something up but he still feels ooc. tell me what you think!

⤷ pt 1, pt 2

The card Bakugo held was slightly crumpled within his clenched fist. The pretty pastels evidently not enough to calm his fired nerves. It was Mina’s idea, he reasoned, she was the one that knew what girls liked. If anything went wrong, then it was her fault.

Although, if it was up to him, he probably would never apologise. 

Bakugo knew he was an asshole. He knew he fucked up. He also knew he would sooner die than admit it. It was a fatal flaw that he never fully grew out of, much to the chagrin of both himself and his friends. The self-loathing was hard to ignore in the dark veil of the night, nor the quiet light of the morning, when the tension lay as thick as the pillows that separated them.

“Pfft, you look like you’re about to shit yourself.”

He huffed at the words from the man next to him, the snicker that left his lips only serving to spike his emotions further. 

“Shut it, sparky.” Denki only regarded his insult with a small laugh, shaking his head lightly. 

“Come on, you don’t have to look so scared. (Y/N)’s super nice, not to mention cute as a button too!” he grinned, clapping a couple times out of excitement. Bakugo sighed, cramming the business card in his front pocket without care. 

“I don’t think Kyoka would be too happy to hear that.” Denki sniggered, waving a hand around dismissively.

“If I didn’t know my wife any better, I would say the same, but you and me both know that she’d agree with me.” The impish grin on his lips was enough to make Bakugo roll his eyes.

“Where is this place?” Denki didn’t fail to notice the way he changed the subject, but for concern of his own safety, he didn’t draw attention to it.

“It’s literally right there,” vermillion eyes landed on the building in front of him, a quaint shop tucked in between two office buildings. The outside was a remarkable shade of lavender, with a small chalk-board sign outside painted with bluebells woven between opening times. 

“Oh.” A light tinkle of a bell rang out from the door as Denki pushed inside the shop, a quirk that wasn’t commonly seen with more modern establishments. Immediately upon entering the threshold into the store, Bakugo was pummelled with the overwhelmingly cloying scent of pollen. 

Resisting the urge to cough out of a begrudging politeness, he looked around. It was a small place, with bouquets of all different colours and types jumping from the tables in a dazzling a bounty of delight. In the centre of the back wall protruded the front desk, attached to the left of which was a small glass case filled with sweet-looking pastries and cakes. There was a small table in front of it, lined with a chequered table cloth, and two beautifully crafted wooden chairs tucked underneath the table with care.

“Long time no see, Denki,” Bakugo’s attention snapped to the presence behind the counter, where you leaned on your elbows with an easy smile on your face. Muted pink blouse tucked into a high-waist black skirt partnered with a cute little bow wrapped underneath your collar of a similar colour and you were already beginning to remind Bakugo of someone he knew quite well. It looked like a uniform, but it was informal enough to appear flattering.

“(Y/N)! How have you been?” Denki cried, sauntering over to the counter with his arms thrown wide in the expectance of a hug. You laughed, accepting the gesture with little hesitation.

“You here to pick up your little birthday gift for Kyoka?” you questioned once pulling away, eyes darting over to Bakugo and narrowing for a second before quickly returning to the other costumer. He nodded exuberantly, bright beam on his face.

“Of course! I’m excited to see what you thought up,” you grinned with a small nod of acknowledgement. 

“Great, I’ll be right back.” With that, you shuffled to a door behind the counter, swiftly stealing away to the small room at the back of the store. 

“She has more flowers in there?” Bakugo muttered, brows furrowing. Denki hummed, leaning on the counter whilst idly tapping his cheek.

“Yep. Flowers everywhere here.” He only nodded, eyes returning back to his surroundings. In less than a minute you had returned, clasped in your hands a beautiful bouquet with the stalks wrapped in brown paper. All Bakugo could see was a mess of purple and white with an air of coordination that tied it together, but it was enough to make Denki squeal.

“Oh, that’s stunning! What flowers are they?” you smiled, placing down the bouquet on the counter in front of him.

“Well, Kyoka’s a simple lady, so I used purple irises as the centre piece-” 

“That’s her favourite flower!” you snickered, rolling your eyes at the blonde’s words..

“Well, duh? Are you really surprised that I remembered?” you shook your head before continuing, “It’s hard to find colours that go well with purple without it looking too unconventional, so I complimented them with baby breaths and white jasmines, and magnolias in the middle to bring out a contrast in the yellow.” Denki was already pulling out his wallet before you had even finished.

“This is perfect, thank you so much! She’s gonna love them!” your smile turned smug.

“Of course she is, there’s no way I could disappoint a costumer,” Bakugo didn’t fail to notice the teasing coo in your voice, a proud glow on your face that he recognised was often replicated on his own expression, “will that be all?” Denki shook his head, handing you an indiscernible amount of money which you accepted before pushing half back. It seemed not even years on Denki was able to do simple math.

“Not all! I want some cake and my friend Katsuki here needs his own flowers!” Bakugo lurched forward from the rough shove from Denki, sending him a venomous glare with a small growl. Your eyes were amused as they landed on him, a smirk pulling on your lips.

“Hey, nice to meet you, Mr. Bakugo.” Bakugo wasn’t surprised you knew of him (being an incredibly successful pro hero and all) but the lilt to your voice as you drawled his name didn’t sit right, as if you were goading him in to ridicule. 

“Likewise.” You delicately pushed aside Denki’s bouquet to fully face Bakugo, the former having already been distracted by the sweet treats in the case.

“What can I do for you?” He straightened his back, shoulders tensing. He didn’t exactly know what he needed, having only bought flowers once or twice before for his mum. It was an underlying itch of feeling out of place that brought his next words forth, an urge to leave as soon as he could. 

“Roses, I guess. Red.” You snickered, and Bakugo’s eyes narrowed, “What?” You shrugged, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Roses are pretty cliché, don’t you think?” 

What.

Bakugo could feel the snarl that worked it’s way onto his face, a familiar tick of irritation welling up in his chest, only exacerbated by the mocking expression painted on your face.

“She’s right.” Denki called from his position crouched on the floor, gaze not even on him as he eagerly eyed a strawberry shortcake. 

“Didn’t need your input, dumbass!” He snapped, face heating at the bemused look on your face. It wasn’t often he felt embarrassed, and it was even less common that Denki would have a part to play in it.

“I’m just saying it’s better just to let her have free reign, that’s what I do.” Bakugo considered the words of his friend for a moment, before letting out a begrudging sigh, eyebrow twitching as he turned back to you. 

“Fine.” You tilted your head, leaning forward, similar to how his friend had stood earlier.

“So, why are you buying flowers?” Bakugo grunted, rubbing the back of his neck and averting his gaze.

“An apology gift. For my girlfriend.” You whistled, the noise pounding at the front of his skull.

“Damn, okay, how long have you guys been together?” Denki pulled out a chair, allowing Bakugo to sit down in front of the table as you pulled out a small notebook. 

“Since just after high school,” he muttered, resting his chin on his palm as he fiddled with the end of the table cloth, “it was great at the start but now we seem to be arguing more and more.” 

He shut his mouth. He wasn’t quite sure why he started to talk- it wasn’t like him to indulge a stranger in his life story. He bristled, resolve hardening.

“Why does it matter, anyway?” you hummed, looking around thoughtfully.

“Just trust the process. Describe this girl.”

“She would love this place.” Bakugo responded earnestly, a hollow laugh pushing past his lips as you nodded. It didn’t seem like much, but you got to work.

“Denki, pass me that bundle of tulips, please,” Denki nodded, obediently standing and pulling the tulips from one of the stands at the side of the room and pushing it towards you. You nodded your thanks, gaze returning back to Bakugo, who was watching you with a gaze eerily akin to suspicion.

“Look, this is gonna be a lot more awkward if you keep staring at me,” you grinned as he tutted, looking away. 

“I want that strawberry shortcake,” Denki exclaimed once you had settled again. Bakugo resisted the urge to roll his eyes while you just smiled. 

“Sure, let me get that for you,” you crouched down behind the glass case, “anything for you, Bakugo?” 

“No.” he responded, eyes narrowing at the cheeky smirk Denki shot at him. You pulled out the cake, rested delicately on a china plate with raspberry patterns coiled around the edge.

“Let me give you a drink, at least,” you offered, moving to the back room without giving him a moment to respond, and quickly reappearing with a teacup and saucer, “I had some lavender tea brewing. It soothes anxiety,” you passed the tea alongside the cake to Denki, who brought it back to their table with a grateful nod. 

Bakugo sighed as Denki placed the saucer down in front of him, a look of disdain on his face.

“Sugar’s on the table,” you called, snickering as you saw the small look of surprise on his face as he tasted the drink. Returning back to your work station, you fiddled with the tulips, taking some out and placing them in a glass vase. You moved out from behind the counter, flitting around the room and mulling over each flower.

Bakugo watched you with subtle interest, eyes narrowing when you shook your head or made a small noise of disdain. It was a fitting distraction from the loud mouthed Denki across from him, who was relentlessly chatting in between bites.

Seemingly having settled on several flowers, you moved back over to the tulips, weaving them together with pink and white bows in a way that Bakugo couldn’t begin to understand. 

The explosive blonde tended to pride himself on his achievements- his ability to become skilled in anything and everything carrying him through his life. But apparently flower arranging was where he fell short, and the annoyance of this fact making his nerves tick.

It wasn’t clear how much time had passed until you were done, hands never relenting even for a second as you worked, but it was evident that your project was finished when you took a step back to admire the bouquet. Your eyes flashed to him for a second, scouring his face for approval. 

Again, Bakugo didn’t really understand the big deal about flowers, but the passion in which you conducted yourself when producing them was something that he could respect. He stood, moving to get a closer look at what you had made.

“What’s in it?” you grinned, seemingly pleased at his fairly lackadaisical reaction. 

“Well, I used pink tulips as the base, and then I complimented them with white carnations and freesia. I didn’t want to add a contrast because if this is an apology, I wanted it to be fairly low-key, but still pretty. Do you like it?” He nodded, listening to the way you huffed in pride.

“Cool! Since it’s your first time, and because I like you, it’s free of charge, but just this once,” you gave him a pointed look, as if you were expecting to see him again.

“Thank you, I’m sure she’ll love them.” You nodded in acknowledgement, wrapping both bouquets in a protective layer before handing them out. Denki appeared beside you, accepting the flowers with a large grin. 

“I’ll see you later, (Y/N)! You’re coming, right?” 

“Yep, I’ll see you then,” you turned to Bakugo, eyes flashing with something he couldn’t discern, “I’ll see you later, too.” He huffed out something similar to an agreement, still unsure of his standing within your views. 

“Sure. Thanks again for the flowers.” Another grin.

“You’re welcome. Hope she likes them.” 

“Me too.” 

[tatticstudio55]

Dany, ghosts and mythical figures

Pasting it under the cut because it’s a bit long. I wrote this for a colloquy that’s currently scheduled for the end of May, and I try to be optimist but it’s in France, I live in Canada, all our borders are currently closed and it doesn’t look like things are about to get better anytime soon, so... I though I’d try translating it into english (warning: it might not come off as too polished) and share it here, at the very least 😔. Que sera sera. Aaaaand tagging you @tomakeitbeautifultolive

The term "ghost" used here therefore refers to this role of intermediary, or passer, between the worlds concerned – Cécile Sakai

 The loss, the mourning and the reality of the in-between, or intermediate states, occupy a fundamental place in Daenerys’s story. She was born in mourning, exiled from birth and leads a wandering existence from an early childhood. No matter where she goes, she’s seen as a stranger. She exists, but does not really belong anywhere. Her story is shaped by the reality and experience of the intermediary.

The first thing we notice about her, and from her first appearance in the novels, is the way in which the author uses the character's physical appearance to indicate a symbolic proximity to the ghostly, or the surreal: her pallor, her small size, her typical Valyrian features. Even the dress, chosen for her by Illyrio Myopatis, seems to enhances Daenerys’s “immateriality”:

Dany touched it. The cloth was so smooth that it seemed to run through her fingers like water. She could not remember ever wearing anything so soft. It frightened her. She pulled her hand away. "Is it really mine?" – AGOT, Dany I

The dress is meant as a reflection of the wearer. Daenerys’s eyes are the same color as the dress, (or a close match – amethyst and plum), her hair the same liquidity (“The girl brushed her hair until it shone like molten silver”), her body the same ethereal characteristics ("She is a vision, Your Grace, a vision," he told her brother. "Drogo will be enraptured." "She's too skinny," Viserys said.). Beyond the matter of the body itself, Daenerys shows some parallels with vampirism, ritually “absorbing” elements which quite clearly symbolize life forces. Pregnant, she eats a stallion's heart "raw and bloody", in accordance with the Dothrake custom that believes it will give the child strength, swiftness and fearlessness. The scene takes place in a nocturnal environment and the text very much emphasize the "bloodiness" of the ceremony. Daenerys later receives, and in more dire circumstances, her first “initiation” to blood magic with Mirri Maz Duur (blood magic resting on the vampirical tenet that only death can pay for life). And when Drogo's funeral pyre burns –

The flames writhed before her like the women who had danced at her wedding, whirling and singing and spinning their yellow and orange and crimson veils, fearsome to behold, yet lovely, so lovely, alive with heat. Dany opened her arms to them, her skin flushed and glowing. – AGOT, Dany X

Here she appears not quite “human”, glowing and feeding from the fire, whereas the flames are depicted in a very anthropomorphic way. The "dancers" spin, twirl and whirl in a vision that celebrates sensuality and physical vigor. Daenerys merges with the flames and is reborn from them, but her own body is no longer able to give life.

Subsequently, the books bring forefront the foils between the ever-growing physical presence of the dragons and the frail-like body of their mother. Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion fall into every physical extreme: extreme size and strength (getting there), the extreme amount of food they eat and the heat they give off. They "steam" in the cold, at night, while around them the khalasar disintegrate, Daenerys' flesh "falls away" and she becomes "lean and hard as a stick" (ACOK, Dany I). Drogon’s fire saves Daenerys from actual vampirical beings (the Undyings). The foils between mother and dragon(s) reaches a climax in Dany IX, ADWD, when Daenerys confronts an unleashed (and much larger) Drogon in the arena of Daznak:

In the smoldering red pits of Drogon's eyes, Dany saw her own reflection. How small she looked, how weak and frail and scared. – ADWD, Dany IX

Where Drogon is the “body” and Dany the “ghost”, the overwhelming physical presence of the former emphasizes and amplifies the stark opposite of the latter. Dany, like the first dress she was given, is akin to water and keep slipping through people’s fingers: those who hunt her, those who want her dead, those who want to marry her and those who want to use her.

Laughter erupted all around them. Even the old man joined in. "You saw her, then," said the redheaded boy behind them. "You saw the queen. Is she as beautiful as they say?"

I saw a slender girl with silvery hair wrapped in a tokar, he might have told them. Her face was veiled, and I never got close enough for a good look. – ADWD, Tyrion XI

Here, for instance, those who speak are on the hunt for stories, tales and rumors about the queen. Evasive, Tyrion withholds what he knows. At the same time, he is himself in the position of the frustrated chaser (she was veiled, she was too far away). The losses and bereavements already experienced by characters like Jorah Mormont and himself add an additional angle to the matter: Jorah sees Daenerys as a second Lynesse Hightower (the wife he lost) and Tyrion, while on his “grand travel” to Meereen, asks left right and center "Where do whores go?” (in reference to Tysha, the wife he also lost.) They are both haunted by the ghost of beloved women, which Daenerys gradually comes to replaces, as "perfect" and "ideal" as the first ones, but no less out of reach. Her geographical location in ADWD - Meereen is under siege by sea and land, boats no longer pass through Slaver’s Bay - reveals and hides a more metaphysical gap between Daenerys and her "pursuers": Jorah, Tyrion, Aegon, Euron, Victarion. Quentyn Martell is the exception, not that it ends well for him.

Orpheus and Persephone

-Orpheus

Dany is established very early on as a type of “psychopomp” (for lack of a better word) character: a character who passes from one metaphysical space to another (typically the "world of the dead" and the "world of the living"). Despite her belonging to the "living" world, Dany is pushed into spaces that are heavily associated with death, as well as in roles bearing resemblances with at least two psychopomp figures from Greek mythology: Orpheus and Persephone. Her overall narrative has an orphic tone ("If I look back, I am lost"), but the myth first really appears when Dany plea with Mirri Maz Duur to save Drogo's life:

Mirri Maz Duur tossed a red powder onto the coals. It gave the smoke a spicy scent, a pleasant enough smell, yet Eroeh fled sobbing, and Dany was filled with fear. But she had gone too far to turn back now. – AGOT, Dany VIII

The one rule that Orpheus must follow (to not look back at Eurydice) is meant to keep humans from witnessing directly god(s)’s doings. Mirri Maz Duur imposes the same rule on Dany:

"I will stay," Dany said. "The man took me under the stars and gave life to the child inside me. I will not leave him."

"You must. Once I begin to sing, no one must enter this tent. My song will wake powers old and dark. The dead will dance here this night. No living man must look on them." – AGOT, Dany VIII

Like Dany, Mirri is a psychopomp figure with an ambiguous characterization (the author hints more directly of her ties to the supernatural than he does with Dany). The Lhazarean occupies two realms simultaneously, both intertwining and merging in her presence: a mythical realm from an immemorial time/space, and the realm of the ordinary:

Mirri Maz Duur chanted words in a tongue that Dany did not know, and a knife appeared in her hand. Dany never saw where it came from. It looked old; hammered red bronze, leaf-shaped, its blade covered with ancient glyphs. - AGOT, Dany VIII

The knife’s unknown origins can be interpreted in two ways. Dany does not know where and when it was made - the only conclusion she can draw is that it must be "very old" – nor does she know how (or where) Mirri managed to conceal the weapon. As a result, Mirri comes off as a symbolic embodiment of the mythical realm that’s intertwining with the “normal” space (the tent):

The tent was aglow with the light of braziers within. Through the blood-spattered sandsilk, she glimpsed shadows moving.

Mirri Maz Duur was dancing, and not alone. – AGOT, Dany VIII

The mythical space, however, ends up overflowing its confines - the walls of the tent - onto the ordinary realm, and effectively swallows it. The scenes inside and outside the tent, “bruised-red sky”, Qotho "dancing”, “arakh dancing with arakh”, the Dothraki shouting; Mirri’s “inhuman wails”, the dancing shadows, the brazier, the "bloody bath" inside, are all in perfect symmetry with each other. Then,

No, she shouted, or perhaps she only thought it, for no whisper of sound escaped her lips. She was being carried. Her eyes opened to gaze up at a flat dead sky, black and bleak and starless. Please, no. The sound of Mirri Maz Duur's voice grew louder, until it filled the world. The shapes! she screamed. The dancers!

Ser Jorah carried her inside the tent. – AGOT, Dany VIII

Here, for instance, the text really insists on the ever-growing presence of the mythical space. The last sentence of the chapter ("Ser Jorah carried her inside the tent") deliberately draws a foil between the reduced space of the tent and the immensity of the sky, somehow making the tent appears much bigger than it really is. And the more it grows, the more it pushes the boundaries of the ordinary space. When Dany open her eyes, the sky itself is remindful of the Asphodels. This is an initiation, i.e., Dany passing from one realm to another for the first time. The "behavior" of the mythical space (the tent) also bring up the question: is Dany the one moving towards said space, or is it the expanding space that’s moving towards her? The tension between the mythical and the ordinary is projected onto its two main actors, Daenerys and Mirri. There’s an underlying, thematic reciprocity established between them, one projecting a distorted reflection of the other, the first even going so far as to assume the role of the second after thanking her for her “lessons". Roles, identities, functions, times and spaces interpenetrate and repel each other, and Dany passes fairly fluidly from one state to another. We talked about how Mirri seemed to have a foot in an ancient, mythical time, but in her next chapter, it is Dany who finds herself trapped in a feverish dream filled with ghosts (her deceased brothers) and mythical figures. The dream is essentially a retelling of Orpheus in the underworld: chased by a cold shadow, Dany runs across a stone hall lined with specters, towards a tiny, faraway red door that’s presumably the only way out. She must reach the door at all costs without looking back, even as the ghosts of loved ones, dead or alive (Drogo, Jorah, Rhaego), appear and vanish before her eyes.

After the tent comes the Red Waste in ACOK, another hardly disguised “underworld” landscape:

“That way lies the red lands, Khaleesi. A grim place and terrible, the riders say."

The rivers they crossed were dry as dead men's bones. Their mounts subsisted on the tough brown devilgrass that grew in clumps at the base of rocks and dead trees.

The Dothraki began to mutter fearfully that the comet had led them to some hell.

The next pool they found was scalding hot and stinking of brimstone. – ACOK, Dany I

Not faring too well, the Khalasar soon turns into a procession of deads (the sick, the starving, the dying and those who died for real). In proper ghost fashion, travel is generally done at night. When they finally reach "Vae Tolorro", Irri ironically worries that the place might be haunted, while in fact they are most likely the “ghosts” there. The place is nicknamed "gardens of the dead", but no one dies there, except for a woman bitten by a scorpion. Coincidentally, Eurydice also died of a poisoned bite.

Seemingly, there’s a pattern with the underworld-coded spaces visited by Dany: each one is larger than the previous one. First a tent, followed by the Red Waste (and a brief “halt” in the HotU), then by Slaver’s Bay. Meereen is a grotesque look-alike of the greek underworld: located in desertic lands, rich in precious stones, with its own brand of Styx ("the slow brown Skahazadhan”), walls topped with “rows of harpy heads with open mouths”, peoples inside worshiping the gods of Ghis with blood sacrifices in the fighting pits. In ADWD, thousands of fleeing astaporian, crippled by hunger and illness, many of them on the brink of death, are crowding under the walls of Meereen. And Dany happens to be this underworld’s queen.

-Persephone

In ACOK, on the day the Khalasar reaches Vae Tolorro, Jorah Mormont visits Dany in her tent and gives her a peach. Then, at her request, he ends up telling her the sad story of his marriage to Lady Lynesse Hightower:

My home was a great disappointment to Lynesse. It was too cold, too damp, too far away, my castle no more than a wooden longhall. We had no masques, no mummer shows, no balls or fairs. Seasons might pass without a singer ever coming to play for us, and there's not a goldsmith on the island. Even meals became a trial. – ACOK, Dany I

The Hightowers are established in the Reach, the most fertile and greenest region of the Seven Kingdoms, and Jorah meets Lynesse in Lannisport smack in the middle of grand festivities. Lynesse is taken from her “flowery kingdom” to be the lady of a gloomy, dead-looking island. Jorah tries to coax her with various luxuries, including the food (“I lived for her smiles, so I sent all the way to Oldtown for a new cook”), but three seeds of pomegranate won’t do. Every now and then Lynesse must be brought back “up”:

I built a fine ship for her and we sailed to Lannisport and Oldtown for festivals and fairs, and once even to Braavos, where I borrowed heavily from the moneylenders. – ACOK, Dany I

Of course, the money runs out and they’re forced to set sail for Bear Islands. Not that it prevents them from leaving again later:

When I heard that Eddard Stark was coming to Bear Island, I was so lost to honor that rather than stay and face his judgment, I took her with me into exile. Nothing mattered but our love, I told myself. We fled to Lys, where I sold my ship for gold to keep us. – ACOK, Dany I

Their marriage eventually dissolves, but the story starts again with Dany in Lynesse’s position. We get an inkling of it with a simple scene (he brings her a fruit plucked from "in the gardens of the dead"), but which also harbors a predatory tone ("The lion pelt slid off one shoulder and she tugged it back into place. "Was she beautiful?" "Very beautiful." Ser Jorah lifted his eyes from her shoulder to her face. " / “Dany shivered, and pulled the lionskin tight about her. She looked like me. It explained much that she had not truly understood. He wants me, she realized. He loves me as he loved her, not as a knight loves his queen but as a man loves a woman.” – ACOK, Dany I). We spoke above of metaphorical “underworlds” visited, occupied or conquered by Dany: Mirri’s tent, the Red Waste, Slaver’s Bay. Not trivially, it is Jorah who carries her inside the tent, Jorah who advises her to go through the Red Waste, Jorah who persuades her to sail to Slaver’s Bay. Persephone’s myth being anchored in the duality of the fertile seasons (the summer months, when Persephone is reunited with Demeter) and the dead seasons (the winter months, which she must spend with her husband), its underlying presence in Dany’s narrative also evolves accordingly, here in relation to Dany’s fertility, here in her role as “Demeter” in Meereen (when she plants bean crops, olive trees), at a key time where Jorah (Hades) isn’t by her side. Hints pointing to Persephone and Demeter are all the more revealing because there seems to be a direct link between plant fertility, mother / child union and human fertility:

"I am the blood of the dragon," she told the grass, aloud.

Once, the grass whispered back, until you chained your dragons in the dark.

"Drogon killed a little girl. Her name was … her name …" Dany could not recall the child's name. That made her so sad that she would have cried if all her tears had not been burned away. "I will never have a little girl. I was the Mother of Dragons." – ADWD, Dany X

This "exchange" takes place in the Dothrake Sea, "paler than she remembered, a wan and sickly green on the verge of going yellow”. Dany, distraught by the death of a little girl, by the conviction that she herself will never conceive, and guilt-ridden for chaining her own "children" in a dark pit (another metaphor of Persephone chained to the underworld during winter), expresses her sorrow at the dying grass. Then, Jorah’s “ghost” returns to her:

Never, said the grass, in the gruff tones of Jorah Mormont. You were warned, Your Grace. Let this city be, I said. Your war is in Westeros, I told you. – ADWD, Dany X

The dying of the grass, crops and vegetation is always presented as the prima facie of the end of summer and the return of Persephone to the underworld. This is why the grass speaks with Jorah’s voice, and why Daenerys mourns her lost, forgotten or dead children in a dying grass sea.

Appearance and resorption of myths

We’ll try to tackle the character's role in a more general context here, because her narrative impact is currently limited to Essos. It’s through Tyrion that Dany and Westeros really intersect for the first time. From the fighting pits, Tyrion sees a veiled, “slender girl with silvery hair wrapped in a tokar” in the tribunes. This is not Jorah or Barristan, or even Quentyn Martell who, although tied to both sides of Planetos, do not play a significant role in what’s currently happening on the West side. Tyrion is another matter. He is the in-narrative eye of Westeros.

They’re about to unleash lions on Tyrion and Penny. As soon as she hears of it, Dany puts the breaks. Tyrion's memories of her make her akin to an apparition, or a mirage: veiled, indistinct, distant, soaring in a whirlwind of smoke on her dragon. It also happens in a place sharing glaring resemblances with the Red Waste:

“She had seen the fighting pits many times from her terrace. The small ones dotted the face of Meereen like pockmarks; the larger were weeping sores, red and raw.”

“The red sands drank his blood”

“Running, she could feel the sand between her toes, hot and rough.”

“He beat his wings again, sending up a choking storm of scarlet sand. Dany stumbled into the hot red cloud, coughing.”

“Black blood was flowing from the wound where the spear had pierced him, smoking where it dripped onto the scorched sands.”

“The black wings cracked like thunder, and suddenly the scarlet sands were falling away beneath her.” – ADWD, Dany IX

In ACOK, Dany and her Khalasar also encounter a mirage-like city in the desert:

"A city, Khaleesi," they cried. "A city pale as the moon and lovely as a maid. An hour's ride, no more."

When the city appeared before her, its walls and towers shimmering white behind a veil of heat, it looked so beautiful that Dany was certain it must be a mirage. – ACOK, Dany I

Vae Tolorro and Dany are not mirages, however. Vae Tolorro really saved Dany’s Khalasar from a certain death in the desert. Dany really saved Tyrion from the lions. The repercussions of her actions are too real, her physical impact on the story is too great for one to put her among the true "ghost" characters, such as Lynesse or Tysha.

Only, here’s the deal: Daenerys Targaryen is a character of exceptional circumstances, of one-time deals, and exceptional circumstances, 1) do not last, 2) do not happen again, and 3) are not recoverable. Circumstances such as these create myths, and myths are reproduced, or imitated, or preserved as legends, but they will never happen a second time like they happened on the first time. Vae Tolorro did exist once, but withdrew from the story once his function was filled, and Dany will likely never return there. Drogon did appear in the Daznak arena, causing an “unusual” disaster, but the incident is unlikely to happen again. What remains afterward of Vae Tolorro, of Daenerys and Drogon in the arena, are mirages, imitations and imitators. Dany is not at this stage. She is at the archaic stage of the first time (Mircea Eliade, The myth of the eternal return), where the gap between the mythical and the ordinary is the deepest, and where the resorption of the myth is the most brutally felt. Dany, a very human character in and of itself, suffers from these effects more than anyone. Immediately after the birth of her dragons (the mythical event), she must undertake a difficult journey in the desert, that leaves her physically worn out and, in a way, physically diminished (the resorption):

Dany hungered and thirsted with the rest of them. The milk in her breasts dried up, her nipples cracked and bled, and the flesh fell away from her day by day until she was lean and hard as a stick - ACOK, Dany I

And following immediately her first flight on Drogon (the mythical event) she gets lost in the Dothrake sea, which once again takes a physical toll on her –

It was afternoon by the time Dany found the stream she had glimpsed atop the hill. It was a rill, a rivulet, a trickle, no wider than her arm … and her arm had grown thinner every day she spent on Dragonstone. – ADWD, Dany X

- almost to the point of literally being resorbed into the earth:

My flesh will feed the wolves and carrion crows, she thought sadly, and worms will burrow through my womb. – ADWD, Dany X

There are therefore two fundamental elements one should consider with regards to Dany: the authentic myth, and the nostalgia of the lost myth. It’s part of what makes Dany’s narrative so compelling. The authentic myth belongs to an immemorial past. The memory of the myth belongs to the present. And Daenerys belongs to both. Should she reconcile these two parts? If so, is this reconciliation supposed to play a role in the outcome, not only of her own story, but of the entire series? We raise the issue because the myth / memory dichotomy is not exclusive to Dany; see, for example, the "Others" (the myth) and the three-eyed raven (the memory). It all remains to be seen. In any case, I’m intrigued by this tendency to bestow ghost-like characteristic to a character who’s frequently moving from one realm to another, whatever these realms are supposed to be: the world of the dead and the world of the living, the past and the present, the mythical and the real…

[hell-much]

For @twentysixthpercent prompt - 37. you jokingly suggest we send out holiday cards together as friends so we do, and now everyone is congratulating us for finally getting together

I had a lot fun with this, and added a social media twist. Hope that is okay :)  Thank you for the prompt! Enjoy the read!

----

Margaery blinked her eyes open and closed them again only half a second later, wishing desperately she could go back to the blessed state of being passed-out. Her body was not generous enough to grant her that relief, instead more and more discomforts worked itself into her mind. 

Her head was pounding a bit more with every thought, her mouth felt dry as sandpaper, and she thought she could taste the remains of red wine and something sugary. The lingering taste not helping along with nausea that enwrapped her entire existence.

A body shifted beneath with a groan. That, along with the sound of a hand tapping on the surface of the couch table, brought her attention to what woke her in the first place. 

"Shut up," Sansa whined pitifully, the obnoxious alarm sound of a phone coming physically closer, letting Margaery feel like her head would explode any minute. 

The silence that followed when Sansa, at last, managed to turn it off was nothing sort of divine. Margaery's body relaxed back into … well, it did not feel like her bed. 

Reluctantly she blinked her eyes back open, discovering her suspicion to be true. She was not in her bed, but instead on the living room couch. Half of her body was on top of Sansa, the other half squished between Sansa and the backrest. 

When searching her mind for an explanation of why she was here, and why she felt like dying, the memory of the previous night returned slow.

What she could see of the living room was chaotic. Remains of wrapping paper and ribbons were spread everywhere over the floor. Three empty bottles of wine lined up on the couch table, along with empty glasses, two cups and plates with half-eaten cookies. The half-empty bottle of gingerbread liquor had her stomach do a small turn, and she squeezed her eyes back shut before she could give the still glowing lights on the Christmas tree a proper examination. 

She buried her face into the warm darkness that the crook of Sansa's neck offered, bringing along a pitiful noise of discomfort. 

"Ditto," was all that Sansa muttered back, as she cuddled into the embrace, and brushed a hand through Margaery's curls. 

That certainly had escalated.

When she'd gotten home from work last night, the living room had already resembled a Christmas workshop. She'd found Sansa sitting on the floor, amidst various half-wrapped presents, shipping bags with all kinds of Christmas decorations and a cup of eggnog. 

Ugh. The eggnog. 

Margaery had known that Sansa felt homesick more than ever with not being able to go home for the holidays this year, but she'd had not expected that it would manifest in such sheer blind holiday activism; like the fir tree set up next to their TV or the smell of Christmas cookies hanging in the air, along with Christmas songs blasting through the speakers. 

Any other year Margaery was not someone who placed too much importance on Christmas. In the past, when still living alone, she'd barely bothered with more than one or two items of decoration, and maybe, if she had felt really festive, couple of light strings here and there. Unsurprisingly it had not taken more than Sansa cheerfully smiling at her and gushing about all she had planned to make their place more festive and Margaery had been infected with the holiday spirit. 

She'd quickly declared the decoration of the tree as her duty, simply because if she had to look at one in the middle of her living room, she refused it to be an eyesore. She trusted Sansa's taste any other day, but not in this level of enthusiasm; there were several multi-coloured packs of lametta within her shopping bags. 

The first bottle of wine -after they had finished the eggnog- had been, much to her dismay now, Margaery's idea. 

The second one had followed once the tree was beautifully decorated, and most of the presents were wrapped. 

Things got a bit blurry around the third one, but she did recall Santa hats, some dancing and singing along to Christmas songs, and an extensive amount of Christmas cookies. 

Sometime after that, somewhere during their drunken musings about Christmas and how it could never come back to the magic it had held during their childhood, they must have dozed off on the couch. 

Trying to recall all of that, was as much activity as Margaery found herself capable off and gratefully her body did grant her some more sleep.

When she woke again, it was already dusk outside, an indicator that she must have slept into the late afternoon. So much for productivity on her Saturday off. 

The worst of the headache seemed to have vanished, for now, only the dryness of her mouth and her queasy stomach prevailed. So much, that her need for a sip of water became stronger than her wish not to move. 

She detangled herself from a still sound-asleep Sansa and sat on the other end of the spacious couch running a hand through tangled hair and over still heavy eyes, feeling slightly dizzy sitting upright. 

Gods. No more drinking had just moved to the very top of her list for new year's resolutions. 

She dragged her way into the kitchen, and when she took the first sip of ice-cold water, she swore to never have tasted anything better in her life. 

Retrieving a second bottle for Sansa out of the fridge she made her way back to the living room, finding Sansa, now also awake, shifted up on the couch with her head propped against the armrest. 

Margaery held out the bottle in a wordless compassionate smile, that broadened to a small smirk when Sansa reached for it eagerly. 

"I love you so much right now," Sansa exclaimed in a groan, greedily drinking the fresh water. 

Margaery sat down on the armrest next to Sansa's head and emptied half the contains of her own bottle. 

She ran a hand through tousled red hair. "How are you feeling, darling?"

Screwing the cap on a half-empty bottle, Sansa made a face as she glanced up at Margaery. "I am never drinking with you again."

"I'm never drinking with myself again, either."

She looked around the disorder of the room. She could not be bothered right now, even if the type-A side of her personality was appalled by it. 

"I will go take a shower," she announced, getting back to her feet. After sleeping in her clothes, she wanted nothing more than get out of them as quickly as possible, yearned to feel clean again. "How about some nice greasy hangover take-out later?"

"Yes, please," Sansa returned with an enthusiastic nod. 

The shower rejoiced Margaery's spirits a good deal. She retrieved from the bathroom a good forty minutes later in a fresh pair of sweats and an old KLU shirt; her wet hair wrapped into a towel. 

It appeared that Sansa had used the time to take care of most of the chaos already, or at least, transfer it out of sight into the kitchen. 

Margaery plopped down on the couch, turning on her now recharged phone. "Any particular cravings?," she called out to Sansa who was rummaging around in her bedroom. 

"I would murder for Advarks' right now," Sansa's voice sounded through the half-opened door; a moment later she emerged, hair freshly brushed and wearing a bathrobe. "If that aligns with your own cravings."

"I would have reconsidered living with you if you'd suggested anything else," Margaery shot back, typing her PIN into her phone. 

"Will you get me a… ham and-"

"Ham and mushrooms, with extra mozzarella," Margaery deadpanned her standard order. "Brownie for dessert too?"

Sansa smiled and raised her eyebrows. "Is that a serious question?"

Margaery smirked at the roll of Sansa's eyes that was flung her direction before she disappeared behind the bathroom door. 

The same smirk melted into confusion, when, as wanting to dial the number of their favourite pizza place, notification after notification popped up on her phone. Her stomach dropped. Wasn't that just the last thing you wanted to wake up to after a night of drinking. 

Fifteen notifications from Instagram, eight unread messages and three missed calls. 

Always someone to rip off the band-aid quickly, Margaery tapped on the Instagram notifications, breathing an initial chuckle of relief when instead of some embarrassing picture or video exposing their drunken exertions. Instead, she found a selfie of herself and Sansa, wearing their Santa heads and posing in front of their Christmas tree. Their level of intoxication not visible at first glance.

She did remember that. They had actually gotten out the impulsively bought Selfie-Stick to get a decent photo of them and their tree. The one she'd -evidently- ended up posting was one where Sansa was smiling brightly into the camera, while she was pressing a kiss to her cheek; the lights and decorations of the tree lining the background. 

Her smirk broadened when she read the caption.

margaerytyrell Happy Holidays to all of our loved ones from Sansa and Margaery! 🎄 #makingitofficial #ourchristmastreeisprettierthanyourchristmastree #soblessedtobecelebratingwiththisone 

The relief once again drained away and replaced by freshly blooming irritation when she scrolled down to the comment section. 

dany.targ Cuties 💕Merry Christmas to you too! 😘

starkbrandon About time you two make it official!  arya.st Right?! @jon1310 Pay up. 

robbstark @san.stark 🤔 😏 So that's the reasons you are skipping Christmas at home?

jeyne.isthebest Fucking finally!!!!! 🙏 🙏 🙏 Want to hear all the details when I come back!

thereallorastyrell Congratulations you two! Happy the veil of obliviousness fell at last. arya.st @thereallorastyrell It was getting painful to watch. thereallorastyrell Gods yes.

c.tully-stark What great news! You two make an adorable couple, I am delighted that things worked out for you. 😘

brienne.of.t Congratulations and happy holidays!

stmya* Merry Christmas! 🎅 Enjoy your first holiday as a couple!

etyrell Insanely happy for the two of you! 💗 😘 Happy Holidays!

THE.greyjoy 🤨 You two. Together… 🤯 is more than my poor brain can handle. 🤤😏 yara.greyj @THE.greyjoy Don't be a creep. @san.stark @margaerytyrell Congrats you two!

baratheon.renly Could not ask for a better girlfriend for my favorite sister-in-law. 

Margaery did not know whether to laugh or to be horrified. What the fuck was happening here? So much for last night escalating. 

She scrolled back up and looked at the picture again. 

Fine, yes. Out of context, it could appear like something a couple posted. The caption did perhaps not help that impression along. But both she and Margaery had dozens of pictures like that on their phones. 

The way their friends and families -dear gods, Sansa's mom- commented sounded like… like what even? Like this was something everyone had just been waiting for to be announced? Like they had been unofficially dating?

It was ridiculous. Sansa was her friend. Her best friend. Her roommate for almost a year now. Sure, they were affectionate with each other, and maybe Margaery did have—

Automatically, Margaery swiped across the screen, finding that the missed calls were from Loras, as were the majority of the unread messages. 

Loras Tyrell, 08:43 I am disappointed Marg. I would have at least expected a personal revelation of this new development. 😪

Loras Tyrell, 09:20 So that you are not answering lets me suspect that you have better things to do? 🙄

Loras Tyrell, 09:21 Still mad at you btw that I had to find out along with everyone else. 😑 I thought our bond was more special, Marg. Also. I do literally live around the corner.

Loras Tyrell, 11:24 Just so you know, I am dying for details. Not that I ever doubted you, but landing Sansa Stark for sure is an accomplishment.

Loras Tyrell, 13:07 MARGAERY! ⚠️ ⚠️ ⚠️ ⚠️ Sister of mine! Come up from between your girlfriends' legs and answer me.

Loras Tyrell, 14:02 You know… I had never known you as someone who just abandons everyone else for their s/o.

Loras Tyrell, 14:40 But what do you know… looks like you are THAT person. Again. Disappointed. 😶

While still contemplating, how to hell to get a hold of this mess, Lora's name popped up on her screen with an incoming call. 

She glanced quickly towards the bathroom where she could hear water running, then got to her feet and went into the kitchen, where she answered the call. 

"Hey."

"She has risen from the dead!," Loras exclaimed, way too cheerful considering her hangover and confusion; the way he said it she could not be sure he was talking to her or making an announcement in the room he was in. "Or risen from post-orgasmic bliss?"

Margaery leaned back against the kitchen counter, and the fingers of her free hand came to her temple, where she felt her headache from before resurfacing. "You got everything entirely wrong."

"No orgasm then?"

"No orgasm, or sex," Margaery hissed quietly into the phone. 

"I guess the two of you taking it slow should not surprise me," Loras quipped back. 

"There is nothing to—We are—," she took a deep breath, wrapping an arm around her middle. "This is all a huge misunderstanding."

Like always, he picked up on her upset tone immediately, dropping his teasing in the same breath. "What's going on, Marg? Is everything okay?"

"No," she breathed out. 

"Tell me what has happened?," he asked gently. 

Margaery turned to the window and brushed some remaining cookie crumbs off the counter. 

What had happened was that everyone assumed she and Sansa were dating. 

"That Instagram post," she still did not know how to put it in words. "All those comments... Why would everyone just assume Sansa and I are a couple?"

She could hear the smirk returning to her brother's face. "Eh, because we have watched you dance around each other for months now?"

"No." Margaery quickly shook her head. "There has been no dancing around. We are friends."

"Clueless lesbians is what you are," Loras deadpanned.

"Loras."

"Clueless bisexuals then," he joked, lightly while she felt more and more impatient. 

"We had a couple of drinks last night," Margaery explained. "We took that picture for fun. As friends. Nothing beyond that happened."

The line went quiet for so long that Margaery wondered if they had been cut off. When Loras spoke again, she wished the line had gone dead. 

"But you do like her?"

"That's not the point," she gave back quietly. 

"It's precisely the point."

He was infuriating when he knew he was right, and this time she remained silent, staring outside to where the sun had almost disappeared for the day. A knot formed itself in her gut when she thought of all the people assuming that they were a couple now. 

Yes, of course, she found was attracted to Sansa. One would have to be blind not to be. And perhaps she had the tiniest bit of a crush on her, but Sansa had not shown the slightest hint that she reciprocated that. It felt humiliating that so many other people had picked up on the feelings she harboured for her. 

The thought of having to clear up this misunderstanding made her want to sink into the ground at this very moment. 

"She likes you too, you know?" Loras surged ahead cautiously when a minute had passed without a single word from her. 

Margaery closed her eyes and swallowed the knot that had moved from her stomach to her throat back down. "She doesn't." A beat. "How would you even know that?"

"Because I have eyes," he returned, his tone somewhere between patronizing and exasperated. "And obviously I am not alone. For Gods' sake, we have bets running when you two fools will get to your senses."

"Really?" She hated how little and meek her voice sounded. 

"Did you notice how not a single person commenting seemed surprised?"

Margaery felt her heart rate pick up; the queasy feeling had returned to her stomach, only it had become of an different quality. Still, the nervousness and the reluctance did not magically disappear. 

"What if you're wrong?"

Loras laughed. "I'm not wrong. In fact, I'm never wrong." 

Gods, was she crazy enough to consider this? 

But what other options did she have? The stupid post was out there, along with all the reactions and congratulations from their families and friends; even deleting it would not make a difference at this point. 

"You've been wrong plenty of times," she shot back at him. "And if you are wrong with this; if she doesn't like me back, you better know that I am moving in with you and that I am taking your—"

Margaery didn't get any further, stopped in her twirling around, her free hand subtly reaching out for the kitchen counter for some much-needed balance. She found herself face to face with Sansa; still in her bathrobe, by the looks of it un-showered, her phone clutched in her right hand and the most adorable blush on her cheeks. 

"Stop being dramatic, Marg. You are acting like it's the first time you tell a girl you like her." Loras' voice was still sounding out of the speaker, pressed against her ear and in the silence in the kitchen, Margaery felt like Sansa had to be able to hear every single word. 

"I'll call you back," she told him curtly, ending the call and disposing the phone on the kitchen counter; not taking her eyes off of Sansa. 

Sansa was smiling and… damn it; being right about this was something Loras would never let her live down. 

[spidey-d00d]

Imagine getting married to Loki

He never thought anyone would be in his life long enough to get to know him and love him. He didn’t even expect anyone to love him. He was fully prepared to live the rest of his life alone and he was okay with that.

But that was until you walked straight into his life. Literally. You had walked right into him in the Stark Towers as he was trying to reign his brother back to Asgard and you were running around like a maniac for Tony seen as you were his assistant at the time. Now you were promoted to the head of Stark Industries, taking Pepper Potts place.

Ever since you had made eye contact with the god, you knew that he was the next challenge you wanted to take on. Challenges were your thing. Hence why you took the job with Tony Stark. You liked facing things head on and accomplishing them. Loki wasn’t an exception either. You knew him, about him at least at the time. You knew the trouble he has gotten into and caused. Hell, he was a central part of your pain for a good few years.

The New York attack killed your parents and older brother whom you were incredibly close with, but over the years you grieved less and less, knowing they wouldn’t want you to dwell on them and let them get in front of your work. You resented Loki for years, before you had even met him. You had it all planned out on how his death would be, the same as your family’s, slow and painful, but it all changed when you had finally came face to face with the frost giant.

You saw a whole different man than everyone else. You saw the hurt in his eyes no matter how much he tried to hide it with his hard demonor. You saw how soft he was behind all of his dark clothing and armor. You saw Loki the kind, misunderstood, gentle, damnedly unstable, god and not the Loki everyone hated which was the vindictive, evil-minded god of mischief.

He was reluctant at first to even let you speak to him. He knew if he said even a word wrong then he would have a whole world of hurt coming his way, but you convinced him otherwise. You told him, and these were your exact words, “I am a big girl, I can handle my own puny god issues” with the biggest smirk the man had ever seen on your face. Loki, at the time did not find it amusing but now looking back on it, the memory makes him smile.

You two had spent a lot of time together, whether you were working or not. If you were busy doing the loads of paperwork you always seemed to have, he would sit in your office with you and just read. Other times when you had free time you would do things around the compound like watch movies, have him read to you, or just run around like a bunch of 10 year olds. It really just depended on the day and type of moods you guys were in, but there was rarely any time you were apart.

You had him wrapped around his finger and you didn’t even realize it. You had been the only person Loki had ever met in his years of existing, that overlooked everything he did, and looked at him like an actual person that deserved a little bit of kindness.

Now, years later, he was standing at the end of a light emerald green rose petal covered walkway, awaiting your arrival. The accent colors of black and emerald green were scattered around the white decor. You guys wanted to try and keep it traditional with a splash of your own touch.

Everyone in the pews that were set up in the huge field outside of the Avengers compound stood up from their previous seated positions. Everyone included some friends made through the years, most of them having to do with shield or the Avengers, and of course the Avengers themselves. Besides Thor, Steve, Clint and Wanda. Thor was Loki’s best man, the only one that through everyone, before you had met him, stood with Loki and believed in him, his brother.

Wanda was your maid of honor, she was also the only that would agree to wear a dress between her and Natasha. Wanda had been there for you to rant to and what not about your relationship problems, when they arose every once in a blue moon, and she was also your best friend.

Steve was the one marrying you two, because he was surprisingly already ordained. No one really questioned him on it.

Clint was the one walking you down the aisle, seen as your real father couldn’t be here. Clint served as a father figure for all of the years that you knew him. You knew you could go to him for anything you ever needed him for, and he wouldn’t hesitate to put everything down and help you. Clint was a real father figure to a lot of people, including the Maximoff twins, you, and of course his own children.

You saw everyone turn around awaiting your presence walking down between the pews. You had a death grip of the archers arm and you started slowly walking to the beginning of the walkway.

“Don’t let me trip” You whispered so only he could hear.

“I won’t, but if you do I’m gonna laugh” You were told and you just gave him a death glare, to which he grinned and shrugged to.

“Are you ready?” He asked as soon as we hit the start of the colored rose petals.

“As ready as I can be.” You replied, finally looking straight ahead of you instead of looking at all of the smiling faces around you. The music started playing but you didn’t notice. You started walking forward, but you didn’t notice. All you saw was his eyes, and that’s all you were focused on.

Loki didn’t realize you had come down the aisle until you were right in front of him. Not because he wasn’t pay attention, but as soon as you came into his view, he lost all track of thought. You were on his mind and that was it. How beautiful you looked in the long white dress you probably spent way too much money on. How your hair was neatly placed on top of your head with a veil covering the y/h/c hair neatly. How your makeup was done with perfection, even though he didn’t think you needed it, he knew you liked it and that’s all that mattered. All that mattered is that he got to marry the love of his life and you loved it. He didn’t notice he was crying until you reached up and wiped a tear off of his face.

“I’m the one that is supposed to be crying.” You joked and everyone laughed, including Loki, who just grinned and slightly shook his head.

You both smiled at each other before signaling Steve to start, wanting to be married already.

“I, Loki, take you, y/n, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward.” He grinned, not breaking eye contact with you for a second. He was beyond ecstatic to be finally saying these words and soon to be forever bonded with you.

You repeated the same words to him, maintaining eye contact, beaming with glee and excitement, rushing words trying to make the process go faster, and messing up once or twice, giving an entertaining show to your friends in the pews.

“I, Y/N, take you to be my husband, my friend, my faithful partner, my protector and my love from this day forward. In the presence of our family and friends, I offer you my solemn vow to be your faithful partner in sickness and in health.”

By now you were crying, thankful that you had the makeup artists use waterproof makeup otherwise you would be a complete mess. Loki was also tearing up, but willing himself not to drop any tears, because this was your time to shine and he wasn’t going to take that from you. He will cry during his part. “In good times and in bad, which we will have a lot of both.”

That got a lot of people to laugh. You added it in to make the mood lighter instead of you just crying. “And in joy as well as in sorrow. I promise to love you unconditionally, to support you in your choices, to honor and respect you, to laugh with you and cry with you and to cherish you for as long as we both shall live.”

You were nearing the end of the vows. All that was left was for Loki to say his last bit of the promise you were holding for each other. You were both getting impatient, but knew it was for the best. He was just replaying in his head all of the amazing times you guys had together, and thinking about how many more memories you would make together. He was counting the words until he would be able to kiss you and make everything official.

“I Loki, promise you will forever be my partner in life, and my one true love. I will cherish our union and to love you more and more than i did the day before. I will trust you and respect you, love you faithfully through good times and bad, regardless of the obstacles we may face together. I give you my hand.”

“My heart.” You joined in.

“My love.” He continued grinning from ear to ear.

“My life.” You continued.

“My promise to be here for you, from this day forward for as long as we both shall live.”

Steve chimed in with the classic line that they had been waiting to hear since you walked down the aisle.

“By the power vested in me by the state of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife, Loki, you may now kiss your bride.” He announced grinning as everyone started to cheer.

He looked you in the eyes, a smile never leaving his face nor yours. You wrapped your arms around his neck, his hands found themselves resting on your hips, pulling you closer as he smashed his lips on your, finally making everything official. You swore you felt the same sparks, if not stronger sparks, from when you had first kissed him all those years ago.

You were now Mr. and Mrs. Loki Laufeyson and you two couldn’t be any happier.

×××××××××××××

Just now getting back into writing so go easy on my please!

My requests are open so pleaseeeee request something!

[tmarie82]

At Least for Now

Pairing: Naomi x F!MC (Marin)

Book: Veil of Secrets

Word Count: ~1,900

Rating:  PG-13 (I really need to wash Marin’s mouth out with soap!)

Author’s Note:  This is the final part (Part 5) of the Veil of Secrets Truths and Lies mini-series and I am really liking how it wrapped up.  Thank you to everyone who has stayed with me for this, I appreciate your support more than you know!

This is also a submission for the @choices-september-challenge day 2 prompt ‘Apology’.  (It is technically still September 2nd where I am!)  Thank you @i-dream-so-i-write for organizing this and inspiring me to get this story out today!

Please let me know if you would like to be added to my tag list.  You can find all of my fics here - MASTERLIST

~~~~~~~~~~

The boat ride back to town from the lighthouse had been relatively uneventful after the chaos on the peninsula.  After Naomi had helped Marin rinse the blood off her hands, arms and clothing as best as possible, she re-wrapped her in the trauma blanket and escorted her towards the coast guard boat to take her back to safety.  Naomi had decided to stay behind to help with the rest of the cleanup and investigation, but Flynn had graciously swooped in to volunteer to ensure Marin made it back home safely.  Marin was too tired to argue at this point and allowed Flynn to usher her to an empty seat on the boat and sit beside her, placing an arm protectively around her shoulders as she settled in.  As the boat pulled away Marin looked up to find Naomi still standing on the dock, a wistful smile touching her lips as she watched the boat depart.

Flynn drove Marin back to the B&B on the back of his motorcycle, making any conversation impossible over the roar of the engine.  But as they walked up to the door of her temporary residence, he was the first to speak.  “You did good tonight, Marin ... you didn’t even hesitate in saving Nikolai’s life.”  Flynn paused in contemplation, then shook his head before continuing.  ”I still don’t know if he had anything to do with Kate’s kidnapping or Tanner and Bryce’s murders ... but something isn’t adding up.  I get the feeling this isn’t over yet ...”  

Marin stared at the ground between them drowsily, still playing the events of the evening over in her mind.  “I don’t either ... I feel like we’re missing something big in all this.”  She shrugged and sighed deeply, a hint of fear in her voice.  “And to think that the real culprit could still be out there ...” Her voice trailed off as her eyes filled with tears again, all the fear and guilt and emotions from the past few days coming back to her at once.

Flynn rushed forward and pulled her into an embrace, cradling her head against his shoulder.  “Shh, shhh ... it’s okay.”  He stroked her hair softly, whispering against her ear.  He pulled away after a moment, peering down intently at Marin.  “I can stay if you want ... if you don’t want to be alone.”  There was a heartfelt, concerned smile on his lips ... and it broke Marin’s heart.  It was time to come clean and set the record straight.

“Flynn ...” she started, her voice filled with remorse as she shifted out of his reach.  “Flynn, I need to be honest with you.  That night on the boat ... it was was wonderful.  But it was a mistake.”  Pain flashed across Flynn’s eyes as he stood in front of Marin, listening intently as his hopeful expression crumbled away.  But she was too exhausted and emotionally spent to hold back any longer.  “What I mean is I was confused ... I have feelings for someone else and I wasn’t sure how to handle them.  And I care about you, you are a very attractive man and ... it just happened.”  Marin paused, studying Flynn’s downcast stare for a sign of anger but didn’t find any, so she continued.  “I care about you, so much ... just, not like that.  I’m so sorry.”

Flynn nodded, still not meeting her gaze.  He didn’t appear mad, Marin pondered ... maybe just a hint of disappointment and confusion.  He finally looked up at her, recognition resonating behind his stare.  “It’s Naomi, isn’t it?  The someone else you have feelings for?”  

Marin’s breath hitched, slightly taken aback at Flynn’s astute assessment and confrontation.  Maybe she was more transparent than she thought she was.  “Yes.”  She replied simply.

He didn’t say anything, just nodded his head again as he processed the confession.  When he finally spoke, there was a slight smirk on his lips.  “I’m not going to lie, I didn’t think you would swing that way, but I guess I see the appeal.”  He chuckled, causing Marin to blush.  “Does she feel the same way?”  

Marin beamed blissfully before she realized that she wasn’t sure how Naomi felt anymore.  While Naomi had been supportive and caring tonight back at the lighthouse, they really hadn’t had a chance to talk about where all of this left them.  “She ...” Marin started, fumbling over her words as she sorted through them.  “She did, but then she heard about us at the trial and ... let’s just say she had a hard time trusting me after that.”  Marin looked down at her hands as she wrung them back and forth at her waist.  

Flynn reached up to put one comforting hand on her shoulder, keeping a safe distance from his newly-platonic friend.  “Well, based on what I saw tonight, I’d say it’s pretty obvious she’s crazy about you.”  Marin’s eyes shot up at his statement, full of renewed hope.  Flynn shook his head again, chuckling softly as the reality of the situation settled into his mind.  ”I just can’t believe I didn’t see it before.  Huh.  But Marin -” he shook her shoulder gently and looked her straight in the eyes- “you need to be honest and tell her then.  Apologize, and make this right.”

Marin shook her head in acknowledgement, a gentle smile reaching the corners of her mouth as she pulled him into a hug.  “Thanks Flynn.  And I’m sorry.  Thank you for being so understanding.”

Flynn’s cheeks flushed as she pulled away and he started walking backwards towards his motorcycle.  He gave her a brief salute before throwing his leg over to mount his bike.  “Good night Marin.  Good luck.”  

~~~~~~~~~~

Marin suddenly had a plethora of energy as she watched Flynn ride away and bounded up the stairs to her private room at the B&B.  As soon as she closed the door behind her, she pulled her phone from her pocket and started clicking out a text.

I told Flynn everything.  About you and me, about my mistake with him ... everything.  I’m back in my room now, I’ll be awake for a while if you can talk.  She hit send, holding her breath for a moment as she contemplated her next action.  Finally, she typed out one more message.  No more lies.  I’m all yours now.  She pressed send before she could overthink her confession, tossing her phone on the bed to avoid staring at it any longer.  She started stripping out of her grimy blood-stained clothes and threw them to the corner, then sauntered into the bathroom to turn on the shower.  She was filthy and she needed a distraction.  

Fifteen minutes later, she emerged from a blissfully steamy shower feeling much more relaxed and starting to feel the dregs of sleep weighing on her.  She picked up the phone from her bed and studied the screen ... no new texts, no missed calls.  Fuck.  Maybe she had misread the situation tonight.  Maybe Naomi was just being nice by comforting her but she was still upset with her.  She threw the phone back down and started getting ready for bed.  Sporting clean pajamas and brushing her teeth, she ventured back by the bed and pressed the home button again.  Still nothing.  A few minutes later she was brushing out her wet hair and towel-drying it before she pressed the button yet again.  Blank.  Her heart sank as she put away her things, finally placing the phone on her nightstand defeatedly before sliding under the covers.  Despite the ache in her chest, the exhaustion of the day finally caught up with her and pulled her into a slumber.

~~~~~~~~~~

Knock knock knock.  Marin jolted upright in her bed from a deep sleep, temporarily disoriented as she tried to focus her eyes in the dark.  Knock knock knock.  She registered the second set of knocks on her door and scooted out from the bed, stepping up on her tip-toes to peek through the peephole.  She felt both joy and relief to see Naomi standing patiently on the other side of the door, quickly moving back to open it for her.

Naomi didn’t say anything, just stood in the doorway waiting hesitantly.

“Hi.”  Marin finally said.  “I didn’t think you wanted to talk to me.”  

Naomi’s lips tugged into a half-smile and she chuckled.  “I didn’t.  I really didn’t.  But here I am.”  She looked into Marin’s deep chocolate eyes, searching for the answer to her unspoken questions.  “You really told Flynn?  Everything?”

“Yes.  I really did.”  

Naomi didn’t speak, just nodded and looked down at the doorframe for a moment, unsure how to proceed.  

Marin took the silence as a form of rejection and quickly jumped in to further explain her intentions.  “Look, Naomi, I am so sorry.  And I don’t blame you for being mad at-“

“I’m not mad.”  Naomi cut in abruptly, her voice monotone as she finally met Marin’s stare.  “And I’m not upset ... at least, not anymore.  But ...” she paused, taking a deep breath as she tried to overcome the doubt that had flooded her mind.  “I know that if I forgive you, this will be great ... we will be great.  But then you will have to leave and go back to New York, whether it’s in three days or thirty.  And I don’t know if I can handle that-“

“Naomi ...” Marin interrupted, her heart aching with both affection and sadness all wrapped into one.

“I wasn’t done.” Naomi interjected firmly, her deep brown eyes shooting a piercing stare into Marin’s.  “I was saying that I don’t know if I can handle you leaving ... but I also don’t think I can handle not spending time with you while I can.  So I want to do this, Marin.  Let’s enjoy whatever this is between us, at least for now.”

Marin bounded forward and cupped Naomi’s face in her hands, pressing her lips to hers in a passionate yet gentle kiss.  Naomi responded willingly, pouring all of the fear and love and regret into that kiss as if it would be her last opportunity.  When they finally separated, foreheads pressed against each other’s, they were gasping for air.  They stood stil for a moment, Marin’s hands on Naomi’s shoulders and Naomi gripping Marin at the waist.

Eventually Naomi stepped away, reaching a hand up to stroke a damp lock of hair out of Marin’s eyes.  “You must be exhausted.”

“I am.”  Marin confessed, glancing over her shoulder at the comfy queen-sized bed before looking back to Naomi.  “Can you stay with me?  I think I’d sleep better knowing that you’re here.”  She looked up into Naomi’s eyes, willing her with her own gaze to say yes.

“I think I can do that.”  She replied playfully.  “Besides, I want to spend as much time with you as possible while I can.”

“The get in here.”  Marin quipped, pressing another kiss to Naomi’s full lips before pulling her in through the door.

As the two women settled into bed, Marin’s eyelids already fluttering as sleep threatened to take her again, an odd thought crossed her mind.  “You know, the more time you spend with me the more likely you are to get tired of me.”

Naomi giggled.  “Well, then that will make you leaving that much easier.”  She reached over to run a finger along Marin’s cheek, noticing that she was already starting to drift off.  “But somehow, I don’t think that’s going to be the case.”

END

~~~~~~~~~~

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[wendynerdwrites]

500 Elephants

Prompt by @drilling4mana​ "Against the backdroppe of a worlde gone madde"

I see you, Honey. Enjoy your Discworld AU.

“Get up on the box, Snow!”

Jon fumes. He does that a lot these days. In between bouts of wondering what he’s even doing here, why he came to Summerwood in the first place, and why he’s still here.

Every moment of this is demeaning. He stands out in the hot sun, holding a cheap wooden sword, dressed like an idiot, acting like a fool with exaggerated expressions and motions, for twelve hours a day at least, while people either shout at him to do things or attack him with brushes and sponges to keep him “camera-ready.”

At least with this picture, at least, the “hero” he is playing is not a knight or centurion or some other type of warrior that requires heavy metal armor. That’s agony. In this, he’s a pirate king with a ridiculous name and linen, wool, and leather for his attire.

They produce these so rapidly, sometimes at the same time, with them shooting scenes for one film for two hours, then a costume change to shoot a scene for an entirely different film. Mr. Baelish keeps the audience in by churning them out by the dozens. In the three months Jon’s been a “star”, he honestly has lost count of how many pictures he’s made.

Now they want him to stand on a box for this scene in the seraglio of the evil prince that his dashing pirate hero was to rescue his lady love from.

“Why, though, Marsh?” Jon asks the director. “Aren’t I supposed to be fighting? I can’t do that standing on a box.”

“We’re shooting the big kiss scene right now, and you have to be taller than Sansa.”

Jon cringes. These scenes are always awkward. “But I’m already taller than Sansa!”

Not by much, true. Sansa is the second tallest woman he’s ever met, after Brienne. But the brevity of their height difference was never an issue before.

Marsh sighs, looks from behind the camera, and rolls his eyes. “I know, but Baelish says he wants you even taller. He says this picture is our first color feature and so it has to be more epic than anything we’ve done before. Everything bigger, and that includes you. Also, he doesn’t want people comparing the height difference between you and Sansa to the one between Oberyn and Sansa. He says the hero has to seem as tall as the villain or no one will believe that you’re man enough to fight your way through a world gone mad.”

It doesn’t take Jon even half a second to realize the obvious gaps in logic here. Oberyn is much taller than him, true. And they can put Jon atop as many boxes as they want, but…

“What about when we’re fighting?” Jon asks, “I can’t fight Oberyn properly atop a step stool. How do you intend to hide our height difference when we’re moving around together?”

Marsh groans. “You know, I think the glamor is going to your head, Snow. You didn’t ask so many questions before.”

Glamor. Ha! Jon is still sleeping on the lake shore.

He stares Marsh down coldly, who reluctantly relents. “We’re making boots with lifts in them right now. They’ll be ready tomorrow.”

“But---”

“----Jon, would you just get on the box, please?!”

Everyone turns towards the costuming tent a few yards away.

Emerging from it is Sansa, whose appearance renders Jon speechless before he can think to reply. His co-star is bedecked in a style that Baelish has dubbed “Dornish concubine” (much to Oberyn’s annoyance). It comes with gaudy gold and amethyst jewelry consisting of a collar, arm bands, a circlet, anklets, chandelier earrings, bangles, and a bracelet that Baelish calls a “slave bracelet” and Oberyn angrily insists is called a “Haath Phool”.

Her bosom is practically erupting out of a bustier of midnight and gold brocade that stops just under her breasts and has a line of coins hanging off the underwire. A long, pleated matching skirt hangs low in her hips. Two generous slits crawl up the front so that no matter how she stands, at least one of her long legs peeks out. Indeed, as Sansa marches out in her curly-toed slippers, Jon gets to see the full length of the slits, which go all the way to the coined belt and reveal enough for the costumers to apparently to make Sansa some matching pantalets.

But, for modesty’s sake, she has a veil that still reveals her lush auburn hair that tumbles about her shoulders in gleaming waves.

Her march out brings noise. Her ornate garments jingle like bells with every moment and then there are the onlookers, who wolf-whistle and shout out comments that make Jon’s blood boil. He’s going to kill Baelish. The man has been throwing Sansa into racy outfits since he hired her, but this is beyond anything.

She looks less like the average Dornish woman Jon has met, and more like a brothel girl serving a man with a desert fetish.

Sansa ignores the cheering men, her blue eyes fixed on Jon. She comes up close and pokes his chest. “Listen to me, Targaryen,” she says his real name like it’s an accusation, “I have only so much time I can spend out in this sun, and only so much time I can tolerate this ridiculous costume. I want this scene done quick and without incident, so listen to the man and get on the box.”

Jon sighs and, feeling like a fool, steps atop the small wooden crate.

“Maybe it should be the broad directing instead,” remarks Pyp, one of the grips, “It seems like she’s the one who can get things done. Put her in the jodhpurs and the director’s chair and Marsh here in the skirt.”

“Shut up!” Marsh snaps, clearly embarrassed. He sits back in her chair and glares. “Alright, Snow, you’ve just finished killing off Prince Silvaad’s Fifty Thieves single-handedly to steal back your beloved Princess Esmeralda. After weeks of separation and danger, you two are finally reunited, and you embrace her passionately. Sansa, you were stolen by the thief-prince and have been held captive for weeks. You were hours away from being forced to wed the villain. You’ve heard the fighting outside, but didn’t think too much of it before because you’ve become used to your captor fighting someone. But this time, the fighting has gotten much too close to the harem tent. You’ve bravely ventured out from the tent while your maids cower inside, holding a knife, intending to defend yourself if necessary. But to your shock, it’s not one of the prince’s barbarian rivals raiding the camp, but your long-lost love, the Pirate King Flynn Saber---”

Jon and Sansa exchange an incredulous look. When they first saw the script and saw that name, they’d said, in unison, “Really?!” Baelish truly was amplifying everything with their first color picture, including the ridiculousness of the names. Past characters Jon has played were named things like, “Man Without a Moniker”, “Renaldo Gable”, and “Jack Hawke”. But this name is as swollen and exaggerated as Sansa’s bosom.

Marsh pauses when he sees the look they share. “--- Pirate King Flynn Saber. You thought you’d never see him or home ever again. You are so overcome that you swoon right into his arms. Jon, you catch her and kiss her, dipping her back, the usual fare. Sansa, you come to as he kisses you, and, thrilled, you wrap your arms about his neck and close your eyes again. Got it?”

“Yes, but I wanted to point something out,” Sansa states, “If Jon is supposed to have just finished fighting fifty thieves, shouldn’t he be sweating?”

Marsh groans. “Someone get some water!”

A basin is brought and Sansa dabs him with a soaking cloth across his forehead. It’s actually kind of nice in this heat…

Then she undoes some of the lacings of his tunic, exposing his chest.

“What are you doing?!”

Sansa looks up at him. “If I have to expose everything short of my nipples, then it’s only fair that you show a couple inches of skin.”

She has a point. Jon says nothing. If he’d been told last night that Sansa would be pulling his shirt open, he’d have been thrilled. But this hypothetical past him should have known it would be in this context.

Jon spends a lot of time wondering why he came to Summerwood, and, most of all, why he stays. Then Sansa will walk by and he’ll remember the answer to his second question.

It’s yet another miserable irony of his life that he kisses her on a near-daily basis, but have it be in the least romantic circumstances possible. It’s agony. Still, every time he does kiss her, he finds himself hoping that this time, with this one, he’ll somehow communicate to her that it isn’t fake, that there’s something real.

“Good,” Marsh says critically. “Where’s Sansa’s knife?”

An assistant produces a dagger and takes the water and rag from the actress.

“Excellent. Alright, Sansa, get in the tent. Jon, get your sword out. Let’s get going!”

Sansa ducks under the set tent. Jon pulls the stupid fake blade from its holster and raises it above his head and begins breathing deep.

“Ready! Set! Action!”

Sansa charges out of the tent, fist clenched about the raised blade and a determined look on her face. Jon slowly lowers his sword, angry face softening, eyes widening. Sansa freezes for a moment, drops her knife, and covers her mouth. Jon re-holsters his blade as she staggers towards him. After four steps, she falls toward him, eyelids dropping.

At this point, Jon has caught a swooning Sansa at least a hundred times. She’s swooned in every picture they’ve done, sometimes more than once. She’s an expert at fainting, and Jon’s an expert at catching.

But something is off this time. Jon is used to catching her at his usual height, and there’s something off about Sansa’s movements as well. The act is a bit awkward as a result.

Marsh sees this and calls cut. Sansa groans.

“What was that?” Marsh demands. “You must have done this a hundred times! Sansa, what were you doing with your arms?”

Sansa straightens up, looking disgruntled. “Don’t blame me! It’s this!” She gestures to her bustier. “It already barely fits. If I move my arms too much, I could completely pop out!”

The crew looks over and starts gathering.

“Somebody get Sansa some tape or something!” Marsh shouts. “And Snow, why are you barely catching her?”

“I’m taller on this thing,” Jon says, tapping his toe against the box, “It’s upsetting the angle a bit.”

“Well, practice a bit!”

“Let me tape up first!” Sansa says as the material is brought. She ducks under the tent again. Everyone waits quietly and awkwardly. She eventually emerges, looking disoriented.

“Everything secure?” Marsh inquires in an acidic tone.

“I think so.”

“Okay, practice falling a bit until we’ve got it right.”

Thankfully, it only takes a few tries to get it right. Marsh calls for action again.

But this time, when Sansa falls, the tape and the bustier give way on the right side. Her right breast springs out as she falls. Jon barely manages to grab her in time, positioning his arm to block anything indecent from view. It seems only Jon sees it, thank the gods, as none of the crew reacts and not even Sansa seems to realize until Jon turns her body to face upward. Not wishing to humiliate her, Jon leans down and presses his lips to hers, blocking most of her upper body from view. Sansa’s arms wrap themselves around his neck, but she does something new: tangles her fingers in his dark curls.

“Thank you,” she whispers as their lips begin to part. Their faces remain close and they hold their pose, Jon trying to make sure Sansa doesn’t feel anything going on below his belt, until Marsh calls cut.

When the scene ends, Jon pulls her up so she faces him dead on, her modesty protected by their backs. Sansa hurriedly shoves her breast back into place. Both of them blush as Jon averts his eyes. He couldn’t help looking when he was maneuvering to conceal this… wardrobe malfunction… but he should be a gentleman now.

And what he has seen was glorious. It was only one, but gods… The rosy pink of her nipple against the cream of her skin, then way it seemed to burst free from the fabric, then jiggled as she landed in his arms. As Baelish and Marsh have crudely pointed out, Sansa has “The face of an angel and a body for bedchambers.” The woman looks like one of the paintings on the walls of the temple of the goddess Alohura in his hometown. The sort of perfect woman that Jon thought could only be a god and not a real, living person. Even his old sweetheart, Ygritte, had tangled hair and crooked teeth.

Despite the fact that until recently, Sansa spent half of her off-hours working at the diner to pay her rent, her hair never seemed to snag or tangle. She’d pin it up in a braided knot while waiting tables. Jon had the good fortune a few times to witness her releasing her tresses, and they always tumbled out gracefully, falling and spreading like a red waterfall. The messiest her hair ever got was whenever they had to do a scene where they moved fast, like riding on a horse or a few times when Jon had to hold her as he swung from ropes or vines. And even then, it only got rumpled in that exciting, sultry way.

Indeed, despite the absurd names and costumes and plot and sets and… well… everything… Jon is excited to be shooting a color picture. Thus far, all fans of Sansa Stark had witnessed only some of her beauty. This picture will be the first time they see her hair in color.

“Thank you so much,” she says again, quietly, “I think I’d die of shame if I exposed myself to all these people. And while the camera was rolling! Knowing Baelish, if they captured it, he’d probably have Marsh magnify and duplicate every frame and sell it in little brown envelopes on every corner of King’s Landing. I’d never be able to face anyone back home again. Mother already writes pages of complaints about my attire in her letters. And that’s when I’m not playing a tavern wench or an opera singer or something scandalous like that.”

“I don’t think Marsh got anything. Someone would have reacted. Your… Well, it was facing away from the camera when it came loose, and when you turned I already had my arm in place.”

“So you’re more than just a hero on script, then.”

Jon can’t help his grin. Before he can reply, though, Marsh comes over.

“Look, Kids,” he says, rubbing his forehead, “I just inspected the footage and, well…”

Jon’s blood runs cold. Damn it. He’d failed. Marsh caught a shot.

The director reddens. “Look, I’m not usually one for major compliments, but I have to say that this scene is easily the best you two have done. You really are bringing your A-game to this picture if this scene is any indicator. San, you were even better than usual. And Jon… I barely recognized you. Never have you seemed so genuine before. I saw such true passion, desire, shock, fear, excitement. The way you stared and handled her… You appeared so fired up and stunned, but when you held her, you seemed to move so meticulously, and so protectively, but your eyes were so hungry. Fantastic energy there. I want to incorporate that into everything else. Flynn is all action and passion and roguishness, and he wants Esmeralda desperately, but even so, when he speaks to her, touches her, the roughness melts away and he’s as gentle and tender as a lamb. But, you know, a lamb that wants to get her into bed.”

“Uh, thanks,” Jon replies, purposely avoiding Sansa’s gaze, “I… I’ll try.”

“Marsh, can we see the footage? You know, so we might study the intensity of the performance and keep it going?” Sansa asks in an innocent tone.

The director shrugs. “Be my guest.”

They go over to the reel-viewer and watch it. And, thankfully, Jon is right: Sansa’s breast was not caught on camera.

“He’s right, you know,” Sansa remarks to him, “You really are good here. Maybe I should pop out of my top in every scene, eh?”

Jon goes redder than Sansa’s hair. “I… I…”

“It’s fine, Targaryen.” Now she says his real name like an affectionate nickname. “It’s not your fault. It’s Baelish’s, making me wear this nonsense.”

Jon steps back and purses his lips. At the mention of Baelish, his insides seem to harden. Jon hooks his thumbs at his sword belt and gestures with his head towards the large oak tree twenty yards away. No one was there.

Sansa nods and they head over, well away from earshot.

“Um, Sansa, I know it’s probably none of my business, but… well… I hope you never feel forced to… compromise anything… for Baelish. He’s not an honorable man, and he seems to have a certain fixation with you. And, well, word gets around. Not that I was gossiping, but you can’t help but hear things. If he tries anything---”

“---Jon, have I told you about Lady?”

“Huh? No. Lady Who?”

“Lady. My… dog. She’s a giant wolfhound. Enormous. She’s why I don’t agree to have anyone here walk me home. She runs through the woods all day and heads for the studio gates each night to walk with me. I’ve introduced Baelish to Lady. And he knows that if he doesn’t keep his hands to himself, that he’ll be chased down by an enormous hound and have his Littlefinger bitten off. He done anything more than make some lewd comments and insist on some absurd costumes. And ask me to have dinner with him. He is determined to have me. He likes to think himself a sophisticated gentleman, and wants to charm me, seduce me. Even when I was honest with him about how that will never happen, he didn’t care. He’d just decided to ‘change my mind.’ But he’ll never force anything on me, because he knows the consequences. I’ll admit, though…” Sansa crosses her arms over her exposed ribs.

“Like I said, he won’t listen to me when I tell him it’s hopeless. So I gave up on that. And, well, I figure that if he’s going to try anyways, I might as well use it. I don’t lie to him, or do anything for him, but, well…” She blushes. “I have pretended to warm up to him a bit. It’s why I haven’t refused his costume ideas. He wants to gain some relief and consolation by seeing me parade around in a slave girl costume? Fine. He likes me to stay super pale? Alright, I avoid the sun. He wants me to have at least one fainting spell per flick? No issue. I keep him just happy enough, and now I don’t have to spend half my waking hours at the diner anymore and can get a full night’s sleep. I don’t have to worry about being kicked out of my boarding house for late rent. I got myself a proper tent to change in so that I don’t have half the crew gawking at me. Marsh isn’t allowed to bully me. I eat regularly. I got away with demanding a living wage from the studio, some control over my work, and some protection because I let Baelish drool over pictures of my cleavage whenever he wants. We both know that if he ever tries to stick part of himself inside me, that he’ll lose that part of himself, and many others.”

Jon licks his lips and swallows. “I… I see. But what do you think he’ll do when… if… another man enters your life.”

Sansa snorts. “Oh, he’d completely lose it. But that’s hardly an issue. I don’t have the time or the wherewithal for that sort of thing anyways. I spend nearly every waking hour on set, pretending to swoon.”

“But surely you want---”

“---Ugh, you sound like my mother,” she groans, leaning back against the tree trunk, “Quite frankly, Jon, no, I don’t. At least, not right now. I’ve been given the opportunity to be a star in the most exciting thing to happen on Disceros in centuries. Everyone has been flocking to Summerwood for just a taste of this business. People are clawing at each other for a chance to empty the spitoons in a producers’ office. But we’re at the very center of it all. Even better, we’re on track to becoming essential. A few weeks ago, we could easily be replaced by the hundreds of other pretty young people waiting in the wings. But now? Now we’re not two of many. We’re Jon Snow and Sansa Stark, the stars people pay money to see. Before long, they’ll need us more than we need them, because we’ll be the reason they sell tickets. We’ll be the deciding factors in whether or not their pictures make money. They won’t be able to replace us. They’ll have to fight to keep us from wandering to another studio that offers a better deal. And all that while, we’re going to be among the first legends here. We’re being immortalized. We’ll be able to say we were there way back when. Right now, we’re young and good-looking and energetic. Eventually, we’ll both start to wane a bit, and there will be new stars, yes. But that’s why I intend to focus everything on making sure my star burns the brightest while it’s still hot. That I make my mark and stake some claims, make my fortune so that when the day comes that the audiences tire of me, I can just bow out gracefully, retire in comfort, and get on with my life. Then I can worry about husbands and family if I wish. But if I throw everything into this and play my cards right now, get what I need, I’ll be free to do as I wish forever more. So no, I don’t want to waste time with suitors and romance. I get enough of that faking it with you every day. All I want right now is to rise in this business.”

I’m not faking. But he doesn’t say that. “I see. That seems rather lonely, though.”

“I have Lady. And I have friends. Like you.” She smiles kindly. “I just don’t have a lover. And I don’t mind. I didn’t come here to fall in love.”

Jon’s stomach sinks. “You didn’t?”

“No, I came here for this, just like everyone else.”

“Not everyone. I didn’t come here for this.”

Sansa cocks her head. “Really? What else is there in Summerwood, though? What did you come here for?”

Jon looks at the ground. “I… I don’t know. I just sort of… Set off one day. And I felt this pull. I had to come here. Something was happening.”

“This. This is the thing that is happening.”

Jon shrugs. “Maybe I didn’t come here for something, but for someone.”

“Who?”

“I’m not sure.”

Sansa sighs. “Alright. Well… Lucky you, then. If you don’t have your heart set on this, then the business can’t break it.”

“Other things can, though.”

People can.

“Having fun, you two?”

Jon’s skin crawls at the sound of Baelish’s voice. The producer, green eyes glittering, approaches them, a rolled up piece of paper under his arm.

“Hello, Mr. Baelish,” Sansa says, pretending to be happy to see him. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“Yes, yes… You two having fun making our masterpiece? Having…” He licks his lips. “...Too much fun, perhaps?”

Jon swallows the bile the rushes up from his stomach. “Hardly. We were just discussing this height thing. I have to admit, Baelish, it is throwing us off a bit. We’re used to working on literally a different level.”

Baelish’s eyes narrow. “Snow, you know what I wrote when you came in for your first audition?”

“Can’t sing. Can’t dance. Knows how to use a sword a little.” This man has told him this a thousand times. “But you still took a chance on me. And it’s paid off, hasn’t it?”

“Sansa’s carrying you.”

“And I’m carrying her. Literally, sometimes. But that’s why the box thing is so difficult.”

Baelish rolls his eyes. “Whatever.” He starts unrolling the paper. “I just thought maybe you’d like to see the poster.”

“Poster? But we’ve only shot two scenes!” Sansa cries out.

“So?” Baelish turns the unrolled paper.

Jon wants to tip it to shreds. At least a third of the damn thing consists of Sansa’s bosom as she contorts her back. Jon’s face, in contrast, is barely visible.

SIEGE OF THE SERAGLIO FOR THE FIRST TIME IN FULL COLOR A PIRATE! A PRINCESS! 500 ELEPHANTS! SEARCHING FOR EACH OTHER AGAINST THE BACKDROPPE OF A WORLDE GONNE MADDE!

“We’re trying to find five hundred elephants as well?” Sansa inquires in a tone of false innocence. Jon has to choke back a laugh.

“No! That’s just to draw in the audience! You couldn’t possibly think---” He looks at the poster again. “Damn it!”

“And where are you going to get five hundred elephants, anyways?” Jon asks. Knowing Baelish, the man probably just planned on gluing a trunk and ears onto a gerbil.

“We’re getting one elephant, and just showing it run past over and over,” Baelish retorts, “It’ll be almost as big a hassle as getting those lifts put in your shoes.”

“That doesn’t---”

Baelish has already spun around and is marching away. The two actors exchange looks.

“Why does every picture of his have to be ‘against a backdrop of a world gone mad’?”

“Because he has to convince himself that it’s the world that’s crazy, not him.”

Jon snickers, then sighs. “Are you sure this is worth it, Sansa?”

She bristles. “At least I’m not doing it for nothing!”

Jon smiles at her sass. “Oh, I’m not doing it for nothing, Love, I assure you.”

[jilyyall]

prompt: we're neighbours/live in the same flat? and it's raining and you've left your clothes out on the line and its CHUCKING it down

Thanks for the prompt! :) It got away from me a bit and ended up twice as long as I planned for it to be, but that’s really not much of a surprise!Read the very smutty sequel here.

It’s just something that I want to do

“For fuck sake, not again!” Lily shouted and aimed awell-placed kick at her dryer, which had apparently decided to crap out for the fifth time this month, and promptly collapsed tothe ground clutching at her throbbing foot which was probably broken now. Itwould be just her luck and it would perfectly top off the shittiest day imaginable.

It had even started off terribly, which most of her shittydays did not – usually it was the type of awful that crept up on you, the kindyou didn’t see coming, that hid behind a normal, every day morning, and thenhit you quite suddenly and left you reeling. That was what had happened the dayher parents had announced their divorce when she was fifteen. It was even howshe had felt when her sister had sent her that nasty text telling her that shewas no longer welcome in her wedding party because she had disagreed with Petunia’s fiancé. FuckingBrexiters.

No, today had started out terribly. Today, Lily had woken uplate for work for the first time ever, had arrived over an hour late withouteven being able to stop for coffee on her way in, and had to listen to hergod-awful cow of an editor berate herfor something which, admittedly, was actually her fault for once.

Usually, when Rita – Ms.Skeeter – went off on Lily, it was for something ridiculous and unavoidablelike when the Prime Minister had refused to give a quote to the Daily Prophetduring yet another disastrous press conference and Rita had decided it wasLily’s fault even though Lily hadn’t even been at the press conference.

To make matters worse, she had agreed to meet up with an oldfriend for lunch, apparently having forgotten that she had cut ties withSeverus Snape three years ago for a reason. She had sat through forty-fiveminutes of him making thinly veiled racist remarks whilst brazenly praising TomRiddle, a divisive politician about whom Lily had written numerous scathingarticles in the past three months alone before she had made her excuses toleave.

She’d had a few minutes to spare before she had to be backat work since she had ditched Severus at the restaurant early and so haddecided to stop for coffee. She had thought it would be a good pick-me-up, thatit would turn her day around. It hadn’t. The barista, a first year uni studentby the looks of her, had made her order wrong twice before finally getting it right and once she finally had hercinnamon latte in hand, an impatient man crossing the road next to her hadjostled her arm and made her spill her drink all down the front of her whitedress.

It was at that point that Lily had pulled her cell phone outof her purse and sent a text to her editor telling her that she would befinishing her work from home for the day. It wasn’t worth risking a phone calland having to listen to Rita say something that rubbed her the wrong way. Nottoday, when God only knew how much more Lily could take before reaching herbreaking point.

So Lily had stopped at the shop on her way home, figuringthat if a coffee hadn’t improved her day, a glass of wine was her next bestoption. And if that didn’t do the trick, then the whole bottle would have todo.

It was only one o’clock when she had gotten home, so she haddecided to at least pretend to be a responsible adult and fold her laundrybefore getting drunk off wine in the middle of the day. Now here she was, collapsed on the floor with a definitely broken foot in front of her broken dryer full of wetclothing, which was going to mildew if she didn’t take care of it right away.Sighing, she heaved herself to standing, tested her weight on her injured footand decided that, okay, it probably wasn’t actually broken, and gathered thewet clothing from her useless dryer.

At least she still had the clothesline strung across herback garden, she thought as she limped out the back door. It didn’t take herlong to hang her laundry – it was a rather small load and her wardrobe mostly consistedof no-iron dresses. It was quiet work; her fit neighbour’s equally fit friendwasn’t staying with him this week – not that she paid either of them anyattention, honestly – so she didn’t have to listen to the friend calling her Red and telling her neighbour she wasfit and he should make a move already. Even better, her clothes wouldn’t reekof cigarette smoke after a few hours.

Honestly, how he put up with his friend – she had yet tolearn either of their names yet as he had only moved in a couple months ago –was beyond her. The one who actually lived there didn’t seem particularly happywith his friend whenever he made those comments that were clearly meant to beoverheard, and she had never seen him smoking either. She had wondered at firstif it was a friendship of convenience, if they had known each other for so longthat not being friends was too frightening and foreign a concept for them toentertain. She had been there, once, after all, so she thought she couldunderstand if that was the case. Then, one day, the friend had showed up in abad way, bloody and bruised and clearly badly injured, and Lily had noticed but definitely not watched her neighbourpractically nurse him back to health over the course of a couple of weeks.Clearly there was more there than convenience.

She pondered this as she poured herself a glass of wine. Shehad friends – there was Marlene, who she had drinks with every Saturday night,and Benjy from work, and Emmeline, with whom she had lunch every otherWednesday, and Dorcas, who had moved to America after uni and skyped in withher and Marlene and sometimes Emmeline once a month – but Lily didn’t thinkthere was anyone she was close enough with to have them move into her house fora few weeks, anyone she would be willing to nurse back to health after anaccident. All of her friends had families, after all, who they would turn tofirst.

The worse realization was that she had no one who wouldwillingly do for her what her neighbour had done for his friend. Obviously, herfamily and her friends wouldn’t let her die if anything happened to her. Theywould certainly check in with her, make sure she was coping well, but shedoubted they would so selflessly and willingly allow her to take up residencein their home.

She frowned as she nursed her wine and began to drift offthere on her couch, thinking about her friends, whom she loved, truly, but alsoabout her neighbour, whom she didn’t actually know but now, half a bottle ofwine in and unconsciousness overtaking her, could admit she wanted to.

Several hours later, she woke to the sound of rain pouringdown outside. It was dark now, not because it was late – it was only about fouro’clock, according to her iPhone – but because of the thunderstorm. Shestretched, arms above her head, feet reaching towards the arm of the couch, andthen rolled to her feet. Pulling the blanket off the back of the couch as she madeher way towards the window overlooking her front garden, she wrapped herself upnice and cozy and smiled for the first time that day.

She loved the rain, always had. She loved how everythingslowed down, all but stopped, outside when she sky opened up. She had alwaysbeen fond of curling up in a window with a blanket, a book, and a steaming mugof tea and losing herself in a different sort of world. After the day she hadendured, that seemed like the only fitting way to spend the afternoon now. A dark figure caught her attention before she could turn away to fetch herkettle and she realized with a skittering heart that none other than hermysterious, fit neighbour was sprinting through her garden. She watched,stunned, as he leapt up onto her porch and stood there for a moment, armoutstretched, fist frozen above her door. She waited, hidden behind the blinds,as he fought some kind of internalized battle and finally rapped his knucklesagainst the door, a quick, firm, loud, confidentsound. After a brief pause – she didn’t want to betray the fact that she hadwatched him the entire time – she opened the door to peer up at him.

He wasn’t wearing his glasses. That was the first thoughtthat crossed her mind. They kept a fairly similar schedule, leaving for workaround the same time every day, and he usually returned home about a half hourafter her. On her days off, she usually still woke up early out of habit andtook her coffee out on her front porch just in time to watch him leave hishouse for a run. She saw him every day, at least once a day and although theyhad never spoken, she had still noticed that he never left the house withouthis glasses on. Glasses were probably pretty useless in the rain, though, sherationalized.

“Hello?” she said softly when he merely looked at her. Sheran her fingers through her hair, wondering why he looked almost dazed at thesight of her. She hadn’t looked in the mirror before she had opened the door,but she probably should have; it wasn’t as if she had a tendency to wake uplooking flawless.

“Er – hi. Sorry,” he shook himself off and Lily couldn’tdecide if he was shaking off the rain or the daze. Either way, it was adizzying mixture of adorable and incredibly sexy. His normally messy hair wasplastered to his head even though he could only have been in the rain for allof ten seconds. He suddenly thrust his hand towards her and Lily shook it witha bemused smile. “I’m your neighbour. James. Sorry, I’m wet.”

“It’s okay,” Lily smiled when he pulled his hand back on anembarrassed smile. “I’m Lily. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Yeah, you too. Did you realize it was raining?” When sheraised her eyebrows because obviously,he dragged his hand through his dripping hair and shook his head, lookingslightly embarrassed. “What I mean is, your clothes are still on the line and Idon’t think it’s proper drying weather at the moment.”

It took a moment for her to understand what he was saying.When she remembered her broken dryer and the clothesline out back, she sworeheartily and turned to rush out the back door. It was rude, probably, leavinghim standing there at the front door without saying a word, but she needed tosave her clothes. There may not have been many clothes hanging, but she haddefinitely thrown her favorite bra and knickers in the wash last night beforebed and she didn’t fancy the idea of leaving them out in the rain for God knowshow long.

She rushed out the back door and started ripping clothesfrom the line, not realizing that he had followed her until he already had halfof the load in his arms and was ushering her back inside.

“Thanks. You didn’t have to…” she trailed off, mortified,when she realized that at the very top of the pile of clothes in his arms sather overpriced, but very beautiful and favored black-and-cream lacy bra andknickers.

He seemed to realize a moment later what had caught herattention. His eyes went wide and he thrust his arms forward, offering for herto take her unmentionables back. She hesitated, arms already full, and nowhereto put her sopping clothes, before gesturing for him to just drop the clotheson the kitchen table. He did, and she quickly dropped her half of the load ontop hoping that the saying out of sight,out of mind might apply here. Judging by the redness creeping up his neck,though, that wasn’t going to be the case.

“Why do you dry your clothes on the line?” he blurted outand it was so obviously word vomit that she wondered if the question had beenniggling at the back of his mind since she had strung up the line or if he hadsimply said the first thing he had thought of in an attempt to clear theawkwardness.

“My dryer is a traitorous piece of shit,” she told him. “Notonly does it occasionally refuse to dry my clothing, it also attempted to breakmy foot today. When I kicked it, that is.”

He laughed at that, rubbing the back of his neck as hestudied her. “Well, you seem to be doing okay.”

“Yeah, I’m a right trooper,” she said.

They were quiet for a moment, only the sound of the rainoutside filling the silence. This wasn’t exactly how she had imagined theirfirst meeting going. Not that she had fantasized about meeting him or snogginghim or sleeping with him or anything. She definitely hadn’t dreamt about it andwoken up in the middle of the night panting and frustrated and wanting nothingmore than his head between her thighs, his hips cradled between hers and havingto make do with only her hand. Except that she definitely, absolutely,embarrassingly had. Just last night, in fact, which, in hindsight, may have hadsomething to do with why she had overslept this morning.

“Did you want a cup of tea?” she offered, voice unusually high-pitched.

“Oh, actually, I can’t right now. I’m sorry,” he said, andhe did actually sound regretful. “I’ve got to get home.”

“Oh, no, that’s fine. Of course you do!” she exclaimed, andled him back to the front door. “Thanks so much for reminding me about mylaundry. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Of course. It’s not a problem.” He opened the door forhimself and started to walk outside. He paused on the threshold, his hand stillon the doorknob, and turned to look at her, the rain pouring down behind himand spoke in huge rush, as if he was afraid of missing his one shot at… something. It was charming, in anervous, boyish sort of way.

“Did you maybe want to use mine? My dryer, I mean. It’s nota traitor, in fact it’s been quite loyal to me so far. Always gets the clothesdry, if not a bit wrinkled, but I think that might be my fault – I’m shit atfolding.” He stopped himself, took a deep breath, and ruffled his damp hair. “Ihave food, too, if you were hungry.”

“What kind of food?” She asked, a smile playing on her lips.

“Beg pardon?” He was staring at her lips. She thought herealized it at the same time she did because he cleared his throat andimmediately refocused his attention on her eyes.

“I mean, are you cooking food or do you have take away or isit frozen dinners or…?” She was only giving him a bit of a hard time. It wasn’tlike she had particularly high standards – she survived on a diet of frozendinners and take away for the most part herself, and had already decided to goover to his house anyway for the use of the dryer, and the promise of dinnerand maybe, if they were both lucky, something more.

“I’m cooking.” When her eyebrows shot up, he grinned. Ittransformed him from awkward, uncertain, and adorable to full-blown sexgod. “Icook. Tonight I’m making Eggplant Parmigiana.That’s actually why I have to get home. I’ve left the oven on.”

“Oh my God, you’re serious. You actually cook. Like Italianfood.” Not only was he fit and kind and caring and adorably awkward and sexy,he could cook. She almost asked him to marry her right then and there.

“Yeah.” He nodded, that sexy, cocksure grin still playing athis lips. “It’s actually ready to go in the oven already. I just need to cookthe pasta and then…”

He trailed off when she turned away from him, marched overto the kitchen table, and scooped up her dripping clothes. The table waswooden, and it was soaked, and she should definitely be a responsible adult anddry it before it, too, was ruined, but she didn’t. She turned and met him atthe door, reveling in the way his expression changed from bewildered to elatedwhen he realized that she was taking him up on his offer.

“Oh, wait.” She hesitated, eyeing her keys on the table nextto the door, and he took her laundry from her without being asked so she couldlock the door and follow him next door.

His house was warm and brightly lit and surprisingly tidywhen she walked in. She followed him through the foyer, past the living roomand the dining room, through the kitchen, and into the laundry room, which waseasily the messiest room she had seen so far. There were clothes piled on topof the washer and the dryer and at least three pairs of running shoes scatteredaround the floor. At least everything seemed to be clean judging by the freshscent of the room.

“When you said you’re shit at folding…?” She trailed offwhen he straightened up from loading her clothes into the dryer. He looked around and cracked a shameless smile. “I guess I meant I just reallydon’t do it often.”

“It is the worst part of doing laundry,” she said.

“Yeah, it is.” He turned away from her for a moment to startthe dryer and rummage through the piles on top of the appliances. When heturned back to her, he handed her a jumper and a pair of sweatpants. “Here. Youmight want to change into dry clothes. I promise they’re clean.”

She hesitated for a moment before she took the clothes – shewould look ridiculous seeing as he was easily a foot taller than her, but shealso really didn’t want to sit through dinner in a wet dress.

“Thank you,” she said softly when he led her to the guestbathroom so that she could change. She watched him disappear from view, heardthe stairs creaking as he ran up them, and assumed he was going to change intosomething dry as well.

She leaned against the door for a moment after she closedit, taking several deep breaths before looking in the mirror and oh God, she was still wearing hercoffee-stained white dress. For a moment, she could do nothing but stare inhorror at her reflection. Then, she started laughing, deciding that other thancrying it was the only acceptable option. After several seconds of self-deprecating laughter, she stripped out ofher wet clothes and pulled on James’s clothes. A glance in the mirror assuredher that, no, she did not look any less ridiculous than before. She took a deepbreath, rolled her eyes at her reflection, and turned to leave the room.

When she walked out of the bathroom swimming in his jumperand sweats, her sopping hair piled up on top of her head, he had already changedhis clothes, started boiling water for the pasta, and was pouring two glassesof wine. He looked up when she walked into the kitchen, and froze, staring ather. She wasn’t a naïve schoolgirl; she knew she was attractive and she knew whatit meant when a man froze up like that at the sight of a woman in his clothes.

She watched as he carefully thought through his next move –they were both aware at this point that this night could very well set the tonefor all of their future interactions. He finished pouring the wine and thenwalked over to her, handing her a glass. When she raised a questioning brow, heshrugged. “I saw the bottle in your living room. Figured you wouldn’t mindanother glass.”

He smiled when she clinked her glass against his and took asip. She smiled when she realized they apparently had the same taste in wine.“I love a good Chardonnay.”

With one finger, he pushed his glasses up the bridge of hisnose, drawing to her attention the fact that he had put them on while she wasgetting changed.

“Me too. Technically, it’s not the best wine to pair with ared sauce, but it’s my favorite and I knew you liked it, so I…” he trailed off whenshe stepped closer, set her wine down on the counter next to him and thensurged up on the tips of her toes to press her lips to his ever-so-briefly.

“Sorry,” she said, blushing when he only stared at her. Shebacked away quickly, shaking her head with the sudden realization that that mayhave been wildly inappropriate. “Oh, God, I’m sorry. I just… I’ve wondered whatit would be like, and… shit, I’m sorry. Do you have a girlfriend? Oh, God. I’vejust realized I don’t know anything about you.”

“No, no, no.” He rushed toward her, his hands closing overher clasped hands. “I just didn’t expect… You’re beautiful and… Fuck it.”

He leaned down towards her and kissed her, his lipslingering far longer than she had. When he pulled back, his glasses wereslightly askew, but he didn’t seem to care, choosing to cup her face in hishands instead of fix them. “I don’t have a girlfriend, and I have beenwondering what it would be like to kiss you as well, ever since I first sawyou. You’re just very attractive and I’m incredibly shit with women.”

She smiled up at him, resting her hands on his hips. “Well,you seem to be doing okay.”

In answer, he kissed her again, more enthusiastically thistime, pushing her up against the counter. She wanted him to lift her up, sether on top of the counter, press himself against her. When he didn’t lift herup, she pulled back, boosted herself up to sit on the counter, and drew him inbetween her legs. He groaned deeply and slipped both of his hands under thejumper he had given her.

When he cupped her breasts, her head fell back. There was asudden violent hissing-popping noise that was definitely not coming from eitherof them. He pulled away from her quickly, grabbed the pot of water on the stove, andmoved it to a different burner. His chest was heaving and he was looking backand forth from her to the water with comically wide eyes.

She laughed and shook her head. “Let’s put this on pause,yeah?”

When he looked like he wanted to protest, she jumped downfrom the counter and lifted her glass of wine. “I want to watch a man cook.It’ll be like foreplay.”

“It’s pasta,” he said, his voice much gruffer than before.“Not much cooking there.”

“Hey, I am one of those people who can burn pasta,” she toldhim, figuring it wouldn’t really matter to him that she couldn’t cook – a manwho cooked when he didn’t know he had anyone to impress was a man who enjoyedcooking and therefore did not need a woman who could cook. When he grinned ather, she knew she was right. “Give me this.”

He studied her for a moment and then shrugged. “I amhungry.”

Grinning, she watched over the rim of her glass as he movedpurposefully through the kitchen. When he caught her gaze over his shoulder,she bit her lip. This could be the start of something really, really good.

(Sequel)

[thespecialrelationship-phff]

Chapter 13

AN: A bit of a long one today but a good one I think! Enjoy!

Harry’s POV

“Sir, you’re staring.” Ed’s voice is quiet but firm.

I jerk slightly then realize I am in fact staring. I’m staring at her. She arrived about an hour ago and it’s used every ounce of my self-control to not immediately stride over to her. The aquatic stadium was a busy place today, with finals in all of the events.

It meant today was a long day, meeting lots of people. And when Kennedy arrived I got to see just how she would act with the crowd.

She looked beautiful, just like she did this morning. Her hair was pulled back into a low, messy knot, a few wisps framing her face. She looks like spring personified: the yellow dress with the flowers, her sun kissed skin. And her legs, long lean. After this morning I know they’re smooth to the touch as well.

To everyone else though she looks untouchable. I watched as she first arrived. People looked at her with a sort of reverence, respect but all at a distance.

At first, I was afraid she would maintain the distance, put on her old mask of ‘Margaret’. I watched as she slowly brought out her true self. She was laughing and talking with groups of people. She walked with her usual confidence but with a more casual air. It was intoxicating.

Just like I predicted the people responded. Gone were the looks of reverent veneration, replaced with genuine appreciation.

Beyond that she looks happy. And she looks bloody beautiful when she’s happy.

“Harry.” Ed admonishes again.

Slowly I shift my eyes away from her, hopefully no one noticed. “Thanks.”

I focus on the Relay happening in front of me, determined not to keep staring at Kennedy. I can’t fully focus though. I watch but don’t notice much of the outcome. My clapping is half a beat too late.

“I think you could justify going over now.” Ed remarks. He doesn’t have to be specific. I know exactly what and who he’s talking about.

I didn’t tell Ed happened this morning or last night. But the man probably knows more than he lets on. Sometimes he’s too good at his job.

“I’ll make my way over.” I say evenly or at least try to.

I walk over stopping to talk to competitors and families along the way, all the while keeping one eyes on Kennedy.

She’s near one of the starting blocks surrounded by members of the American, British and Estonian teams.  Of course I can’t tell what they’re talking about but she has all of the men entranced. They’re all hanging on every word.

I lower my voice, “Those are members of the British team right?”

“Yes. Fergus Hurst and Luke Reeson. I’m not sure where the other members are.”

I nod, knowing that I now have a legitimate reason to approach the group. Our relay had won the gold medal and I have yet to congratulate the team since the medal ceremonies are held later this evening.

Fergus happens to glance up and see me, “Prince Harry!” He exclaims.

Kennedy turns her head and we lock eyes. They’re bright, shining today. She really is happy.

“Mates!” I hold open my arms. “Congratulations!”

We exchange a quick hug. “Well done.”

Fergus smirks, “Thank you. It felt good. Finally win something from those Americans.” His gaze slides over to Kennedy.

She shakes her head with a smile, “Don’t make us challenge you guys to a rematch.”

One of the American swimmers nods then leans close to her, whispering. “They won’t do it. They know it was just a fluke.”

A chorus of ‘ohs’ fills our small circle.

“Maybe Kennedy can be the judge.” Fergus adds, still staring at Kennedy. My neck prickles. I don’t like the way he’s focused on her.

“I would be happy to.” She shrugs. “Of course we would have to keep it open to Estonia as well.”

She gestures to those athletes, “Would you be up for it?”

The four men exchange a look then quickly shake their heads. “We know when to step away.” The man steps forward and clasps Kennedy hands, placing a brief kiss on her knuckles. “It was truly an honor to meet you Miss Randolph.”

Slowly Kennedy turns her hand over and pulls the man close for a kiss on the cheek. “Sincerely, the pleasure was all mine.”

The man is enchanted as he walks away, his skin colored with just the slightest flush. Receiving the full attention of Kennedy is no easy thing. I know first-hand it can be overwhelming.

Now that it’s just Kennedy, the Americans and us Kennedy sighs. “Sorry gentlemen, no rematch.”

“Damn.” Fergus pauses. “We’ve been meaning to ask you something Miss Randolph.”

“Oh?” She turns her head to the GB Relay team.

“Any recommendation for our last two days in beautiful Orlando?”

The question seems casual but I can feel the tension rolling off the American athletes. I know Fergus is a flirt, we’ve run into one another before, but hitting on the First Lady is too far even for him.

She blinks, “Hmm. You know, I would make sure you see Epcot, get a pair of mouse ears.”

It’s a completely appropriate response, but I latch onto the fact that she mentioned Epcot. Was that a veiled reference to last night? God, I really want it to be.

“Standing offer to accompany us.” Fergus continues holding up his hands.

Her mouth parts slightly, no doubt wondering the best way to turn down the offer.

Then Brett Parks, a member of the American team intervenes. He throws a casual arm around her shoulders, “Sorry mate, Miss Randolph already promised to celebrate this evening with our team.”

She pauses for a second probably wondering how appropriate it is for him to have his arm around her. Then I watch as she relaxes and even leans into the veteran. “Yes. I’m sorry.”  Then her gaze slides to mine. “I’m sure Prince Harry would be happy to celebrate with you all.”

The guys chuckle, “It would be legendary.”

I nod, “You have my number. Let me know what you guys are getting into this evening.” I say, already knowing that I’ll have some sort of excuse. There’s only one thing on my agenda for tonight and she’s standing there with another man’s arm wrapped around her.

I’m proud enough to admit that I hate the sight, even though I know Parks is a good guy. He was probably acting in her defense but still…she was in my arms hours ago.  I want to feel her against mine again.

And I want a minute alone with her now. “How are you enjoying the swimming events?”

Her lips purse slightly, no doubt remembering just what our code stands for. “Immensely. I always loved to swim.”

One of the guys agrees but I stay focused on Kennedy.

I shrug, “I always thought it depended on who was in fact swimming.” I tilt my head to the side. “Right?”

She’s staring at me, smiling now, her eyes sparkling with mischief. I’m sure the same is reflected in my eyes.

Fergus jumps in again, “I don’t think so. Swimming is swimming.”

Kennedy bites her lips, then shakes her head. “I’ll have to disagree with you on that one. It very much depends on just who’s doing the swimming.”

I need to get her alone again. I’m wracking my brain for a way for the two of us to have a private moment.

Ed interrupts then, speaking just slightly louder then he usually does. “Sir, your needed for the interview with the Centennial.”

I nod, knowing that the group has heard Ed’s statement. I also know that I have no interview with that publication scheduled for this afternoon. He’s good. “Of course.” I snap my fingers. “Miss Randolph, isn’t this the joint interview?”

Her eyes widen just slightly, the only thing that betrays her surprise. “Right.” She sighs. “So unfortunately gentlemen, I have to leave you. Team GB, well done today, but don’t get too comfortable at the top of the podium.”

She turns to the Americans and smiles. “Good job guys. I’m so proud of you. Seriously, thank you for the incredible performance.”

All of them smile, another group of people successfully enraptured by her charm. Quickly they pose for a picture before the two of us walk away.

We fall into step with one another, our entourages around us.

“Do you really have plans this evening?” She asks.

“An old friend of mine is coming over for dinner. But you’re more than welcome to come.” I told Lovell that he had to at least have one meal with me while he was here. Unfortunately, it has to be tonight.

“I don’t want to intrude.”

I shrug, “You either come over for dinner or you come over right after. I’m just trying to make the best use of our time.”

“How timesaving of you.”

I chuckle, “I’m just looking for the most efficient way to go swimming again.”

It’s easy to get lost in our report, but I have to remember that we are still in public with plenty of prying eyes and listening ears.

She bites her lip then glances at me, keeping her head straight forward. “How do you feel about skinny dipping?”

Skinny dipping, swimming but without clothes. If she’s speaking literally or within our code I don’t know and I don’t care. I would be in total support of either. A hot flash runs through my body. I can vividly remember the feel of her pressed up against me, only the thin material of her dress separating me from her.

I take a slow breath, making sure my voice is even when I respond. “My favorite type of swimming.” I pause. “Well, beyond the breast stroke that is.”

She gasps and her hand flies to her mouth to cover up the laugh. Paul interjects, “Miss?”

She rolls her eyes, “I’m fine Paul.”

We come to a stop near the exit. “Do you actually have plans with the American athletes?”

“I don’t. I just think Brett very politely saved me from having to turn down Fergus.”

“I knew I always liked him.”

“Jealous?” She asks.

I shrug, choosing to play it cool. “Why would I be jealous of a fling?”

She looks up at me, but I can’t read her. Is she offended? Fine?

For a moment the two of us just stay silent. Then her lips purse. “Good point. Could you send me Fergus’ number then?”

I can’t help but scowl.

A slow, confident smile appears on her face. It’s triumphant and sexy as ever. “That’s what I thought.”

I step closer, wanting her to know that she doesn’t get to win all of our tete-a-tetes. “Don’t pretend that I’m the only one wanting here Kennedy. I had your sweet body pinned against a wall this morning with nothing but a staircase protecting us. And that didn’t stop you from sighing, moaning, wanting.” I pause, letting the image sink in. “I only want more.”

With a quick glance around to ensure there are no prying eyes, I grasp her chin in my hands, forcing her to look up at me. Her eyes have taken on a dreamy quality again. “Tease me sure, I can take it. But don’t push too far. I would hate to deny either of us the pleasure.”

She watches me with hooded eyes, processing my words slowly. Then her tongue peeks out to run over her lips, now glistening. She nods almost imperceptibly, “Understood.”

I brush my thumb over her cheekbone, “Good.”

“I’ll see you tonight.” Then she’s gone.

Once the events for the day are finished it’s late but I still insist that Lovell still come over for dinner and drinks. It’s been too long since I’ve seen him and I refuse to waste this opportunity.

I order steak from room service as well as some beer and whiskey, remembering that those were his favorite. Hopefully that will help the bridge the gap of the last three years.

I’m pacing when there’s a knock on the door. With a deep breath I open it. My old friend is standing there dressed casually again with a slightly nervous look on his face. I see him tense as if to come to attention.

“Parker, mate, come on in.” I interrupt, not wanting any protocol. He flashes an uneasy smile but enters my suite.

I close the door then turn to look at him place his bag on the counter. I can’t help but notice the slight limp I swallow thickly. This could be difficult. “Make yourself at home. The food is on the table.”

He nods but doesn’t move away from the counter.

“Is everything okay?”

He looks over at the food then back at me then winces. Shit, what’s wrong? I panic and am ready to ask again when he speaks.

“I’m a vegetarian.”

“What?” I blurt out.

“I’m a vegetarian now.” He repeats.

“Uh-“

“I know it’s crazy.”

“No, no, not at all.” I assure then approach the room phone my mind racing. “I’ll just order something else.”

“Sorry mate, I don’t mean to put you out.”

“Not a problem.” I look over to the alcohol. “You still drink?”

He glances at me, “Now I’m insulted.” He then chuckles. “Of course I still drink.”

I laugh as well the tension dissipating slightly. “Good.”

“I can still drink you under the table too.” He adds.

I look over to him, standing there with that cocky smirk on his face. He looks exactly has I remember him, short dark hair, tan skin, maybe a little leaner but still Parker.

“You’re staring.”

I let out a sigh of relief, “It’s just really good to see you mate.”

He ducks his head but smiles, “Likewise.” Slowly he walks over to me and we hug tightly. He pats me on the back. “Let’s open that whiskey while we wait on my food.”

We’re catching up, drinking, eating reminiscing. It feels good. Parker and I always got along. I don’t think I realized how big of a void he really left.

“So, what do you think about the Games?”

He sets his bottle down, “I have to say it’s incredible. I had no idea it was going to be this…this…” He’s searching for the right word.

“Big?”

“Good.” He laughs and I just snort.

“Thanks for the confidence.”

“No, no, seriously. Everything has been amazing. I didn’t know there would be so many competitors.”

I nod, “I know. It still surprises me. You should come out for Toronto next year.”

He winces.

“Or not.”

Slowly he puts his bottle down. “This week was a big step for me. Hell, meeting up with you was a big step.”

I stay quiet even though hundreds of questions are rushing through my head.

Parker stares down at his hands, “You’re the first one I’ve seen since the hospital.”

I wait, wondering if he’ll add anything more.

He sighs and rubs one hand over his head, “Look, I don’t have to tell you it’s bloody fucking hard to come back to civilian life and then with everything else.”

“I get it.”

“But do you?” He retorts sharply. Then he sighs. “Sorry, I didn’t want it to be like this.”

“Don’t apologize. You’re entitled to how you feel.” I know how important those words can be.

“Right. But I’m not angry at you. It took me a long time to realize that. It took me a long time to separate it all, the anger, the grief, the hopelessness.  At first the anger was easiest and then avoiding it was all easiest.” He look up at me our gazes lock. And I can still see the pain in his eyes but I see so much more of the young soldier I knew. “I’m getting there Wales, I really am.”

I grab his arm and squeeze. “There’s no rush Rex. I’m here for you always.”

He grasps mine as well a ghost of a smile on his lips, “Thank you.”

My comrade and friend pours two healthy shots, “To the 6-6-2.”

“6-6-2.” We knock back the shots. I cough slightly. “Just like old times.”

“Right. Except you have less hair.” He jokes.

“Hey now.”

“And I have less legs.” He adds with a smirk. “I think you got the better deal Wales.”

I laugh along, knowing that it’s part of coping with it all. He’s comfortable in his body that’s important. I get it, other veterans would get it even if civilians wouldn’t.

We relax choosing to bring the alcohol over to the sitting area instead of the table. “Now, you have to tell me what’s going on between you and the fuckin’ First Lady of the United States.”

“Nothing.” Which isn’t technically a lie.

“Bullocks. It’s all over the internet.”

“Don’t believe everything you read on the internet.”

He just shakes his head, “You’re still a shit liar.”

“She’s a beautiful woman.” I say diplomatically.

He just rolls his eyes, “The whole bloody world knows that. That doesn’t answer my question.”

I sip on my beer. “We’re friends.”

“Are you friends or are you friends?”

I stay silent.

“You lucky bastard.” He’s come to his own conclusions and I don’t correct him. It’s not like he would believe me anyways. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“I didn’t doubt it.” I glance down at my watch. “If you stay a little longer you’ll meet her.”

“What?”

“She’s coming over.” I explain. “You’re more than welcome to stay.”

“Really?” He looks awed for a moment.

“Yeah.”

“I would love to meet her. And my mum would go mental.”

I grab another beer, “I’ll warn you though she’s a little different in person then she appears in the press or in public.”

“Oh?”

“Not in a bad way.” I clarify. “Frankly I like her more now that I’ve gotten to know the real her.”

“Interesting.”

Maybe thirty minutes later there’s a knock on the door. Parker blanches. I can’t help but laugh. “Don’t tell me your nervous.” Conveniently I’ve forgotten that I was quite nervous the first time I met her as well.

“She’s the fucking First Lady, mate.”

“And what am I?”

“You’re just Wales to me.”

He has a good point I suppose. I walk over to the door still chuckling to myself. Parker is standing fixing his shirt. He’s lost it I think.

I open the door and immediately glance down. She’s not wearing heels this evening, so her head meets my shoulder. I glance down and notice a fair bit of bare skin. Her white top has thin straps with an open neck and stops a good few inches before her bellybutton. But she’s wearing a long beige skirt to balance it out. She looks comfortable, relaxed, her long hair in loose waves. “Hey.”

I smile, “Hey.”

She looks over my shoulder, “Can I come in?”

“Yeah of course, sorry.” I step to the side and let her walk past me.

I go to introduce Parker to Kennedy and I’m struck with a dilemma. Bloody hell, I don’t know which name to use. Kennedy? Margaret? Miss Randolph? My mouth opens but no sound comes out.

“Uh-.”

Luckily Kennedy steps towards Parker, “Hello, lovely to meet you.” She holds out her hand.  I notice that she doesn’t specifically introduce herself by name.

Parker for his part is probably so starstruck he doesn’t notice. His eyes are glazed over gazing at Kennedy like she’s a goddess. Can’t say I blame him. He hasn’t said anything, just stared. Kennedy’s hand is still out there.

Puzzled, she glances back at me. I shrug then cough loudly.

That breaks Parker out of his trance. “Oh, shite.” Then he slaps his hand to his mouth. “Shite, sorry.” He takes a deep breath. “I’ll start over.”

Kennedy smiles warmly. “Not a problem.”

Finally Parker steps forward and shakes her hand, “Miss Randolph, my lady, it’s an honor to meet you. Lieutenant Parker Lovell at your service.” Then he bows.

I roll my eyes. I’ve never seen Parker act like this and he’s met actual royalty before. Kennedy laughs lightly. “Parker, nice to meet you, but really none of that is necessary.”

She glances back towards me, “In fact, call me Kennedy, I insist.”

I can’t help but smile at that. I step closer and quickly brush my hand against hers. “Come sit, how do you feel about whiskey?” Parker just stares. “What?”

“I didn’t think you drank something like whiskey.” He blurts out.

“There’s a lot people don’t know about me.” Kennedy says. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Parker shakes his head still partially in disbelief, “No disappointment at all.”

I shrug as I pour Kennedy a drink, “I told you Rex.”

“So you did.”

“Do I want to know what you two are referring to?” Kennedy asks.

“I just told Rex not to believe everything the press has made you out to be.” I pause. “You’re better in person.”

“Flatterer.” She responds. “Rex?”

Parker nods, “Old military nickname.  We all had them.”

Kennedy eyes sparkles, “Oh? Harry what was yours?”

“Wales.” I respond immediately.

“Bullocks! You have to tell her the real one.”

She looks at me obviously intrigued as she crosses one leg over the other. “Come on then.”

I sigh, “It’s really not that special.” Parker just raises his brow, no doubt ready to reveal it on my behalf. I take a little sip of the whiskey. “Houdini.”

Her brows furrow, “What in the world?”

I glare at Parker. This isn’t really what I wanted to discuss this evening. “After the escape artist.”

I explain shortly. Hopefully the two will let it drop.  But I can see that Kennedy is intrigued she looks over at Parker silently pleading with her eyes. I know my old friend doesn’t stand a chance.

I lean back, thoroughly unamused at this development. Gesturing to Parker I wave him on. “Well go on then.”

He turns to Kennedy, “I won’t go too in depth, but we got into some sticky situations out there.  I think the government decided it was best if most people didn’t know.”

“Well combat is combat. It was dangerous.”

He nods, “Right, but sometimes…it’s hard to explain to a civilian. But the important bit is that Harry here got out of every scrap. Like impossible things. Things no one should have survived, but he always got out. He always…escaped.”

I glance over to Kennedy to see her reaction. Her expression is blank, not necessarily confused but just bland.

Parker leans forward, excited now. “Harry was out on a mission once and the intelligence was faulty. The chopper flies right into enemy fire on two probably three sides. Some of the best pilots in the world couldn’t make it through that but you know who did? Houdini. That’s fucking who.”

Kennedy looks uncomfortable now, her hands clasped on her knees. Her knuckles white.

“Pretty good considering what would happen if they got you.” Parker takes a sip of his drink. “Taliban would have done some nasty shite, right mate?”

I nod absently but I’m still looking at Kennedy, she’s gone white now. Instinctively I reach out, placing my hands over hers. I squeeze, but her hands remain clasped.

Parker glances over then coughs self-consciously. “It’s all good now. We’re all safe. In the long run no worse for the wear…well mostly.”

Kennedy’s eyes have glazed over, lacking focus on anything. Parker looks at me with concern. I focus on Kennedy, wondering just what’s going on in that head of hers.

“Let’s play a game.” I clap my hands. “You up for it Kennedy?”

She blinks rapidly, “Yeah of course.”

I pull out a quarter, “Flip: Sip or Strip.”

A few hours later the three of us are utterly drunk. It turns out Kennedy is rather talented at flipping quarters. While Parker and I are shite at it. At some point Kennedy slipped off her shoes and curled up next to me on the couch. My arm drapes around her shoulders casually.

“So what is going on between the two of you?” Parker slurs.

Kennedy glances up at me and shrugs, “Isn’t that the million-dollar question?”

“You do look like a good couple. Fucken adorable.”

I laugh, “Thanks, I think.”

Parker leans his head back, “Could you imagine? Having the First bleedin Lady as a Princess?”

She snorts then waves her hand dismissively, “That will never happen.”

“I’ll try not to be offended by that, love.” I nudge her.

“Ohhhh.” Parker adds, stirring the pot.

She smiles up at me, drunk but happy. “It’s not you, it’s me.”

“Ouch!”

I just shake my head. Even in my inebriated state I know what she means. The First Lady can’t be married to a foreign Prince, at least not while her dad’s the president. She tips her head back and mouths quick sorry. I shrug and just pull her closer. God, it’s nice to just hold her. I rub my hands up and down her arm, trying not to focus on the way her position forces her breasts into a tempting valley.

“God, kiss her already.”

I blush and Kennedy just looks away sheepishly. “I should probably head back, it’s late.”

I frown at that. So much for making the most of our time together. But then I glance over at Parker; he’s beginning to snore. Yes, the night is well and truly over.

“I’ll walk you back.”

“You don’t-.”

“I’m walking you back.” I insist.

“Damn Prince Charmings.”

“We’re the worst.” I stand up and pull her to her feet. “Easy there.”

She rolls her eyes, “Don’t pretend you’re not drunk too.” She sticks out her tongue in the most adorable manner. “Goodnight Lieutenant, lovely to meet you.”

He just waves absently.

Kennedy and I are both laughing when we step out into the hall. Our security teams nod politely when we emerge. Kennedy sways as she walks down the hall, shoes in hand. “Thank you for escorting me home. You know the walk is so long, and dangerous.”

I nod solemnly, “There’s always these creepy guys in suits and aviators following you.”

She gasps theatrically, “Wait, really?”

I love seeing her like this, relaxed, languid and most importantly happy. We reach her door. Damn I don’t want to leave.

She turns towards me, her back to the closed door. “So, Lieutenant Lovell is nice.”

“He is.” I rock back and forth on my heels, very aware that the secret service is just twenty feet from us and watching.

“Wanna see a trick?” She asks, her eyes sparkling with trouble…and whiskey.

“Of course.”

She leans forward, then waves her hand at her agents who promptly move down the hall until they disappear. “Ta-da.”

“That might be my favorite trick.” I reply.

“Oh, I have better ones.”

Heat rushes through my body at her innuendo. I’m filled with thoughts, dirty, depraved but wonderful thoughts.

I bracket her against the door my hands on either side of her head. I lean down and press my lips to hers. I don’t start slow, no I want her and this first kiss is a symbol of my pent up feelings. I urge her lips to submit to mine wanting everything.

She acquiesces, her tongue tangling with mine. I smirk and go in deeper. She sighs and meets me for every stroke of my tongue with hers. She tastes like whiskey and honeyed caramel. I move forward, pinning her to the door.

Her arms wrap around my shoulders bringing me close. Her body pressed against mine. I can feel her skin seeping through my skin shirt and her pert soft breasts. I moan, pressing forward to her most intimate place just slightly.

I’m rewarded with a gasp.

I pull my lips away from hers, running my tongue over the corner one last time. Her cheeks are tinted pink, her eyes glazed.  I run my lips along her jaw before tugging on her ear lobe. Her hips press closer to mine. Slowly I smile then place a hand on her chin forcing her to remain still. “Want to see my trick?”

Her chest rises and falls, but she nods.

I run my hand along her cheek before briefly dipping down to caress her throat. I tighten my hand over so slightly, forcing her head back just for a moment. Her hooded eyes meet mine and I look down. Her chest is thrust out, her body arched, desire personified.

My hand smooths down her skin, noticing the bumps of her collar bone, the pillowing hill of her breast the tautness of her stomach. Those aren’t my destination. No, I have a bigger prize.

Blood is roaring in my ears as I roughly hike up her skirt, moving the layered fabric out of my way.

Forcefully I pull her knee up and out. Then my fingers trace the delicate crease where her thigh meets her hips. I look up at her, locking eyes as I slide two fingers into her center. Her eyes widen on a moan. Fuck yeah.

She’s wet, slick beneath my fingers. I slide closer letting my thumb play with that tight bundle of nerves. She jerks and she tightens around me. “God, you’re wet Kennedy.”

She tips her head back, “Harry…”

Her breathless plea calls to something primal within me and I know I can’t, wouldn’t dream of denying anything that she would ask of me.

“I know, I know.” I pump my fingers in and out of her, twirling her clit. “I’ve got you.  Just don’t close your eyes. Look at me. Look at me while I have my fingers in you.”

She gasps whether at my words or actions I don’t know. All I know is that I want her to make that sound again. Her hand pulls my face towards her smashing her lips against mine. Her movements are frantic, rushed. Almost as much as mine.

“Can you take more?” I ask, my voice rough my breath fanning over her face. “Kennedy?”

I stop for a second. She whines, “Please.”

I smile, running my lips around her forehead, “Please what love?”

“I need…” She thrust her hips forward and then back. She does it again, grinding herself on my hand. Bloody hell that’s sexy.

“That’s it, love.” I bite her ear lobe. “Come on my fingers. I want it.”

She arches her back and I thrust in a third finger then put pressure on her sweet spot. She moans. “I’m close.”

“Come on Kennedy.” I feel her tighten around my fingers wishing to god it was my cock instead. She’s close, I swoop down and cover her exclamation with a kiss. Her fingers go rigid against my shoulders.

I feel her relax in my arms. Gently, I place a kiss on her nose, murmuring sweet nothings.

“Ahem.”

I freeze as does Kennedy. Carefully, I turn my shoulders shielding her from the person. Then make sure her skirt is covering her and my hand. Slowly I remove my hand.

Kennedy looks panicked, all traces of pleasure gone.

Then I turn to see who was there. Fuck.

It’s Paul. I’m not entirely sure what he does or who he is but I know Kennedy despises the man. He’s pointedly staring at Kennedy, ignoring me. “Miss Randolph, perhaps you should go inside.”

She nudges me back then glares at Paul. “Paul, go fuck yourself.” Then she places a quick kiss on my cheek. “Goodnight Harry.”

“Goodnight.”

She slips into the room leaving only Paul and I. At least we’re alone until my security reappears. I move to walk around Paul but he steps in my path. I raise my brow. “Something to say?”

“We would advise you to stay away from any members of the Randolph Administration.”

“Oh you would?” I step closer and lower my voice. The fucking coward won’t look me in the eyes at first. “I advise you to not spy on intimate moments between consenting adults. I don’t think that’s a story that needs to get out.”

He’s silent.

“And in the words of Miss Randolph, ‘Fuck you Paul.’” I hit my shoulder against his as I walk away.

AN: So...ummm yeah ;) Have a great day!

[evangelinecullperformingart-blog]

Romeo and Juliet, Costume Research: Georgian Fashion

Ladies Gowns or Dresses:

The gown was at least ankle length and had a very high waist.The sleeves could be short or wrist length as each style was popular. Even a few sleeveless gowns were seen early in the period of the Georgian times. The fabric was usually light in color; solid white was very popular. Small patterns and vertical stripes were also used. Good fabric choices would be lightweight such as cotton batiste, lightweight cotton muslin or a silk such as charmeuse that isn’t too stiff but has a good “drape” to it. Sometimes a very light semi-transparent overdress was worn on top of the main dress. Ladies would also wear stockings, corsets hats and bonnets.

The Spencer Jacket was an item peculiar to the Regency period which went well with the empire waist gown. It was very fitted, had either a standing or flat collar and could have short or long sleeves. The bottom of the jacket conformed level with the high waist of the gown. Spencer Jackets were often made of linen though wool or silk could be used.

Stockings: Stockings were often silk or cotton and came up to thigh level. Shoes: Low shoes similar to modern lace-up ballet slippers were used as were leather, lace-up shoes with a heel. Hats and Bonnets: The poke bonnet was the very popular, signature headwear for ladies of the period. It was long and scoop shaped, sometimes compared unfavorably to a coal scuttle in appearance. Critics of the era’s fashions (often older folks who longed for the “good old days” of the 18th century) represented women in both satire and cartoon as running about in their underwear (lightweight, diaphanous gowns) with comically long headwear (poke bonnets) for hiding their faces in! Straw “cartwheel” hats, often plumed, were very popular both before and into the 1790s and would have a resurgence in popularity in future decades as well. Turbans and ostrich feathers were quite in vogue for a time, particularly for formal occasions, as were diadems.

In the Georgian times, there were very strict rules on clothing. It was against the law for poor people to wear the same colours as the rich.

Gentleman's clothing:

Tailcoat: The tailcoat was the de rigueur article of clothing for any man of at least middle class standards. It was high in the back of the neck, fitted in the back, chest and abdomen, had long tails and the wide “M notch” lapels so distinctive of the period. It could be either single or double breasted and could be worn open or closed. It was cut high in front so that even when closed a strip of the waistcoat could be seen beneath. This cut was in the form of an arch earlier in the period and was more horizontal later. The tailcoat was usually made of wool though sometimes of linen for warm climates and seasons. There were many color options for daywear but for evenings conservative darker ones such as black and navy were most fashionable, a trend which has continued to this day. Buttons could be self-fabric covered or of brass or pewter. Waistcoat: The waistcoat was made from wool, linen or silk and could be a solid but was often a brocade, stripe or pattern. It had a high, stand-up collar and sometimes wide turn-back lapels, especially earlier in the period. The waistcoat extended below the front of the tailcoat and covered the top of the trousers or breeches. It was most often single breasted but could be double breasted as well. Shirt: The shirt was usually of linen or cotton. It was long and loose fitting with off the shoulder sleeves and a high standing collar that extended up sometimes even above the jaw line. The shirt had a slit in the front and pulled on over the head. It was mid-thigh to knee length and was quite often the only undergarment. Ruffles at the sleeves were unpopular during this period (viewed as old-fashioned and undemocratic) but ruffles at the chest were still an option.

Breeches, Pantaloons and Trousers: Breeches were gradually fading out during this period. For a time they remained the proper item for evening wear then were relegated to only very formal occasions and then survived only as “court” apparel for certain royal occasions. Breeches could be made of wool, cotton, linen or silk with the latter best for the most formal events. They tended to have a higher waist in front and a little less baggy seat than the late 18th century version. However, they still had a drop front, were fitted in the thighs and buckled or buttoned just below the knees. Pantaloons were popularized early in the 1790s by French revolutionaries. They had a drop front, were anywhere from mid-calf to ankle length and were worn exceedingly snug. Trousers became commonplace during the Regency era and we still wear their descendants today. The trousers had a high waist that came up at least to the navel. They were drop front and were held up by means of braces (suspenders). They were worn much looser than pantaloons though they were often fitted down at the ankles, sometimes using gussets so that they could come down quite low onto the shoes. Trousers could be of wool, linen or cotton. Though initially only appropriate for daywear they eventually gained acceptance for evening attire as well. Neckcloth: The neckcloth or cravate was a necessary accessory. Typical of this era was a long, narrow strip of linen or silk which wrapped several times around the neck and was then tied in front. Many forms of tying were popular, some considered more formal and others most suitable for casual wear. Hats: A very tall, straight top hat with a narrow curled up brim was the height of fashion during much of this period. The bicorn was high, wide and of shallow depth. It was popularized as a military fashion and was worn by Napoleon, though some civilians wore it too. Many specialized types of headwear were in use as well such as the flat, round hats of sailors, the shakos of soldiers or the coonskin caps of American frontiersmen. 

Here are examples of older style Georgian clothing which the rich, older characters such as Lord and Lady Capulet/Montague would possibly have worn:

Men's Day Clothes:

Gentleman would wear smart summer suits, their coats were tightly fitted. They were usually made of plain cloth that was embroidered on the edges and pockets. Their waistcoats were plain and the breeches were fastened below the knee and tightly fitted. The shirts were frilled at the cuff. They would wear a knotted muslin or lace cravat around the neck. For formal occasions men would wear a wig, tied back with a bow, also their waistcoats would be patterned and made of silk.

Lady's Day Dress:

Ladies would wear a 'sackback' dress. Under this would be a stiff corset with cane side hoops supporting the skirts. Frills were usually worn around the neck, the cuffs of her sleeves were said to be “wing-like”. Women were veiled in a muslin 'kerchief' and they would wear a muslin cap. For formal dress, women would wear richly brocaded or embroidered silks.